Читать книгу Empress Octavia - Wilhelm Walloth - Страница 5

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NIGHT had long since closed in upon Rome, the capital of the world; the noise of day had ceased; the squares and streets were illumined by the glimmer of the waning moon. It was the hour when the peasant drove his cart along the Appian Way to the city, in order to offer his milk and eggs early enough to the still slumbering masters of the houses. It was the hour when the Ethiopian maid rose, yawning, to prepare the rouges and salves, or to cleanse the combs, while her mistress, with hair in curl-papers, and a layer of dough on her face, was still resting; it was the hour when the slave, on his bed of straw, dreamed of the overseer's lash, to which he must again submit; the bakers were already stumbling half asleep to their ovens, and the trumpets would soon call the soldiers to their drill. Darkness still brooded over the seven hills; the first glimmer of dawn was quivering in a narrow gray streak over the Esquiline, overspreading the colonnades of the Temple of Venus with a leaden hue, and tingeing the gilded ornaments of Nero's palace, opposite to the temple, with a faint crimson tint which glided slowly over the imposing pediment of the building.

Just at this time a young man was walking along the Via Sacra, gazing dreamily at the cold splendor of the imperial palace, still sleeping in the twilight. So this was the abode of the Ruler of the World; from these walls the officials bore his commands. Here he celebrated his orgies.

Metellus had no other thoughts as he looked at this imperial residence. He moved wearily on; his handsome eyes were dull, and the lacerna was flung carelessly about him. Metellus, coming from Bilbilis, had landed in Ostia four days before, in order, as the phrase goes, to seek his fortune in Rome, or at least earn a living by his Art,—he was a sculptor.

Thus far the youth had not succeeded in obtaining employment; ever since the day of his arrival he had wandered penniless through the streets, thinking of his distant home and repenting that he had listened to the assurances of his friends, who promised him mountains of gold in Rome. Under such circumstances the beauty of the city made little impression upon his mind; he scarcely saw or heard what was passing around him. "If I only had a good muraena, fattened on human flesh," he said to himself, smiling bitterly, "I should probably be able to value Rome's architectural splendor better. The Temple of Jupiter, viewed with a satisfied stomach, may raise very* imposing pillars heavenward; in their present condition, I cannot blame my bowels if they forbid my brain to think, and silence all enthusiasm with grumbling impatience."

In truth, hunger and homesickness had put the youth into a strange mood: he thought of a little song, a gay little song, which he had heard the laborers in the harbor sing the day before, and began to whistle it; but his lips quivered painfully as he did so, his eyes glittered with unshed tears, and the ditty ended in a most unmusical whistle. His poor parents at home! He could not be angry with his father now, though he had had good reason; their separation lay like a reconciling hand on his resentful heart. The old man's image rose before his memory. He tried to drive away his sad thoughts by counting the stones in the pavement and mentally raging over the rude statue in a doorway; but he could not banish his mother's sorrowful face, which gazed at him from the dark street corners.

His father, a quick-tempered, somewhat severe man, who had moved in his early youth from Rome to Hispania, wished to make the lad an honest ironmonger; but Metellus resisted all the more vehemently because he had found an opportunity to visit a sculptor's studio whenever he chose. There he had nourished his imagination with the forms of heroes and gods; nay, he had secretly studied under the master's instruction. Here, too, he made the acquaintance of Martial, a youth of nineteen, who most zealously encouraged him to continue in his chosen profession. Our hero, in his present situation, could not help thinking of this friend, too; of the pleasant hours which they had spent walking arm in arm on the bank of the Salo, dreaming, planning, sometimes even improvising Alcaean verses or translating passages from Homer into their native language. Then came sorrowful days for the young sculptor. With the utmost difficulty consent to devote himself to Art was at last obtained; but as Art brought no income, the son suffered from his father's ill temper. To the old man an art was a trade, and whoever earned nothing by his art was an idler. The hardest thing for the boy to bear was the contempt with which his father sometimes spoke of his work.

"I shall yet live to see you go to Rome and die there as a wretched gladiator before the eyes of the mob," was the old man's usual remark; to which the son replied with an almost equally heartless answer. At great expenditure of time and money, the young artist finally succeeded in finishing his first work: a Sisyphus rolling the rock. The statue, which showed traces of the immaturity of youthful genius, found no purchaser; and the jeers the father heaped upon it severed the last bond that united him to the ambitious son.

