But now Caius Nepos began to speak. Taking the advice of Marcus Ancyrus the elder, he spoke vaguely, trying to probe the thoughts that lay hidden behind the Anglicanus' furrowed brow. He had received advice, he said that the Caesar was tired of government and wished to spend some quiet days in the Palace of Tiberius, on the island of Capraea; all this cleverly interwoven with sighs of hope as to what a happier future might bring if the Empire were rid—quite peaceably, of course—of the tyranny of a semi-brutish despot.

Then, as Taurus Antinor made no comment on his peroration, he recalled in impassioned language all that Rome had witnessed in the past three years of depravity, of turpitude, of senseless and maniacal orgies and of bestial cruelty, all perpetrated by the one man to whom blind Fate had given supreme power.

"And to whom, alas!" said Taurus Antinor in calm response to the glowing speech, "we have all of us here sworn loyalty and obedience."

There was silence after this. Despite the lingering fumes of wine that obscured the brain, everyone felt that with these few words the praefect of Rome had already given an answer, and that nothing that could be said after this would have the power of making him alter his decision. But Marcus Ancyrus, conscious of his own powers of diplomacy, took up the thread of his host's peroration.

"Aye! but we should be obeying him," he said simply, "if we accept his abdication."

"There is no disloyalty," asserted Escanes, "in rejoicing at such an issue, if the Caesar himself doth will it so."

"None," admitted the praefect; "but there would be grave difficulty in choosing a successor."

"To this," said the host, "we have given grave consideration."

"Indeed!"

"And have come to a decision which we all think would best serve the welfare of the State."

"May I hear this decision?"

"It means just this, O praefect! that since the sceptre of Caesar must, if possible, remain in the House of Caesar, and since no man of that House is worthy to wield it, we would ask the Augusta Dea Flavia to take to herself a lord and husband, on whom, by virtue of his marriage, the imperium would rest for his life, and after his death fall on the direct descendant of great Augustus himself."

Taurus Antinor had not made a sign whilst Caius Nepos thus briefly put before him the main outline of the daring project, and Hortensius Martius, who was watching him closely, could not detect the slightest change in the earnest face even when Dea Flavia's name was spoken. Now, when Nepos paused as if waiting for comment, Antinor said gravely:

"Ye must pardon me, but I am a stranger to the social life in Rome. Will you tell me who this man is whom the Augusta will so highly favour?"

"Nay, as to that," said Caius Nepos, "we none of us know it as yet! Dea Flavia has smiled on many, but up to now hath made no choice."

"Then 'tis to an unknown man ye would all pledge your loyalty?"

"Unknown, yet vaguely guessed at, O praefect," here broke in Escanes, with his usual breezy cheerfulness; "we all feel that Dea Flavia's choice can but fall on an honourable man."

"Thou speakest truly," rejoined Taurus Antinor earnestly; "but I fear me that for the present your schemes are too vague. The Augusta hath made no choice of a husband as yet, and the Caesar is still your chosen lord."

"A brutish madman, who——"

"You chose him——"

"Since then he hath become a besotted despot."

"Still your Emperor—to whom you owe your dignities, your power, your rank——"

"Thou dost defend him warmly, O praefect of Rome," suddenly interposed Hortensius Martius who had followed every phase of the discussion with heated brow and eyes alert and glowing. "Thou art ready to continue this life of submission to a maniacal tyrant, to a semi-bestial mountebank——"

"The life which I lead is of mine own making," rejoined Taurus Antinor proudly; "the life ye lead is the one ye have chosen."

And with significant glance his dark eyes took in every detail of the disordered room—the littered table, the luxurious couches, the numberless empty dishes and broken goblets as well as the flushed faces and the trembling hands, and involuntarily, perhaps, a look of harsh contempt spread over his face.

Hortensius caught the look and winced under it; the words that had accompanied it had struck him as with a lash, and further whipped up his already violent rage.

"And," he retorted with an evil sneer, "to the Caesar thou wilt render homage even in his most degraded orgies, and wilt lick the dust from off his shoes when he hath kicked thee in the mouth."

