Domitia

BOOK II

CHAPTER I.
AN APPEAL

“What can I do for thee, Domitia?” asked Titus, who was pacing the room; he halted before the young wife of his brother, who was kneeling on the mosaic floor.

She had taken advantage of her introduction into the Imperial palace to make an appeal to Titus, now Emperor. She had not been allowed to appear there during the reign of Vespasian.

Titus was a tall, solidly built man, with the neck of a bull; he had the same vulgarity of aspect that characterized both his father and brother, and which was also conspicuous in his daughter Julia. The whole Flavian family looked, what it was, of ignoble origin, – there was none of the splendid beauty that belonged to Augustus, and to the Claudian family that succeeded. Their features were fleshy and coarse, their movements without grace, their address without dignity.

If they attempted to be gracious, they spoiled the graciousness by clumsiness in the act; if they did a generous thing, it carried its shadow of meanness trailing behind it.

Titus had not borne a good character before his elevation to the purple. He had indulged in coarse vices, had shown himself callous toward human suffering. Yet there was in his muddy nature a spark of good feeling, a desire to do what was right, a rough sense of justice and much family affection.

It was a disappointment to him that he had but one child, a daughter, a gaunt, stupid girl, big-boned, amiable and ugly.

He knew that Domitian, his younger brother, would in all probability succeed him, but he also was childless. Next to him, the nearest of male kin, were the sons of that Flavius Sabinus, who had been butchered by the Vitellians, and their names were Sabinus and Clemens.

The former was much liked by the people, he was an upright grave man. The second was regarded with distrust, as a Christian. It was not the fact of his following a strange religion that gave offence. To that Romans were supremely indifferent, but that which they could not understand and allow was a man withdrawing himself from the public service, the noblest avocation of a man, because he scrupled to worship the image of the Emperor, and to swear by his genius. They regarded this as a mere excuse to cover inertness of character, and ignobility of mind.

For the like reason, Christians could not attend public banquets or go to private entertainments as the homage done to the gods, and the idolatrous offerings associated with them, stood in their way. The profession of Christianity, accordingly, not only debarred from the public service, but interfered with social amenities. Such withdrawal from public social life the Romans could not understand, and they attributed this conduct to a morbid hatred entertained by the Christians for their fellow-men.

The public shows were either brutal or licentious. The Christians equally refused to be present at the gladiatorial combats and at the coarse theatrical representations of broad comedy and low buffoonery. This also was considered as indicative of a gloomy and unamiable spirit.

There were indeed heathen men who loathed the frightful butchery in the arena, such was the Emperor Tiberius, – and Pliny in his letters shows us that to some men of his time they were disgusting, but nevertheless they attended these exhibitions, as a public duty, and contented themselves with expressing objection to them privately. The objection was founded on taste, not principle, and therefore called for no public expression of reprobation.

Clemens was quite out of the question as a successor. If he was too full of scruple to take a prætorship, he was certainly unfit to be an emperor. Not so Flavius Sabinus his elder brother. Him accordingly, Domitian looked upon with jealousy.

“What can I do for thee?” again asked Titus, and his heavy face assumed a kindly expression; “my child, I know that thou hast had trouble and art mated to a fellow with a gloomy, uncertain humor; but what has been done cannot be undone – ”

“Pardon me,” interrupted Domitia, “it is that I desire; let me be separated from him. I never, never desired to leave my true husband, Lamia, I was snatched away by violence – let me go back.”

“What! to Lamia! That will hardly do. Would he have thee?”

“Tainted by union with Domitian, perhaps not!” exclaimed Domitia fiercely. “Right indeed – he would not.”

“Nay, nay,” said Titus, his brow clouding, “such a word as that is impious, and in another would be treason. Domitia, you have a bitter tongue. I have heard my brother say as much. But I cannot think that Lamia would dare to receive thee again after having been the wife of a Flavian prince.”

Domitia’s lip curled, but she said nothing. These upstart Flavians made a brag of their consequence.

“Then,” said she, “let me go to my old home at Gabii. I have lived in seclusion enough at Albanum to find Gabii in the current of life – and my mother and her many friends will come there anon. Let me go. Let there be a divorce – and I will go home and paddle on the lake and pick flowers and seek to be heard of no more.”

“It would not do for you and Lamia to be married again. It would be a political error; it might be dangerous to us Flavians.”

“I should have supposed, in your brand-new divinity that a poor mouse like myself could not have scratched away any of the newly-laid-on gold leaf.”

“Domitia,” said Titus, who had resumed his walk, “be careful how you let that tongue act – it is a file, it has already removed some of the gilding.”

A smile broke out on his face at first inclined to darken.