In his despair, Metellus found his sole comforter in his friend Martial, who understood how to cheer him; but his courage had sunk so low that Martial had great difficulty in withholding him from committing suicide. The present had always exerted a predominating influence over the artist's mind; he was driven to despair as quickly as he was comforted, and could laugh and weep in the same moment like a girl. His careless nature, averse to reflection, was prompt to reach a decision, which was just as promptly executed. No one is more ready to cast life away than he who regards it as a light burden.

The mother took her son's part; and one day, when her husband told her that he could do nothing more for the son's training because it would lessen the daughter's dowry, she advanced the money, and Metellus did what he had already planned,—he hastened on board of a trireme bound for Ostia. Martial, when they bade each other farewell, promised to follow, which had no little share in filling the traveller's mind with joyous anticipations. Oh, enthusiasm of youth! When the boatman shouted, the two friends had kissed each other again, and promised not to break their vow. And what vow had they made to the eternal gods? Nothing less than to avoid women, that contemptible sex, and let friendship fill the place of so-called love. The works of the poets swarmed with instances of the miseries that women brought upon men; they two would live for each other, as Plato directs. One mild moonlight night they had embraced, and sworn to have nothing to do with women, but after the labor of the day to seek recreation in the serious conversation of men, not in idle love-dalliance. The ardor of their friendship resembled that of love, and they did not hear the waves of the Salo laugh mischievously as they took the solemn oath.

All these experiences, with their bright and dark sides, flitted before the mind of the nocturnal pedestrian; but as he had always believed that reflection over the past or the future was the most foolish act a human being could perform, he quickened his steps and laughed aloud when, after a prolonged search, he found two sestertii still in his purse. "I must seek a wealthy patron," he thought, "that I may receive sour wine and kicks daily as his client. But then, dear Metellus," he went on in his jesting soliloquy, "I will have nothing more to do with you! I'll have no intercourse with a fellow who is regarded with contempt even by the slaves, and spends his life in paying visits and inventing flatteries; no, my good Metellus, I would far rather see your skin tanned in the gladiators' barracks. The possibility of dying an honorable death in the arena will at once relieve you from the obligation of being the slave of your tyrannical stomach."

The artist summoned up all the humor he possessed, and felt, as he thought, quite well, especially when he succeeded in dispelling his sorrowful thoughts by noticing what was passing around him. Sometimes his steps were checked by soldiers, whose ranks stretched almost entirely across the street Rude,brawny fellows, carrying spears, surrounded emaciated figures who held one another clasped in silent embrace. The latter, as the youth correctly surmised, were Christians destined at daybreak to serve as food for the wild beasts. Often, when an old man tottered along too slowly, he received a thrust from the handle of a spear.

Just as the troop reached the niche of the wall into which Metellus was pressing himself, a young, bold-looking soldier dragged an old man forward so roughly by his white beard that the boy on whom he was leaning for support laid his hand on the cruel fellow's arm as if beseeching pity. In return he received a violent kick, which hurled him out of the ranks, almost on the knees of our pedestrian.

"Forgive me," panted the lad; and Metellus, touched by the large tearful eyes fixed upon him from the child's face, raised the little figure.

"Hide behind me," he whispered, thrusting him into the darkest corner of the niche. Meanwhile the band had marched on; the soldier was occupied for the moment with the fainting old man, and when he hurried back to seize the boy whom he had thrust from the ranks, one of the leaders shouted an order which permitted no time for a thorough search.

So he went back, swearing furiously, to the prisoners. When Metellus looked for the lad, he was nowhere to be seen.

The veil of dusk still concealed everything in the streets leading to the Capitol; the sun hesitated to wake the " Queen of the Universe," the temples were not yet gray, and the sculptor, yawning, wished that daylight would appear. The pavement of the more distant quarters of the city often rumbled; then he saw heavy, rudely made wooden carts roll along, drawn by ten to fifteen oxen harnessed one before the other. Sullen roars echoed from these shapeless vehicles; a hairy muzzle, a tail, a paw armed with claws, often protruded between the clumsy wooden bars; so Metellus was not long in doubt as to what cruel strangers were here making their entry into Rome, and for what purpose they were transported during the night into the imperial gardens. At the corner of the street leading to the Carina, a beggar, over whose thin legs Metellus almost fell, lay sound asleep.

"Ho, ho!" cried the young sculptor, hastily supporting himself against the wall. The sleeper slowly rose, but instead of complaining, sighed, stammering drowsily, "Well hit, my lord, well hit."

"By the dog!" said Metellus, "is he thanking me for the kick I gave him?"

The other, meanwhile, waking more fully, rubbed his eyes, and seeing the disturber of his rest, said laughing,—

"Pardon me, my young friend; you have rendered me a pleasant service: you waked me from a disagreeable dream."