Slowly Taurus Antinor turned to him, and Hortensius Martius appeared just then so like a naughty child, that the look of harshness died out of the praefect's eyes, and a smile almost of amusement, certainly of indulgence, lit up for a moment the habitual sternness of his face.

"Loyalty to Caesar," he said simply, "doth not mean obsequiousness, as all Roman patricians should know, oh Hortensius!"

"Aye! but meseems," rejoined the young man, whose voice had become harsher and more loud as that of Taurus Antinor became more subdued and low, "meseems that at the cost of thy manhood thou at least art prepared to render unto Caesar——"

But even as these words escaped his lips the praefect, with a quick peremptory gesture, placed one slim, strong hand on Hortensius' wrist.

It seemed as if in a moment—and because of those words—a strange power had gone forth from the soul within right down to the tips of the slender fingers that closed on those of the younger man with a grip of steel.

He had raised himself wholly upright on the couch, his massive figure, in the gorgeous crimson tunic, standing out clear and trenchant against the shadowy whiteness of the marble walls behind him. His head, with the ruddy mass of hair on which the flickering lamps threw brilliant, golden lights, was thrown back, and the eyes, deep, intent, and glowing with unrevealed ardour, looked straight out before him into the shadows.

"Render unto Caesar," he said slowly, "the things which are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's."

His voice was low and unmodulated, as of one who repeats something that he has heard before, whilst the eyes suddenly shone as if with a fleeting memory of an exquisite vision.

The action, the words, were but momentary, but for that brief moment the angry retort was checked on Hortensius' lips, even as were the sneers and the bibulous scowls on the faces of those around. Taurus Antinor, towering above them all, and imbued with a strange dignity, seemed to be gazing into a space beyond the walls of the gorgeous dining-hall; into a space hidden from their understanding but peopled with the sweet memory of a sacred past. And even as he gazed a strange spell fell over these voluptuaries; a spell which they were unable to withstand. Whilst it lasted every ribald word was stilled and every drunken oath lulled to silence. The very air seemed hushed and only from a bunch of dying roses the withered petals were heard to fall one by one.

Then the grasp on Hortensius' wrist relaxed, the dark head was lowered, the falling lids once more hid the mysterious radiance of the eyes. The spell was broken as Taurus Antinor resumed quietly:

"The Caesar," he said, "hath not yet abdicated; he is still our chosen ruler and Emperor. To speak of his successor now savours of treachery and——"

"And what thou sayest stinks of treachery," broke in Hortensius Martius with redoubled wrath, and shaking himself free from the brief spell of superstitious awe which Antinor's words and Antinor's grip on his arm had momentarily cast over him. "Hast come here, O praefect, but to spy on us, to probe our souls and use them for thine own selfish ends?"

"Silence, Hortensius!" admonished Ancyrus, the elder.

"Nay, I'll not be silent!" retorted the young man, who seemed at last to have lost all control over his jealous passion. His eyes, in which gleamed the fire of intense hate, swept from the face of his enemy to that of his friends whom they challenged. His voice had become raucous and hoarse and his tongue refused him service, making his words sound inarticulate.

"Do ye not see," he shouted, turning his flushed face toward the others, "do you not see how you are being fooled? The praefect stands high in the Caesar's favour, he has the Caesar's ear——"

"Silence!" broke in in peremptory accents the voice of Caius Nepos, the host.

"Silence!" cried some of the younger men.

"No! No! I'll shout! I'll shout!" persisted Hortensius with the crazy obstinacy of one whose mind is obscured with liquor and with passion, "I'll shout until you understand. Fools, I tell ye! Fools are ye all! You tell this man of your schemes, of your plans! He listens blandly to you!... You fools! you fools! Not to have suspected ere this that his so-called loyalty to Caesar masks his treachery to us!"

He was kneeling now upon his couch, and with clenched hands was pounding against the cushions like an angry child. The tumult became general; everyone was shouting. Those who were nearest to this raving young maniac were trying to seize him, but he waved his arms about like the wings of a night bird, and anon he seized a goblet of heavy solid metal and struck out with it to the right and left of him, so that none dared come nigh.