“There! There!” said he, laughing; “I am not a fool. I know well enough what we were, as I feel what we have become. Caligula threw mud, the mud of Rome, into the lap of my grandfather, because he had not seen to the efficient scouring of the streets. It was ominous – the soil of Rome has been taken away from the divine race of Julius – and has been cast into the lap of us money-lenders, pettyfogging attorneys of Reate. Well! the Gods willed it, Domitia – it is necessary for us to make a display.”

“Push, as my mother would say.”

“Well – push – as you will it. But, understand, Domitia, though I am not ignorant of all this, I don’t like to have it thrown in my teeth; and my brother is more sensitive to this than myself. Domitia, I will do this for you. I will send for him, and see if I can induce him to part from you. I mistrust me,” – Titus smiled, looked at Domitia, with one finger stroked her cheek, and said, – “By the Gods! I do not wonder at it. I would be torn by wild horses myself rather than abandon you, had I been so fortunate – ”

“Sire, so wicked – ”

“Well, well! you must excuse Domitian. Love, they say, rules even the Gods, and is stronger than wine to turn men’s heads.”

He clapped his hands. A slave appeared. “Send hither the Cæsar,” he ordered. The slave bowed and withdrew.

Domitian entered next moment. He must have been waiting in an adjoining apartment.

“Come hither, brother,” said Titus. “I have a suppliant at my feet, and what suppose you has been her petition?”

Domitian looked down. He had a pouting disdainful lip, a dogged brow, and eyes in which never did a sparkle flash; but his face flushed readily, not with modesty, but shyness or anger.

“Brother,” said Domitian, “I know well enough at what she drives. From the moment, the first moment I knew her, she has treated me to quip and jibe and has sought to keep me at a distance. I know not whether she use a love-philtre so as to hold me? I know not if it be her very treatment of me which makes me love her the more. Love her! It is but the turning of a hair whether I love or hate her most. I know what is her petition without being told, and I say – I refuse consent.”

“Listen to what I have to propose,” said Titus, “and do not blurt out your family quarrels before I speak about them. It is not I only, but all Rome, that knows that your life together is not that of Venus’s doves. It is unpleasant to me, it detracts from the dignity of the Flavian family” – he glanced aside at his sister-in-law, and his lips quivered, “that this cat-and-dog existence should become the gossip of every noble house, and a matter of tittle-tattle in every wine-shop. Make an end to it and repudiate her.”

Domitian kept his eyes on the floor. Domitia looked at him for his answer with eagerness. He turned on her with a vulgar laugh and said: —

“Vixen! I see thee – naught would give thee greater joy than for me to assent. I should see thee skip for gladness of heart, as I have never seen thee move thy little feet since thou hast been with me! I should hear thee laugh – and I have heard no sound save flout from thee as yet. I should see a sun dance in thine eyes, that perpetually lower or are veiled in tears. Is it not so?” – He paused and looked at her with truculence in his face – “and therefore, for that alone, I will not consent.”

“Listen further to me, Domitian,” said Titus; “I have a proposition to make. Separate from Domitia, send her back – ”

“What, into the arms of Lamia?”

“No, to Gabii. She shall be guarded there, she shall not remarry Lamia.”

“I shall take good heed to that.”

“Hear me out, Domitian. I have but one child, Julia. The voice of the people has proclaimed itself well pleased with our house. We have given to Rome peace and prosperity at home, and victory abroad. I believe that there are few who regard me unfavorably. But it is not so with thee. Thy folly, thy disorders, thy violence, before our father came to Rome, have not been forgotten or forgiven, and Senate and people look on thee with mistrust. I will give thee Julia to wife. It is true she is thy niece – but since Claudius took Agrippina – ”

“Thanks, Titus, I have no appetite for mushrooms.”⁸

“Tut! you know Julia, a good-hearted jade.”

“I will not consent,” said Domitian surlily.

“Hear me out, brother, before making thy decision. If thou wilt not take Julia, then I shall give her to another – ”

“To whom?” asked Domitian looking up. He at once perceived that a danger to himself lurked behind this proposal. The husband of Julia might contest his claims to the throne, should the popularity of Titus grow with years, and his own decline.

“I shall give her to our cousin, Flavius Sabinus.”

Domitian was silent, and moved his hands and feet uneasily.

Looking furtively out of the corners of his eyes, he saw a flash of hope in those of Domitia.

He held up his head, and looking with leaden eyes at his brother, said: —

“Still I refuse.”

“The consequences – have you considered them?”

Domitian turned about, and made a tiger-like leap at Domitia and catching her by her shoulders said: —

“I hate her. I will risk all, rather than let her go free.”