"How is that?" asked the sculptor.

"Just think," replied the old man, "I dreamed that I was sitting at the table of my patron, the Aedile, and he again played one of his rude jokes on me to make his guests laugh. I entertained him, as usual, with passages from the philosophers; in return he flung a ham-bone at my head, which jest I humbly applauded with the cry: 'Well hit!'"

"And do you submit to such humiliations without a murmur?" asked Metellus.

"O ye Muses! What will not a man do for the sake of a hot dinner?" replied the philosopher, yawning. "Besides, who humiliates himself the most,—the mocker or the mocked? And what are jeers when we look at them closely? Where is the person, who does not deserve to be derided, to be found in this world? Mockery is a merry reproof, and no one should be too proud to be reproved, young man."

With these words, the Cynic threw his tattered cloak around his lean body, spit vigorously into the gutter, and, scorning the dirt around him, leaned comfortably against the wall.

"Judging by your speech, you seem to be a Greek?" asked Metellus, curiously.

"I congratulate myself upon having been born under the blue sky of glorious Athens," replied the philosopher.

"And do you always spend the night in the gutter?" the sculptor continued.

"The highest virtue is contentment," said the Greek, taking from his pocket a bit of mouldy bread, which he began to gnaw.

"Up to this time I have not carried it so far as you," said Metellus; "I prefer a bed, no matter how hard, to the stones of the street."

The Athenian moved nearer to the unsuspicious artist.

"I know well," he began, scratching his left hip,—"I know well what value men usually set on gold. For my part, I utterly despise it."

Metellus, sitting down on a projection in the wall by the speaker's side, declared that he fully shared this contempt. The sage, laying his hand familiarly on his young listener's knee, went on: "Education, my friend, that is the capital with which to speculate,—a capital which bears interest, and which can never be stolen from you. But are you safe from thieves so long as a single sestertius remains in your purse?"

"Certainly not," said our friend, thoughtfully.

"A man who has education," the other continued, "possesses everything he needs, even virtue. But virtue is the highest good. By virtue I especially mean honesty. With it we can go far in the world, for how much easier it renders life if we need neither cheat nor steal; and really he does not possess the highest good who is obliged to live in perpetual anxiety lest he should be caught in some knavery. True, it is said that there is a certain pleasure in having overreached a blockhead; but it seems to me that the person outwitted must have more satisfaction in having been the man who was cheated, than the cheat, for many pockets are certainly very narrow."

In the course of this explanation the philosopher had edged nearer and nearer to his attentive pupil, and appeared to feel a keen interest in his cloak, which he felt cautiously; and when Metellus noticed it, the Stoic said reproachfully:

"What fine cloth you wear on your body! Feel my cloak; it is as rough as my beard. You seem to be an Epicurean."

Before the youth could answer, the strange fellow rose.

"I am in the habit of bathing in the Tiber at this hour of the night," he said; "it hardens the body. Farewell, my friend, and take to heart the lessons I have given you."

The Stoic moved off far more rapidly than would have been expected from a man of his fragile appearance, and Metellus admired the simplicity of his habits and the honesty of his principles. That is the life we ought to lead, he thought, ever ready to express our thoughts with the same dignity, whether we are at the Emperor's table or in the mire of the gutter; sacrificing all pleasures, scorning the world, meditating upon virtue, submitting to every insult without taking vengeance,—yes, that is indeed a noble existence.

With the enthusiasm of youth, the artist's childlike nature painted the advantages of a Stoic's career, though he was certainly the last person who would have found pleasure in such a life. But his raptures were soon to be thoroughly cooled. When, by accident, he thrust his hand into his purse, he found it empty; his two sestertii had been cautiously transferred to the pocket of the philosopher, whose beautiful maxims of honesty probably exerted a great power of attraction upon coins.

Metellus laughed aloud. He was not enraged with the old man who had taken advantage of his inexperience, but merely marvelled at the cunning and dexterity with which he had managed to cheat him. "Now," he thought, "I am really the original man; so long as I had money, there was a touch of artificiality in me. It's lucky that it costs nothing to breathe Roman air or to drink from the water-pipes. I could not even pay the ferryman of the nether world, if he should summon me to his boat now." He again burst into a peal of laughter which rang with childlike mirth through the quiet streets of the Subura, whose taverns were still closed. But it was suddenly echoed by approaching voices. Whistles, mingled with the noise of confused shouts, and reeling steps were heard.

