The Continental Monthly, Vol 6, No 5, November 1864

But the Day of Judgment is approaching: I promise you that none of your vaunted ancestors, that nought of their fame shall be forgotten in the dark award.

The Man. You deceive yourself, son of the people! Neither you nor your brethren could have preserved existence, had not our noble ancestors nourished you with their bread, and defended you with their blood. In times of famine, they gave you grain, and when the plague swept over you with its hot breath of death, they built hospitals to receive you, found nurses to take care of you, and educated physicians to save you from the grave. When from a herd of unformed brutes they had nurtured you into human beings, they built schools and churches for you, sharing everything with you save the dangers of the battle field, for war they knew you were not formed to bear. As the sharp lance of the pagan was wont to recoil, shattered and riven, from the glittering armor of my fathers, so recoil your vain words as they strike the dazzling record of their long-consecrated glory. They disturb not the repose of their sacred ashes. Like the howlings of a mad dog, who froths, bites, and snaps as he runs, until he is driven out of the pale of humanity, so fall your accusations, dying out in their own insanity.

But it is almost dawn, and time you should depart from the halls of my ancestors! Pass in safety and in freedom from their home, my guest!

Pancratius. Farewell then, until we meet again upon the ramparts of the Holy Trinity. And when your powder and ball shall be utterly exhausted?

The Man.

We will then approach within the length of our swords.

 Farewell!

Pancratius. We are twin Eagles, but your nest is shattered by the lightning! (

He takes up his cloak and liberty cap.

) In passing from your threshold, I leave the curse, due to decrepitude, behind me. I devote you and your son to destruction!

The Man. Ho! Jacob!

Enter Jacob.

Conduct this man in safety through my last post on the hill!

Jacob. So help me God the Lord!

Exit Jacob with Pancratius.

DEATH IN LIFE

In some dull hour of doubt or pain,

Who has not felt that life is slain—

And while there yet remain

Long years, perhaps, of joyless mirth,

Ere earth shall claim its kindred earth,

Such years were nothing worth

But that some duty still demands

The sweating brow, the weary hands?

And so Existence stands

With an appeal we cannot shun,

To make complete what Life begun,

With toil from sun to sun.

And so we keep the sorry tryst,

With all its fancied sweetness missed—

Consenting to exist

When Life has fled beyond recall,

And left us to its heir in thrall,

With chains that will not fall.

Belated stars were waning fast

As through an open gate I passed,

And crossed a meadow vast—

And, still descending, followed still

The path that wound adown the hill

And by the ruined mill—

Till in its garden I espied

The cottage by the river side

Where dwelt my promised bride.

Beneath the porch no lantern flared,

No watch dog kept his faithful ward,

The window blinds were barred.

Entering with eager eye and ear,

And ushered by the phantom Fear,

I stood beside the bier

Of one who, passing hence away,

Left something more than lifeless clay,

As twilight lingers after day,

The pulseless heart, the pallid lips,

The eyes just closed in death's eclipse,

The fairy finger tips

So lightly locked across the breast,

Seemed to obey the sweet behest

By angels whispered—Rest!

That beauty had been mine alone,

Those hands had fondly pressed my own,

Those eyes in mine had shone.

The open door was banged about,

As wailing winds went in and out

With sigh and groan and shout.

And darkly ran the river cold,

Whose swollen waters, as they rolled,

A tale of sorrow told.

I could not choose but seek that stream,

Whose sympathetic moan did seem

The music of a dream.

O River, that unceasing lay

Charms each fair tree along thy way,

Until it falls thy prey!

O endless moan within my heart,

Thy constancy has made me part

Of what thou wert and art!

And while I stood upon the brink,

And tried to think, but could not think,

Nor sight with reason link—

A form I had not seen before

Came slowly down the dismal shore;

A sombre robe she wore,

And in her air and on her face

There was a sterner kind of grace,

Heightened by time and place—

A sort of conscious power and pride,

A soul to substance more allied—

Than that of her who died.

With scarce a semblance of design,

Toward me her steps she did incline,

And raised her eyes to mine

So sweetly, so imploringly,

I scarcely wished, and did not try,

To put their pleading by,

And, ere a movement I had made,

Her hand upon my arm she laid,

And whispered: I obeyed.

While one into the darkness sped,

I followed where the other led;

Yet often turned my head,

As one who fancies that he hears

His own name ringing in his ears

Shouted from far-off spheres.

Oh! bliss misplaced is misery!