CHAPTER II.
THE FISH

Domitian had been accorded by his brother a portion of the palace of Tiberius on the Palatine Hill, that was crowded with imperial residences; and Domitia had been brought there from Albanum.

She was one day on the terrace. The hilltop was too much encumbered with buildings to afford much space for gardens, but there were platforms on which grew cypresses, and about the balustrades roses twined and poured over in curtains of flower. Citrons and oleanders also stood in tubs, and against the walls glistened the burnished leaves of the pomegranate; the scarlet flowers bloomed in spring and the warm fruit ripened till it burst in the hot autumn.

Domitia, seated beside the balustrade, looked over mighty Rome, the teeming forum, roofs with gilded tiles of bronze, lay below her, flashing in the sun, and beyond on the Capitol, white as snow, but glinting with gold, was the newly completed temple of Jupiter, rebuilt in greater splendor than before since the disastrous fire.

The hum of the city came up to her as the murmur of a sea, not a troubled one, but a sea of a thousand wavelets trifling with the pebbles of a beach, and dancing in and out among the teeth of a reef; a hum not unlike that of the bees – but somewhat louder, and pitched on a lower note.

Domitia paid no attention to the scene, nor to the sounds, she was engaged with her jewel-box, that she had brought forth into the sun, in order that she might count over her treasures.

At a respectful distance sat Euphrosyne spinning.

Domitia had some Syrian filagree gold work in her hand – it formed a decoration for the head, to be fastened by two pins; the heads were those of owls with opals for eyes.

She laid it aside and looked at her rings and brooches. There was one of the latter, a cameo given her by her mother, of coral of two hues, a Medusa’s head, a beautiful work of art. Then she took up a necklace of British pearls from the Severn, she twisted it about her arm and lovely were the pure pearls against her delicate flesh, – like the dainty tints on the rose and white coral of the brooch she had laid aside.

She replaced the chain, and took up a cornelian fish.

“Euphrosyne,” said Domitia, “come hither! observe this fish. Thy sister gave it me the day I was married, but alack! it brought me no luck. Think you it is an omen of ill? But Glyceria would not have given me one such.”

“Nay, lady, the fish brings the greatest happiness.”

“What is its meaning? It is a strange symbol. It must have some purport.”

The slave hesitated about answering.

Then, hearing steps on the pavement, and looking round, Domitia called – “Thou! Elymas! who pretendest to know all things, answer me this, I have an amulet – a fish – what doth it portend?”

“What? – the murex? That gives the imperial purple.”

“Bah! It is no murex, not a sea snail but a fish. What is the signification?”

“Lady, to one so high, ever-increasing happiness.”

“Away! you are all wrong. Happiness is not where you deem it. False thou art, false to thy creed. Thou speak of a divine ray in every man and woman! an emanation from the Father of Light, quivering, battling, straining to escape out of its earthly envelope and soar to its source! – thou speak of this, and in all thy doings and devisings seekest what is sordid and dark!”

The gloomy man folded his cloak about him, and looking at her from under his penthouse brows answered: —

“Thou launchest forth against me without reason. Knowest thou what is a comet? It is a star that circles about the sun and from it drinks in all the illumination it can absorb, like as the thirsty soil in summer sucks in the falling rain, or the fields the outflow of the Alban Lake; then it flies away into space, and as it flies it sheds its effulgence, becoming ever more dim till it reaches infinite darkness and is there black in the midst of absolute nigritude. Then it turns and comes back to replenish its urn.”

“Nay,” said Domitia, “that can never be. When all light is gone, then all desire for return goes likewise. I know that in myself – I – I am such a comet. When I was a child I longed, I hungered for the light, and in my days of adolescence it was the same, only stronger – it was as a famine. I was the poor comet sweeping up towards my sun; but where my sun was, that – in the vast abyss of infinity – I knew not. I sought and found not, I sought and shed my glory, till there was but a faint glimmer left in me; and now – now all light is extinguished, and with it desire to know, to love, to be happy, to return.”

“Madam, you, as the comet, are reaching your apogee, your extreme limit; you must shed all your light before you can return to the source of light.”

“What! is that your philosophy? The Father of Light sends forth his ray to expire in utter darkness, predestined this ray of light to extinction. If so – then He is not good. And yet,” she sighed, “it is so. I am such. In blackness of night. Look you, Elymas, when I was a child, I laughed and danced; I cannot dance, I can but force a laugh now. I once loved the flowers and the butterflies; I love them no more. My light is gone. The faculty of enjoyment is gone with it. Do I want to return? To what? To the source of light that launched me into this misery? No, not into that cold and cruel fate. Let me go on my inky way, I have no more light to lose – I look only to go out as a fallen star and leave nothing behind me.”