Could these be watchmen, Metellus wondered as, turning the next corner, he saw several figures advancing toward him with the bearing of aristocratic debauchees, sometimes pounding insolently on the doors of the houses, sometimes, after the usual fashion of drunkards, affectionately embracing one another. All were muffled in strange, motley garments, while hideous masks concealed their features. The whole train was apparently trying to represent the gods, but there was something indescribably childish in the parade; nay, the gestures and insignia of the majority were unseemly in the highest degree.

Metellus remembered having heard that it was one of the amusements of Roman profligates to toss in blankets peaceful citizens who met them on their way home from their nocturnal orgies. So, though he did not lack courage, he resolved, as a stranger, to avoid a brawl, and was just evading the band when the torch held aloft by the foremost threw a broad glare of light upon the pavement. He was seen and instantly surrounded by faces whose motionless, dimly lighted grin inspired a sense of fear.

"Why are you laughing?" asked one of the disguised figures in a stern, feigned voice, and then whispered through the huge mouth of his mask into the ear of one of his companions. The latter, who was costumed in the insignia of Apollo, nodded; and the other, planting himself with legs wide apart before the sculptor, again asked with malicious emphasis,—

"Why are you laughing? The gods, who to-day condescend to honor the streets of Rome, ask the question."

I am laughing," replied Metellus, quickly, because you are vexed that you cannot laugh, too; for there is no dainty more delicious, my lord, than laughter: the gods envy us its enjoyment. But really I don't know myself why I am laughing, for I have no reason to be gay."

"Do you suppose you can trifle with Jupiter, miserable mortal?" growled another.

"Tell us at once why you are laughing," cried a third, raising his staff, "or your mirth will be instantly transformed to weeping."

"Fie!" replied the artist, apparently entering into the jest, "is laughing forbidden by the police regulations of Rome? But you shall never know, just because you wish to learn; and if the Emperor himself should stand before me, he would get no other answer."

"Apollo, do you hear, he disdains the Emperor," said the questioner, turning to his companions.

"Do you know the Emperor?" asked the Apollo, whose feminine outlines and reddish hair were recognizable in spite of his disguise.

"No, my lord," replied Metellus, peevishly; "I have been in Rome only a few days, and my friendly intercourse with coins is extremely fleeting, so I never had an opportunity to gaze at the Emperor's likeness more than two minutes."

The former speaker now turned to the group surrounding him, and with a gesture of mock solemnity said,—

"Cudgel him for not having yet seen the Emperor, and then put a red-hot denarius on his cheek to imprint the Caesar's image upon it."

"That is contrary to law," Metullus expostulated; "and if there are any watchmen in Rome, one will see whether your absurd masquerade is permitted to attack peaceful citizens; "but he had scarcely finished the words when blows from several thyrsus staves rained on his shoulders. Metellus, whose composure was wholly destroyed, chose the youth addressed as Apollo for the object of his wrath, since, as leader of the party, he believed him to be the instigator of the sorry jest. He quietly allowed the others to splinter their staves on his back, watched his opportunity, made a skilful side spring, snatched the lyre of the god of song, and dealt the Olympian's head so violent a blow with it that his mask was shattered into fragments, disclosing a very astonished face. His companions instantly fell upon the insulter of the divinity.

"Save Apollo! Throw him into the cloaca," was shouted as if by a single mouth; and, in spite of the most desperate resistance, Metellus was soon held firmly. Apollo watched the struggle with an angry laugh, but hastily borrowed another mask from one of his train.

"Is this the Roman method of fighting," groaned the ill-treated youth, when, after a long conflict, he at last escaped from the arms of his tormentors, "ten against one? If you are not drunken rakes or dishonorable highwaymen, choose one of your band, confront me with him, and I'll show you what Hispanian arms can do. I have hewn marble; do you suppose flesh fattened on pasties, bathed or anointed, is harder to deal with than a block of Parian marble?"

As no answer came, only a confused murmur running from one to another, the speaker went on,—

"True, the Roman of to-day tries his strength only in pressing the cushions of couches at the banquet, and is brave only against woman's virtue. So let me go my way."

He threw his cloak over his shoulders, cast a scornful glance at the party, and prepared to move on. His powerful though not tall figure seemed to intimidate the profligates. The haughty manner in which his muscular arm held the lacerna across his breast, his rough goat-skin garment from which his round knee protruded in the vigor of youth, his firm step, the clear gaze of his frank eyes, flashing with the influence of excitement, did not fail to produce a certain impression; and he had taken only a few steps when a voice shouted in a tone by no means unfriendly: "Stop." He turned carelessly and saw a figure attired as Neptune whispering eagerly to the Apollo.

