Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome

CHAPTER II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fabricius looked up from his momentary deliberation or abstraction.

‘Ha, nephew, is it you?’ said he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘The finest in Rome.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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