But the praefect stood quietly beside him, with arms held very tightly across his mighty chest, his dark eyes fixed upon the raving figure on the couch. No one had ventured to approach him, for the feeling of superstitious awe which he had aroused in them a while ago had not wholly died down, and now there was such a look of contempt and of wrath in his face that instinctively the most sober drew away from him, and those whose minds were obscured with wine looked upon him in ever growing terror.

Suddenly Hortensius, brandishing the heavy goblet, raised it high above his head, and with a drunken and desperate gesture he flung it in the direction of the praefect, but his hand had trembled and his arm was unsteady. The goblet missed the head of Taurus Antinor and fell crashing along the marble-topped table, bringing a quantity of crystal down with it in its fall.

A few drops of the wine from the goblet had fallen on Taurus Antinor's tunic, and from the parched throat of young Hortensius there rose a hoarse and immoderate laugh and a string of violent oaths. But even before these had fully escaped his lips he saw the praefect's dark face quite close to his own, and felt a grip as of a double vice of steel fastening on both his shoulders.

He knew the grip and had felt it before; no claw of desert beast was firmer or more unrelenting. Young Hortensius felt his whole body give way, his very bones crack beneath that mighty grip. His head, overheated with wine, fell back against the cushions of his couch, and he felt as if the last breath in him was leaving his enfeebled body.

"Thou art a fool indeed, Hortensius," murmured a harsh voice close to his ear; "a fool to provoke a man beyond the power of his control."

Then as at a word from the host, the other men—those who were steady on their feet—tried to interpose, Taurus Antinor turned his face to them.

"Have no fear," he said quite calmly, "for this man. He shall come to no harm. Twice hath he insulted me and twice have I held his life in my hands."

Then, as Hortensius uttered an involuntary cry of rage or of pain, Taurus Antinor spoke once more to him:

"Thy life is in my hands yet will I not kill thee, even though I could do it with just the tightening of my fingers round thy throat. But provoke me not a third time, O Hortensius, for I have in my possession a heavy-thonged whip, and this would I use on thee even as I order it to be used on the miscreant thieves that are brought to my tribunal. So cross not my path again, dost understand? I am but a man and have not an inexhaustible stock of patience."

Whilst he spoke he still held young Hortensius down pinioned amongst the cushions. No one interfered, for it had dawned on every blurred mind there that here lay a deeper cause for quarrel than mere political conflict. Hortensius, though vanquished now, had been like a madman; his unprovoked insults had come from a heart overburdened with jealousy and with hate. Now when the praefect relaxed his grip upon him, he lay for a while quite still, and anon Caius Nepos beckoned to his slaves, and they it was who ministered to him, bathing his forehead with water and holding lumps of ice to the palms of his hands.

Taurus Antinor had straightened out his tall figure. For a moment he looked down with bitter scorn on the prostrate figure of his vanquished foe. The awed silence which his strange words of a while ago had imposed upon the others, still hung upon them all. They stood about in groups, whispering below their breath, and the slaves were huddled up one against the other in the distant corners of the room. An air of mystery still hung over the magnificent triclinium, its convivial board, its abandoned couches, over the vases of murra and crystal and the fast dying roses. It seemed as if some personality—great, majestic, divine—had passed through the marble hall and that the sound of sacred feet still echoed softly along its walls.

It almost seemed as if there clung a radiance in that shadowy corner where the eyes of an enthusiast had sought and found the memory of the Divine Teacher; and that in the fume-laden air there lingered the odour of the sacrifice offered by a rough, untutored heart to the Man Who had spoken unforgettable words seven years ago in Galilee.



CHAPTER X

"That the world through Him might be saved."—ST. JOHN III. 17.

Taurus Antinor had bidden farewell to his host, and to the other guests and then departed.

Not another word had been spoken on the subject of the Caesar or of his probable successor. The conspirators, somewhat sobered, had allowed the praefect to go without attempting further effort to gain him to their cause. They had had their answer. Though many of them did not quite understand the full depth of its meaning, yet were they satisfied that it was final. They bade him farewell quietly and without enmity; somehow the thought of their murderous plan had momentarily fled from their mind, and the quarrel between Hortensius Martius and the praefect of Rome seemed to have been the most important event of the day.