"Wait a moment, young man," called Neptune, and again turned with eager gesticulations to Apollo. Metellus felt that the two were talking about him. Sometimes they scanned him intently, pointed at him, and appeared to be discussing the pros and cons of a plan. Although he had intended to go on, curiosity now bound the sculptor to the

spot. "What, by Zeus, can they be whispering about?" he murmured as he saw Apollo, laughing, shake his head and wave his hand in denial.

"Your plan seems too bold," he heard him say.

"By no means, my lord," the other answered. Then followed several unintelligible sentences, until at last Apollo was silent, while the other, taking advantage of the opportunity, appeared to crowd all his former arguments into a single long sentence.

"Then make the attempt," whispered Apollo, at its conclusion; and Neptune, bowing most graciously, at once approached Metellus, who had vainly racked his brains to guess the purport of this singular dialogue.

"Pardon our attack upon your precious person," said Neptune, courteously; " we were mistaken in you.. I am sorry that you chanced to be the one to fall into our hands."

"It would certainly have been better if another back than mine had chanced to have the honor of serving as anvil for your hands," replied Metellus, in his talkative fashion. "No one can take my blows from me; but I am glad that I have marked the divine brow of your leader, that rake, that Apollo, with a blue spot which will last several days."

"Then we will consider the incident as forgotten," said Neptune, adroitly. "My young friend, I address you in the name of my master, who, if you consent, is able to make your fortune."

"And who is your master?" asked Metellus.

"You will learn that to-morrow," replied the other, evasively.

"And in what way do you expect to make my fortune?"

"Call at the Emperor's palace to-morrow, four hours after sunrise. There you will receive an explanation of what is now concealed from you."

"The Emperor's palace?" asked Metellus, laughing. "I suppose you feel at liberty to make sport of me. Call at my palace, four stories high in the Jew quarter. There I, too, might explain many things unknown to you."

The mysterious mask's only reply was to ask the name of the youth, write it on a tablet, add a few words, and hand it to him. Metellus read the inscription by the flickering light of a torch; it was an order to the palace guard to admit the bearer of this tablet and conduct him to the Emperor's ante-room. The sculptor shook his head.

"If you are speaking the truth," he said, "I shall be still less inclined to accept your proposal."

"And why?"

"At least I should wish to know more definitely for what purpose I am summoned to Nero's ante-chamber."

"You will learn later."

"This is a serious matter to me," said Metellus, gravely; "for what do you take me? Do I look like a scoundrel who can be used for unlawful purposes? Am I a wily Greek? A poison-brewing woman? I have no fancy for the Emperor's palace. All sorts of tales are heard of what is done there—"

These words, spoken in a somewhat louder tone, were probably caught by the group waiting near; at least, they were greeted with immoderate laughter.

"What are those fellows laughing at?" murmured the young man.

"Do you fear us?" replied the disguised figure, joining in the laugh.

"Call it what you please, but I forbid your laughing at me; there is no cause for it."

"Your artlessness is delicious," said the other, patting him on the shoulder. "I like you, my boy, and I swear that you shall experience nothing unpleasant in the imperial palace. Clasp hands! Promise to be there."

"I'll think of it, but don't call me a boy, I beg; it is not very complimentary to my eighteen years."

"You are hungry, my friend, I see," replied the disguised speaker, " while at the same time you are too honest to steal, so you will not let this opportunity of earning a large, a very large sum, pass by. Your trade ?" he added haughtily.

"I am a sculptor."

"So much the better," was the reply. "A sculptor, a handsome person, and waving red locks, you possess everything necessary to make your fortune in Rome."

The masked stranger hurried back to his group of friends, leaving the bewildered artist to his amazement. Red hair was fashionable in Rome at that time. Metellus understood the hint; and since he had a little vanity and intended to make his fortune, his flatterer at once appeared in a pleasanter light.

The party of disguised revellers now went off with loud shouts, waving their torches till the houses were illumined to their roofs by the crimson glare. Our fair-haired artist looked after the retreating figures, shook his head, and decided that he was either a favorite of the gods, or a creature doomed to destruction.

"What can they want of me?" he asked himself again, but perceiving that it was as impossible to solve this enigma as to pierce the clouds and enter Olympus, he dismissed the whole matter from his mind,—which to one of his temperament, averse to reflection on any subject, was comparatively easy. Perhaps it might be some mysterious task, an imperial caprice; perhaps one of the Emperor's loves, whose existence no one was permitted to know, was to be modelled, thought Metellus, rubbing his hands gleefully; and though he had just been suspicious of the whole adventure, he suddenly resolved to go to the palace at the fourth hour. Then his thoughts wandered to an entirely different subject, till he suddenly realized that he was thirsty, and he stopped beside a fountain.