I love the life I've lost, but, see!

The life that's here loves me.

And while I seem her willing slave,

My heart is hid in weeds that wave

Above a distant grave.

ÆNONE:

A TALE OF SLAVE LIFE IN ROME

CHAPTER XIV

In an hour from that time the banqueting hall of the palace was prepared for its guests. Silken couches had been drawn up around the table. Upon it glittered a rich array of gold and silver. Between the dishes stood flasks of rare wines. Upon the buffet near by were other wines cooling in Apennine snow. Tall candelabras in worked and twisted bronze stood at the ends and sides of the table, and stretched overhead their arms hung with lamps. From the walls were suspended other lamps, lighting up the tapestries and frescoes. At one end of the hall, richly scented spices burned upon a tripod. With a readiness and celerity for which the Vanno palace was famous, a feast fit for the emperor had been improvised in a few minutes, and nothing was now wanting except the guests.

These now began to drop in one by one. The poet Emilius—the comedian Bassus—the proconsul Sardesus—others of lesser note; but not one who had not a claim to be present, by reason of intimate acquaintance or else some peculiarly valuable trait of conviviality. In collecting these, the armor bearer had made no mistake; and knowing his master's tastes and intimates, he had made up the roll of guests as discreetly as though their names had been given him. One he had met in the street—others he had found at their homes. None to whom he gave the invitation was backward in accepting it upon the spot, for there were few places in Rome where equal festal gratification could be obtained. To have been called to the house of Sergius Vanno and not to have gone there, was to have lost a day to be forever regretted. None, therefore, who had been spoken to, among that club of congenial spirits, was absent. Of those who did not come, one was sick and two were at their country villas. These, however, were lesser lights, valuable by themselves, perhaps, but of no account in comparison with others who had come; and therefore their absence was scarcely noticed.

Sergius stood at the door receiving his guests as each arrived. He had arrayed himself in his most festive costume, and had evidently resolved that whatever might happen on the morrow, that night at least should be passed in forgetfulness and unbridled enjoyment. Even now his face was flushed with the wine he had taken in anticipation, in the hope of giving an artificial elation to his spirits. But it seemed as though for that time the wine had lost its accustomed charm. Although at each greeting he strove to wreathe his face in smiles, yet it was but a feeble mask, and could not hide the more natural appearances of care and gloom which rested upon his features; and while his voice seemed to retain its old ring of joyous welcome, there was an undertone of sad discordance. As the guests entered and exchanged greetings with their host, each, after the first moment, looked askant at him, with the dim perception that, in some way, he was not as he was wont to be; and so, in a little while, they sank, one by one, into a troubled and apprehensive silence. He, too, upon his part, looked furtively at them, wondering whether they had yet heard the thing that had befallen him. It was but a short time ago, indeed, and yet in how few minutes might the unrestrained gossip of a slave have spread the ill tidings! For the moment, Sergius recoiled from the difficult task of entertainment which he had taken upon himself. Why, indeed, had he called these men around him? How could he sit and pledge them in deep draughts, and all the time suspect that each one knew his secret, and was laughing about it in his sleeve? And if they knew it not, so much the worse, for then he must tell the tale himself. Was it not partly for this purpose that he had assembled them? Far better to speak of it himself—to let them see how little he regarded the misfortune and the scandal—to treat it as a brave jest—to give his own version of it—than to have the matter leak out in the ordinary way, with all conceivable distortions and exaggerations. But how, in fact, could he tell it? Was there one among them who would not, while openly commiserating him, laugh at him in the heart? Did there not now sit before him the lieutenant Plautus, who, only a month before, had met with a like disgrace, and about whom he had composed derisive verses? Would not the lieutenant Plautus now rejoice to make retaliatory odes? Would it not b e better, then, after all, to forbear any mention of the matter, and, letting its announcement take the usual chance course, to devote this night, at least, to unbroken festivity? But what if they already knew it?

Thus wandering in his mind from one debate to another, and ever, in a moment, coming back to his original suspicion, he sat, essaying complimentary speeches and convivial jests, and moodily gazing from face to face, in a vain attempt to read their secret thoughts. He was wrong in his suspicions. Not one of them knew the reason of the burden upon his mind. All, however, perceived that something had occurred to disturb him, and his moody spirit shed its influence around, until the conversation once again flagged, and there was not one of the party who did not wish himself elsewhere. The costliest viands and wines spread out before them were ineffective to produce that festive gayety upon which they had calculated.