“What! when a great future is before you?”

“What future? you have none to offer me that I value. Away with your hints concerning the purple – it is the sable of mourning to me.”

She panted. The tears came into her eyes.

“It is you who have wrecked my life – you – you. It was you who devised that crime – when I was snatched away from the only man I loved – the only man with whom I could have been happy – whom I – ” she turned aside and hid her face. Then recovering herself, but with a cheek glistening with tears, she said: “I admit it, I love still, and ever shall love. And he loves me. He has taken none to wife, for he thinks on me. There, could darkness be deeper than my now condition? And you did it, you betrayed me into the hands – ” she had sufficient self-control not to say to whom, before this man and her slave.

“Lady, it is not I, but Destiny.”

“And you, with your tortuous ways, work to ends that you desire, and excuse it by saying, It is Destiny.”

“What, discussing the lore of emanations, little woman?” asked the Emperor, coming suddenly up.

Elymas stood back and assumed a deferential attitude. Titus waved him to withdraw, and was obeyed. Then he took Domitia by the hand.

“A philosopher, are you?”

“No, I ask questions, but get no answers that content me.”

“Ah! you asked a favor of me the other day and spiced it with a sneer – your jibes hit me.”

“I meant not to give pain.”

“I have come to you touching this very matter. I am not sure, child, that the scandal is not greater so long as you and Domitian remain linked together, and pulling opposite ways, than if you were parted. Your quarrels are now the talk of Rome, and many a cutting jest is put into your pretty mouth at our expense; invented by others, attributed to you.”

“You will have us divorced!” her breath came quick and short.

“Listen to what I propose. Domitia, I am not well. I have this accursed Roman fever on me.”

“Sire, I mark suffering in your face.”

“It has been vexing me for some days, and it is my intent to leave Rome and be free from business and take my cure at Cutiliæ – our old estate in the Sabine country. Perhaps the air, the waters of the old home, the nest of our divine family – ” his mouth twitched, but there was a sad expression in his face – “they may do me good. It is something, Domitia, to stand on the soil that was turned by one’s forbears, when they bent as humble farmers over the plough. They were honest men and happy; and when one is down at heart, there is naught like home – the old home where are the bones of one’s ancestors, though they may have been yeomen, and one a commissioner, and another an usurer, and so on. They were honest men. Aye! the rate-collector, he was an honest man. Here all is false, and unreal, and – Domitia – I feel that I want to stand on the soil where my worthy, humble, dear old people worked and worshipped, and laid them down to die.”

“You are downcast indeed,” said Domitia.

“And because downcast, I have been brooding over your troubles, little sister-in-law. Come! I did something for your poor Lamia, – I made him consul, and I will do more. Can you be patient and tarry till my strength is restored? I shall return from my family farm in rude health, I trust, and by the Gods! the first matter I will then take in hand will be yours. I know what my brother is. By Jupiter Capitolinus! if Rome should ever have him as its prince, it will weep tears of blood. I know his savage humor and his sullen mind. No, Domitia, you cannot be happy with him. A cruel wrong was done you, and when I return from Cutiliæ I will right it. You shall be separated!”

She threw herself at his feet.

He smiled, and withdrawing from her clasp, said: —

“I will do more than that for your very good friend, in whom you still take such a lively interest. I shall find means to advance him to some foreign post – he knows Antioch, I will give him the proconsulship of Syria and Cilicia, and so move him away from Rome. And then – ” he took a turn, looked smilingly at Domitia, and said, – “I do not see that you need mope at Gabii. You know Antioch; you were there for some years. It is, I believe, not well for a governor to take his wife with him; she has the credit of being a very horse-leech to the province. But I can trust thee, little woman! There, no thanks, I seek mine own interest, and to protect our divine images and the new gilding from the rasp of that tongue. That is the true motive of my making this offer. Do not thank me. On my return from Cutiliæ you may reckon on me.”

Then hastily brushing away her thanks, and evading her arms, extended to clasp him, he walked from the terrace.

“Euphrosyne!” cried Domitia, “did you hear! The comet has reached its extreme limit, it is turning – it is drawing to the light – to hope. Happiness is near – ah!”

In her excitement she had struck her jewel-case that stood on the marble balustrade, and sent it, with all its costly contents, flying down the precipice into the thronged lanes at the back of the forum in a glittering rain.

“Ye Gods!” gasped Domitia, “the omen! O ye Gods! the bad omen.”

“Lady,” said Euphrosyne, “all is not lost”

“What remains? Ah! the Fish!”

“Yes, mistress dear, when all else is lost, remember the Fish.”