Bending down to the mouth of the marble lion's head to catch in his hand the silver jet which it was furiously spouting, Metellus washed his face vigorously with both hands; and while thus engaged in making his toilet, he saw a helmeted head reflected in the green crystal of the basin of the fountain. Turning, he perceived a soldier, whom he remembered having seen the day before. Yes! it was at the Circus Maximus, in front of an astrologer's booth, that he had encountered this Jew with the pinched, gloomy face, who had harshly rebuffed him. Rufus was standing behind the artist, cooling his brow by dipping his hand into the fountain and pressing it upon his temples. Metellus dried his face and turned familiarly to the soldier.

"Aurora is gradually beginning to raise her fingers above the capital of the world," he said; "at least I see her son, the morning star,, twinkling faintly above the Temple of Isis. A dim gray hue already illumines the pediments of the loftiest palaces; we must wash and comb ourselves to be in readiness for the awakening of Rome."

Rufus, who was not pleasantly affected by the unexpected meeting, had turned to go without answering the kindly address; but Metellus, in his artless heedlessness, did not notice that the Jew would have preferred to pursue his way alone so, joining the soldier, he walked silently beside the silent man.

One could scarcely imagine a greater contrast than that presented by these two figures, passing side by side through the empty streets in the deceptive glimmering light of dawn. The warrior, erect and sinewy, showed, beneath the iron clasps of his armor, muscles hardened by training. His step was firm; and when he raised his helmeted head, his shaggy beard bared a thin neck with swollen veins. The youth's rounded outlines were set off by a skin almost girlish in its fairness. Manly strength and feminine grace blended in him in the manner which is especially bewitching to older women. He was shorter than the soldier; waving locks fell over his forehead almost to his beautifully arched eyebrows; the curve of his cheek ended in a delicate chin. The fire of his glance and the virility of his slender figure lent his face dignity and nobility. But the loquacious artist could not endure this silent walk long. He criticised the badly painted signs of the vegetable or meat dealers, the unnecessary number of pillars in many of the houses, but Rufus's sole reply was a brief clearing of the throat or a distrustful glance. This, however, by no means disturbed him in his remarks; he even had courage to question the gloomy soldier about his silence.

"Do you know," he at last asked gayly, "how one can get a piece of bread without paying for it? I am hungrier than Tantalus."

Rufus smiled contemptuously, and silently offered the youth a small coin. Metellus pushed his hand back.

"I will accept no gift bestowed in that way," he said proudly.

Rufus pocketed his money again, shrugged his shoulders, and flushed to his helmet as he now spoke for the first time to his companion.

"What is your calling?" he asked half unintelligibly, as if it dishonored him to seem communicative.

"I am a sculptor," replied Metellus, irately, running his fingers through his shaggy goatskin garment.

"A stone-cutter!" muttered the Jew, scornfully.

"You do not seem to love the arts," answered Metellus, without taking offence.

"No, I do not!" retorted the other. "I honor the laws, and believe that a great orator, a great general, resembles your gods far more than Virgil, Homer, and Ovid put together; but least of all can I understand why people want to carve men from stones."

"That is a matter of taste," said Metellus, smiling sarcastically. "Nero loves the arts."

"He loves them, as I would love them, to shine by their means."

"There you are mistaken," said the artist, sharply. "Nero writes verses, models, plays the zither. Whoever pursues an art is ennobled by it: the Caesar cannot be as bad as people in the provinces try to represent him; his love for art proves that. Has he not had a colossal statue of himself made for his Golden House?"

"Yes, and behind the yew hedges in his gardens lurk many white forms: that is the fashion; everybody follows it. If I were as rich as a Tigellinus or a Piso, I, too, would place these pallid marble ghosts in the shadow of the elms, but I would laugh to scorn both statues and sculptors."

"Would you like to be rich?" asked the artist, to turn the conversation.

"A foolish question!" replied the other. "Why do we live? If I knew that I should never get any further in the world than to be a file-leader, would it not be senseless for me to live on?"

Metellus had a different opinion, but he kept it to himself, for the soldier's positive, bold nature disheartened him. The Jew began to prove the uselessness of the arts, represented reason as the supreme power of man's soul, and spoke contemptuously of that which was called imagination. The youth had few opposing arguments. He felt that Rufus was wrong, but at the moment he could not find the fitting reasoning. "Necessity is everything," said the gloomy man; "the rest is mere trifling. Life is too serious to fritter it away in amusement and beautiful marble faces; when stern, savage reality confronts you, you must not lose yourself in a realm of fancy." The two had changed characters: the artist was now silent and depressed, while the soldier grew talkative.