'By Parnassus!' exclaimed the poet Emilius, at length, pushing aside his plate of turbot, and draining his goblet 'Are we to sit here, hour after hour, winking and blinking at each other like owls over their mice? Was it merely to eat and drink that we have assembled? Hearken! I will read that to you which will raise your spirits, to a certainty. To-morrow the games and combats commence in the arena of the new amphitheatre. Well; and is it known to you that I am appointed to read a dedicatory ode before the emperor and in honor of that occasion? I will give you a pleasure, now. I will forestall your joy, and let you hear what I have written. And be assured that this is no small compliment to your intelligence, since no eye hath yet looked upon a single verse thereof.'

With that the poet dragged from his breast his silken bundle, and carefully began to unwind the covering.

'You will observe,' he said, as he brought the precious parchment to light, and smoothed it out upon the table before him, 'you will observe that I commence with an invocation to the emperor, whom I call the most illustrious of all the Cæsars, and liken to Jove. I then congratulate the spectators, not only upon the joy of living in his time, but also upon being there to bask in the effulgence of—'

'A truce to such mummery!' cried Sergius, suddenly arousing from his spiritual stupor and bursting into a shrill laugh. 'Do we care to listen to your miserable dactyls? Is it not a standing jest through Rome that, for the past month, you have daily read your verses to one person after another, with the same wretched pretence of exclusive favoritism? And do we not know that no warrant has ever been given to you to recite a single line before the emperor, either in or out of the arena? We are here to revel, not to listen to your stale aphorisms upon death and immortality. Ho, there, more wine! Take off these viands, which already pall upon us! Bring wine-more wine!'

The guests were not slow to respond to the altered mood of their host; for it was merely the reflection of his sullen gravity that had eclipsed their own vivacity. The instant, therefore, that he led the way, the hall began to resound with jest and laughter. The poet, with some humiliation, which he endeavored to conceal beneath an affectation of wounded dignity, commenced rolling up his manuscript, not before a splash of wine from a carelessly filled flagon had soiled the fair-written characters. More flasks were placed upon the table by ready and obedient hands—and from that moment the real entertainment of the evening commenced.

Faster than any of his guests, as though care could be the better drowned by frequent libations, Sergius now filled and refilled his flagon; and though the repeated draughts may not have brought forgetfulness, yet, what was the nearest thing, they produced reckless indifference. No longer should the cloud which he had thus suddenly swept away from his brow be suffered to remain. Was he not master in his own house? If woman deceives, was that a reason why man should mourn and grow gray with melancholy? What though a random thought might at times intrude, of one who, in the next room, with her head against the wall, lay in a half stupor, listening to the ring of goblets and the loud laugh and jest? Had she not brought it all upon herself? He would fill up again, and think no more about it! And still, obedient to his directing tone, the guests followed him with more and more unbridled license, until the hall rang with merriment as it had never rung before.

Then, of course, came the throwing of dice, which, at that time, were as essential a concomitant of a roystering party as, in later centuries, cards became. Nor were these the least attraction of the feasts of Sergius; for though the excellence of his viands and wines was proverbial, the ease with which he could be despoiled at the gambling table was not less so. Already he was known to have seriously crippled his heritage by continued reverses, springing from united ill luck and want of skill; but it was as well understood that much still remained. And then, as now, the morality of gambling was of a most questionable character—invited guests not thinking it discreditable to unite in any combinations for the purpose of better pillaging their host. This seemed now the general purpose; for, leaving each other in comparative freedom from attack, they came forward one by one and pitted their purses, great and small, against Sergius, who sat pouring down wine and shaking the dicebox, while he called each by name, and contended against him. The usual result followed; for, whether owing to secret signs among the players, or to superior skill, the current of gold flowed but one way, from the host to his guests. For a while he bore the continued ill luck with undiminished gayety, deeming that in meeting their united prowess he was doing a brave thing, and that, whatever befell him, he should remember that in character of host, he must consent to suffer. But at length he began to realize that his losses had been carried far enough. He had never suffered so severely in any one evening before. Even his duty to them as their host did not demand that he should completely ruin himself, and he began to suspect that he had half done so already. With a hoarse laugh he pushed the dice away, and arose.

'Enough—quite enough for one night,' he exclaimed. 'I have no more gold, nor, if I had, could I dare to continue, with this ill run against me. Perhaps after another campaign I may meet you again, and take my revenge; which, if the Fates are just, must one day or another be allotted me. But not now.'