Taurus Antinor emerged alone from the peristyle of Caius Nepos' house. An army of slaves belonging to the various guests were hanging about the vestibule, talking and laughing amongst themselves and feasting on the debris from the patricians' table, brought out to them by servitors from within; some forty litters encumbered the floor, but Antinor, paying no heed to these, passed through the crowd of jabbering men and women and made his way across to the steps which led upwards to the street.

The day was done, had been done long ago; already the canopy of the stars was stretched over the sleeping city, and far away to the east, beyond the gilded roof of Augustus' palace, the waning moon, radiant and serene, outlined the carvings on every temple with a thin band of gold and put patches of luminous sapphires and emeralds on the bronze figures that crowned the Capitol.

Taurus Antinor paused awhile, enjoying the restfulness of the night; from his broad chest came a long-drawn breath of voluptuous delight at the exquisite sweetness of the air. How far away now seemed that long, luxurious room, with its stained cloths and crumpled cushions, with the low tables groaning under the debris of past repasts and the rows of couches luring to sensuous repose. For the moment even the wranglings of Caius Nepos' guests seemed remote, their selfish aims and their lying tongues. Here, beneath the stars, there was stillness and peace.

A gentle breeze from over the distant hills blew on the dreamer's forehead and eased the wild throbbings of his temples; from somewhere near tiny petals of heliotrope, chased by the breeze, brought sweet-scented powder to his nostrils.

He looked around him, gazing with wondering eyes on the mighty city sleeping upon her seven hills, on the gorgeous palaces of Tiberius and Caligula and the squalid huts far away on the Aventine Hill, on the mighty temples with their roofs of gold and the yawning arena down below, desolate and silent now, but where on the morrow men and beasts would tear one another to pieces to make holiday for the masters of the world.

And even as his restless eyes swept over the surrounding landscape, they turned to where, in the shadow of the stately palaces of Tiberius and of Augustus, lay the house of Dea Flavia. Its gilded portals threw back with brilliant intensity the weird and elusive light of the waning moon, and high above, upon the balustrade of the roof, gigantic bronze groups of quaint and misshapen beasts looked ghoul-like against the canopy of the sky.

All within the massive walls was dark and still; near to the vestibule a couple of ancient cypresses made a natural arch overhead, and in the tender branches of a group of acacias close by, the evening breeze sighed with gentle, melancholy murmurings amongst the leaves.

Instinctively Taurus Antinor turned to walk a few steps toward the house, and soon reached a spot from whence his gaze could command the colonnaded vestibule, with its mosaic pavement sunk a few steps below the level of the street. Somewhere near him, though he could not see it, a bosquet of heliotrope and white lilies sent an intoxicating fragrance into the air.

From far away—where the marshes stretched their limitless expanse toward the sea—came the melancholy cry of a bittern, calling to his absent mate.

A vague longing surged in the strong man's heart; he stretched out his arms up to the dark, starlit canopy above, and a sigh, half impatient, wholly melancholy, escaped his half-closed lips.

His eyes tried to pierce the marble walls behind which there bloomed—stately and proud—a beautiful white lily.

Wholly against his will, the man's thoughts flew back to that midday hour in the Forum, when Dea Flavia had stood before him in all the exquisite glory of her youth and her loveliness, with that wilful curl round her chiselled lips and the delicate brows drawn together in a frown of child-like obstinacy. How beautiful she was and how strangely pathetic had been her isolation in the midst of so much grandeur.

Even now he thought of her—asleep possibly somewhere in this gorgeous palace—all alone, despite the thousands of slaves around her; friendless, despite the might of the House of Caesar of which she was so proud.

Through one of the tiny windows there peeped a flickering light. Taurus Antinor marvelled if that were her sleeping-room and, closing his eyes, pictured her there, resting on embroidered coverlets and cushions, her fair hair falling in waves around her face at rest; and he wondered whether in sleep a dewy tear had perchance put a priceless diamond on her golden lashes.