"A miserable world," he said spitefully, "in which it is only worth while to live when one has five million sestertii, or is a fool. The fools have the best of it; they secure honors and offices, like a Vatinius. I wish I had been born, like him, in a cobbler's shop, a hunch backed, long-eared monster; then I would soon hold this whole marble Rome in my hairy fist. A zither-player is well off, too, if he knows enough to let Nero win the victory. What do you think of getting ourselves places in the band of the Caesar's applauders? They have a yearly salary, wear fine clothes, and have nothing to do except clap their hands occasionally."

Amid such conversation the couple, leaving the Temple of Lares at the left, had reached the Val Murcia. The artist did not notice that Rufus was intentionally going toward the Circus. Metellus had proposed taking another direction; and Rufus, turning toward the Capitol, apparently assented to the suggestion, but in the course of their talk, he had managed to take the way leading past the wrestling-school on the Coelian Hill. While chatting continuously, he had often cast searching glances at his companion, who strolled unsuspectingly beside him, and was greatly surprised to find himself suddenly at the entrance of the Circus.

Here they beheld a scene whose terrible details gained a certain melancholy charm by the veil of the dim light of dawn. While in the distance the first travellers, singing and laughing, were already entering the city through the Capenian Gate, here sad-faced men were hurrying out of the door of the building; others followed weeping, bearing forms muffled in blood-stained linen; others again seemed to be watching at the street corners to give warning of the approach of danger.

The blood-stained burdens were dragged out of the entrance hastily and fearfully; often the end of a sheet escaped from the bearer's trembling hand, revealing, in the faint light of dawn, a mangled neck, a horribly disfigured face.

Metellus guessed that the Christians were carrying the bodies of their murdered brethren out of the arena to bury them in the Catacombs.

The body of a young man was just being taken with great exertion down the marble steps. The bearers—two sisters and an aged mother—forced back their tears; their sobs became panting breathing as they struggled to lift the corpse from step to step. A trail of blood, trickling from the linen, marked the way along the marble. The face of the body was covered; the nose formed a strange elevation in the gray covering on which the increasing light cast faint, dull rays. The morning breeze blew chill, bearing the odor of blood to the two spectators; the chariot of victory above the entrance gleamed redly; the goddess of victory hovered in a cold purple haze. High aloft in the grayish blue sky, majestic, unsympathizing, she curbed the rearing steeds, while the steps and pillars of the building were dyed with blood.

An old man, bowed with grief, walked in front of the corpse; his eyelids drooped as if he were on the verge of fainting as he tottered past the two spectators whom, in his bewilderment, he seemed to take for Christians. "My sole support," he wailed, extending his hand as if for a gift.

Metellus was not well disposed toward the Christians. As an artist, he execrated a religion which rejected all representations of the deity in sculpture and painting; the superstition seemed rude and bald, fit only for beggars and simpletons. Yet now, touched by compassion, he opened his purse, and, with a sorrowful shrug of the shoulders, showed that it was empty. The old man, smiling sadly, put his hand into his pocket and was about to throw a coin into the wallet. Metellus, utterly bewildered, pushed back the proffered alms. The old man went on; and as the body was carried past them, the sculptor could not refrain from lifting a corner of the cloth which covered it.

The mother noticed it, and, pausing, said in a passionate outburst of the grief she had been repressing: "Yes, young man, look at him; see how handsome he is; an angel has kissed the horrors of death from his brow." She raised the winding-sheet. Before Metellus lay the most beautiful youth whom he had ever beheld: a noble anger slept upon the ivory-white brow; defiance of death rested gloomily on the blue-black eyebrows; the exquisite lips were slightly parted as if about to utter a contemptuous word. The matron, who was still stately, even beautiful, in her anguish, clasped the hands of the departed one over his breast.

"I wish that he had been my friend," whispered Metellus, deeply moved, to the mother. The latter nodded, gazing dully into vacancy, while tears sprang to her reddened eyelids. Then she slowly covered the dead man's motionless face and helped to bear on the corpse. As Rufus, with sudden resolution, hastened up the steps to the entrance, the youth slowly followed. His heart throbbed heavily as he entered the cell of the condemned man, whose door now stood wide open, affording a view of the arena, strewn with corpses. The long rows of seats were empty; only a few bright spots, interrupting the monotonous gray hue of the stone stairs, showed that one or another of the spectators, instead of going home, had preferred to spend the night on his cushions in the Circus.