He thought that he was firm in his refusal, but his guests had not yet done with him. It needed but gentle violence to push him back again upon his seat, and to replace the dicebox in his hand.

'Art weary, or afraid to continue?' said the prætorian captain. 'Well, let there be one more main between us, and then we will end it all. Listen! I have won this night two hundred sestertia. What is the worth of that quarry of yours to the south of the Porta Triumphalis?'

'Three hundred sestertia—not less,' responded Sergius.

'Nay, as much as that?' rejoined the captain, carelessly throwing down his own dice. 'Then it is useless to propose what I was about to. I had thought that as the quarry had been well worked already, and was now overrun with fugitive slaves and Nazarenes, and the like, to ferret out whom would require half a legion, I could offer to put the two hundred sestertia against it, so that you might chance to win them back. But it is of little consequence.'

Sergius sat for the moment nervously drumming upon the table. He knew that the other was purposely disparaging the property and trying to tempt him into an equal stake; and yet he suffered himself to be tempted. The luck might this time be with him. It were worth while to try it, at least. If he lost, it would be but one more buffet of fortune. And if he won, how easily would those two hundred sestertia have been regained, and what a triumph over the one who had enticed him! And therefore they threw—five times a piece; and after a moment of breathless excitement, the play was decided in favor of the captain.

'The quarry is mine, therefore,' he said, endeavoring to assume a nonchalant air of indifference. 'Would you still win it back, Sergius? And the sesteria also? Well, there is that vineyard of yours on the slope of Tivoli, which—'

'Stay!' exclaimed the proconsul Sardesus, who, of all the party had not as yet touched the dicebox. 'Let this be enough. Will you plunder him entirely? Have you no regard for my rights over him? Do you not know that to-morrow, at the amphitheatre, Sergius and I are to match gladiators against each other for a heavy wager, and that I expect to win? How, then will I get this money, if you now strip him of all that he owns?'

Probably the proconsul felt no fear about collecting what he might win, and spoke jestingly, and with the sole intention of putting a stop to a system of pillage which seemed to him already too flagrant and unscrupulous. But his words were too plainly spoken not to give offence at any time, more particularly now that all present were heated with excitement; and the usual consequence of disinterested interference ensued. The other guests in no measured language, began to mutter their displeasure at the insinuations against themselves; while the host, for whose benefit the interruption had been intended, resented it most strongly of all. He needed no counsel, but was well able to take care of himself, he intimated. And he remembered that he had entered into some sort of a wager about the result of a gladiatorial combat, and he had supposed that no one would have doubted his ability to pay all that he might lose therein. It was proper, at least, to wait until there had been some precedent of the kind proved against him. No one, so far, had found him wanting. And the like.

'And yet,' he continued, as after a moment of reflection he began to realise the value of the wager, and how inconvenient it would be to lose, and that he had not yet succeeded in making any preparation for the contest, 'when I tell you that I have not yet found a gladiator to my mind, you will not force this match upon me to-morrow? You will forbear that advantage, and will consent to postpone our trial to another time?'

The proconsul shrugged his shoulders.

'Was it in the bond,' he said, 'that one should await the convenience of the other? Has there not been time enough for each to procure his man? This wager was made between us mouths ago, Sergius—before even you went into the East.'

'And it was while I was there,' exclaimed Sergius eagerly, 'that I found my man—a Rhodian, with the forehead, neck, and sinews of a bull. He could have hugged a bull to death almost. Having him, I felt safe, for who could you obtain to stand up against him? But in an evil hour, not over a month ago, this play actor here—this Bassus—by a stupid trick gained him from me. What, then, have I been able to do for myself since? I have sought far and near to replace him, but without success; and had made up my mind, if you would not postpone the trial, to pay up the forfeit for not appearing, and think no more about it. But by the gods! I will, even at this late hour, make one more attempt. Harkee, Bassus! Whenever I have asked you about this Rhodian, you have said that you have sold him; and, for some low reason, you have refused to tell who owns him now. Tell me, now, to whom you sold him, so that I can purchase him at once! Tell me, I say; or there will be blood between us!'

'What can he say,' interrupted the proconsul, 'but that he sold his Rhodian to me, the day thereafter? You do well to praise him, Sergius. Never have I seen such a creature of brawn and muscle. And with the training I have given him, who, indeed, could overcome him? You will see him to-morrow, in the arena. You will see how he will crush in the ribs of your gladiator, like an egg shell.'