The pale light of dawn glimmered above the highest row of arches down into the arena. The moon looked wan in the white radiance of the early morning, as her indifferent, pallid face hovered above the heaps of corpses of men and animals, whose limbs sometimes still quivered, that lay scattered over the sand as if Death had given a festival. How many shades were doubtless already surrounding the gloomy ferryman! How silently the skiff was doubtless now gliding through the sluggish waves, past the distant rocky shores which men behold but once! How did they dwell in the eternal twilight, amid the croaking of the horrible birds! Hence, sorrowful visions! Clear up, frowning brow!

The morning breeze bore the warm, sweet odor of blood toward the sculptor, who would have shuddered at the spectacle of this battlefield had not the characteristic attitude, the noble outlines of the limbs of many a corpse awakened his artistic interest. The cool colors of the morning light softened the inhuman aspect of the scene and gave it a wild grandeur, an unprecedented beauty. He suppressed a yawn, wrapped his mantle closer about his shivering limbs, and prepared to enter the next cell. Far away torches, moving to and fro, twinkled like stars in the blue morning mist. Slaves were removing the bodies, shovelling away the blood-stained sand, driving off the ravens which hovered croaking over the piles of corpses. In the next cell a keeper of the beasts was snoring on the floor among his water-pails and brooms, digesting the leeks and onions which his wife had served up to him the evening before. Through the closed grating of the cage a lion was visible, pressing its head against the bars; while the blood, flowing from a wound in the hip, covered the floor. Metellus sympathizingly watched the royal brute, as it let its hurt bleed without a sound of pain, turning its angry eyes contemptuously away from the world. In this cell a sturdy keeper also lay asleep, still holding in his hand a bit of meat. Metellus again gazed at the dying lion, which remained motionless, then seized a butcher-knife and scrawled upon the table used to cut the meat the outlines of the dying brute. "There," he said, when he had finished the picture, "now I shall not forget you."

He went toward the arena in a more thoughtful mood than he had ever been before. He could not have explained the cause of his reflections; they rested upon his consciousness like a burden which could not be shaken off; a melancholy that he had never felt, a mournfulness which astonished him, occupied his mind. Striving to escape it, he paused before the body of a mother who was clasping her dead child to her breast, then before the corpse of an old man who grasped a strangled leopard. He scanned the lifeless features, sought to fathom the last thoughts of these pitiable martyrs, and gazed into their dull eyes.

Meanwhile the image of the handsome youth whom he had just seen borne away haunted him; and as the pale, reproachful face rose before his mental vision, the atmosphere suddenly grew so close and oppressive that he gasped for breath and hurried on. He felt as if he ought to admire the beautiful dead, nay, envy his lot. What would he not have given to be able to live in the companionship of such a man, how he suddenly longed for friendship, and how lonely and desolate it seemed among these wan sleepers in great, unsympathizing Rome! For the first time in years he, .who found life so gay, felt as if he must weep, and that, with the tears, his happy childhood would flee, never to return. His heart seethed with resentment against Rome, which had so swiftly wrought a transformation in his feelings and opinions; he envied the slaves laughing yonder with heartless indifference and cracking jokes as they dragged the corpses through the sand; only base souls like theirs could be at ease in this city. Either the unwonted spectacle, or the hunger which had tormented him for hours, affected him with paralyzing weakness; but conquering it he went up to Rufus, whom he saw kneeling beside the dead body of a girl.

The Praetorian had found what he was seeking: Lucretia, whose face had haunted him more than he desired, lay before him. Around her were the clumsy bodies of dead bears; a leopard with a stab in his breast stretched its jaws wide open; another still clenched a woman's head with its teeth.

Lucretia was unhurt: she had been concealed by the dead bodies of men and animals; protected by the lifeless, she had been saved. As she lay rigid before the bearded man, who strove to banish every trace of compassion from his features, it was a strangely peaceful picture in the midst of these horrors, illumined by the dazzling rays of the morning sun.

The soldier brought a pail from the cell occupied by the keeper, and sprinkled the girl's face with water. The only sign of life was the rising and falling of her breast; the rest of her form lay motionless. Her black hair, moist with mire, blood, and water, was plastered upon her brow and cheeks, forming a frame in which the nobly formed, wan features, absolutely expressionless, had a spectral appearance. Her helplessness was well suited to awake compassion; the broad closed lids arched so mysteriously over the eyes, a faint smile rested on the livid lips, she did not look like a girl; there was nothing human about her.

Rufus harshly shouted to Metellus an order which the latter, in the drowsiness caused by his exhaustion, did not hear. He turned as if to fulfil it, toward the entrance, staggered down the steps into the open air, and before he was aware of it again stood in the street.