Sergius gave vent to a groan of mingled rage and despair.

'And you will not postpone this trial?' he said. 'Will you, then, take up with an offer to play off that Rhodian against ten of my slaves? No? Against twenty, then? What else will tempt you? Ah, you may think that I have but little to offer to play against you, but it is not so. I have no gold left, and my last quarry is gone. But I have my vineyards and slaves in plenty. What say you, therefore?'

'Tush! Beseech him not!' interrupted Emilius, to whom the mention of vineyards and slaves gave intimation of further spoils. 'Do you not see that he shakes his head? And do you not know his obstinacy? You could not move him now were you to pay him in full the amount of the forfeit. It is not the gold that he longer cares for, but the chance to distinguish himself by the exhibition of the slave of greatest strength and prowess. So let that matter go for settled. Rather strive, in some other manner, to win the money with which to pay your forfeit. This, with good luck, you may do—a little here and a little there—who knows? Perhaps even I can help you. Have I not won fifty sestertia from you? I will now wager it back against a slave.'

'Against any slave?'

'By Bacchus, no! I have enough of ordinary captives to suit me, and care but little for any accession to the rabble of them. But you have one whom I covet—a Greek of fair appearance and pleasing manners—fit not for the camp or the quarries, but of some value as a page or cupbearer. It was but lately that I saw him, writing at your lady's dictation, and I wished for him at once. Shall we play for him?'

'No! a thousand times, no!' exclaimed Sergius, striking the table so heavily with his open hand that the dice danced and the flagons shook. 'Were you to offer me thrice his value—to pay off my forfeit to Sardesus to the last sestertium—to gain me back my quarry and my vineyards—all that I have lost—I would not give up that slave. My purpose is sweeter to me than all the gold you could offer, and I will not be cheated out of it. That slave dies to-morrow in the amphitheatre—between the lion's jaws!'

'Dies? In the arena?' was the astonished exclamation.

'Is there aught wonderful in that?' Sergius fiercely cried. 'Have you never before known such a thing as a master giving up his slave for the public amusement? And let no man ask me why I do it. It may be that I wish revenge, hating him too much to let him live. It may be that I seek to be a benefactor like others, and furnish entertainment to the populace at my own expense. It is sufficient that I choose it. Will not any other slave answer, Emilius?'

'Nay, no other will do,' remarked the poet, throwing himself carelessly back, with the air of one dismissing a fruitless subject from his mind. 'This was the only one whom I coveted. For any other I would not care to shake the dicebox three times, though I might feel sure to win.'

'Will you offer the same to me, Sergius?' eagerly cried the comedian. 'I also have won heavily from you. Will you play any other slave than this page against fifty sestertia?'

For his only answer, Sergius seized the dice, and began impatiently to rattle them. The eyes of Bassus sparkled with anticipated victory.

'You hear?' he cried, to all around him. 'Against my fifty sestertia he will stake any of his slaves excepting this Greek page?'

'They all hear the terms,' retorted Sergius. 'Now throw!'

'Whether male or female?' continued Bassus, still looking around to see that all understood.

'Are they fools? Can they not hear? Will you throw or not?' shouted Sergius.

In a wild delirium of excitement, the comedian began the game, and in a few minutes it was concluded. Then he leaped from his seat, crying out:

'I have won! And there can be no dispute now! You all heard that he gave the choice of his slaves, whether male or female?'

'Fool!' sneered Sergius, throwing himself back. 'What dispute can there be? Do you think that I would deny my word? And do you suppose I did not know your aims, cunningly as you may think you veiled them? Would I have given up Leta to you, if she had been of any further value to myself? By the gods! had you waited a while, I do not know but what I would have made her a present to you; not however, to oblige you, but to punish her!'

The comedian listened in chopfallen amazement. Already it seemed to him that his prize had lost half its value.

'Be at rest, though,' Sergius continued, in a contemptuous tone. 'I have merely tired of her, that is all. Her eyes are as bright and her voice as silvery as ever. She may not ever come to love you much, but she will have the wit to pretend that she does; and if she makes you believe her—as you doubtless will—it will be all the same thing to you. Who knows, too, with what zeal she may worm herself into your affection, under the guidance of her ambition? For, that she has ambition, you will soon discover. By Bacchus! since you have no wife or household to fetter your fancies, it would not surprise me were you to succumb to her wiles, and to make of her yo