Bitter thoughts of the men whom he had just quitted surged back in his heart; they wished to make of this young girl a tool for the fashioning of their own ambitious schemes.

"The Augusta shall choose one of us for mate, and him we shall ask to hold the sceptre of Caesar."

One of them for mate! One of those sensuous self-seekers who would use her as a stepping-stone, and, having obtained supreme power through her dainty hands, would cast her aside as a useless tool and break her heart ere she realised even that she had one.

And from the thoughts of the beautiful girl his mind flew back as if instinctively to that strange phase of his life—those unforgettable days in Judaea which had seemed like unto the turning point of his whole existence. He recalled every moment of that memorable day when he had stood among a multitude on the barren wastes of Galilee and, wrapped in a dark cloak, had listened in solitary silence to words and teachings such as he had never dreamed of before.

"If only I could have understood Thee better then," he murmured; "if more of Thy precious words had fallen on mine ear.... I might have told her then something of what Thou didst say ... I could have found the words to make her understand.... But now I am ignorant and forlorn.... Oh, Man of Galilee! Thou didst die so soon ... and left so many of us groping in the darkness.... Thou Son of God, come back to me, if only in a dream ... show me the way, the truth, the light; show me the star which they say guided the shepherds to Thy cradle ... give me Thy cross, and let me walk once more on Golgotha to Thee."

And even as these words of passionate longing escaped half audibly from his lips his eyes wandered round the seven hills of Rome, and suddenly the highest peak beyond the Forum appeared to him transfigured in the night. Memory with a swift hand drew aside the veil of the present and in a vision showed him a picture of the past. The marble temples of pagan gods disappeared, the hill became bleak and precipitous and dark; great stillness reigned around, save where from afar there came at times the distant roll of thunder. The sky was overcast, great banks of cloud, the colour of lead, with blood-red lights within their massive bosoms, swept storm-tossed across the firmament.

Then from the valley below there came, vaguely remote at first, then rising louder and louder, a sound as when a mighty torrent rushes onwards in its course; and as Taurus Antinor gazed now on that dream-hill, memory showed him, surging like a tempestuous sea, thousands upon thousands of human heads, all tending upwards to the summit of the hill.

They came—the great multitude—they came, and still they came; and like gigantic breakers on a smooth shore, waves of human beings scattered themselves and dispersed upon that hill.

And amongst them all, isolated, walking with bent back and thorn-crowned head well-nigh bowed to the dust, came a Man bearing a Cross.

Taurus Antinor saw Him even now as he had seen Him then, with blood and sweat dripping from His brow, the pale, patient face serene and set, the eyes half closed in agony still glowing with unutterable love and with the perfect peace of complete sacrifice.

And among the sea of faces that gazed on that solitary figure Taurus Antinor had recognised himself.

He saw himself as he was then, a rough voluptuary, a thoughtless, sentient beast who up to that time had lived a life of emptiness and of mockery, eating and drinking and sleeping and waking again day after day, year after year. And he saw himself as he was on that day, he one of thousands and thousands of lookers-on gazing on the three hours' agony of a just Man upon the Cross.

He remembered every minute of those three hours, which the hill of imperial Rome now pictured back to him as in a dream. He had stood there a mere unit amongst the crowd, wrapped in a dark cloak, unrecognised and unknown, but with every nerve strained to catch the words that fell from those dying lips. He had heard the cry of bitterness: "Lord! Lord! why hast Thou forsaken Me?" and that of infinite love and of supreme pardon: "Oh God, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

And above and around the sky grew darker and the air more still, and round that dying figure alone there shone a radiance unseen by most; for had they seen it as Taurus Antinor saw it then, then surely would they have known, would they have understood.

And at the foot of that Cross women and men stood weeping, and thoughtless soldiers hurled insults on their dying Lord. The lips that had only uttered words of perfect charity thirsted for a drop of water, and a sponge filled with gall was pressed mockingly to them.

But the arms were still extended wider and wider, so it seemed, as if in their almighty love they would embrace all that surging humanity; all those that suffered, those that hoped as well as those that doubted, those who mocked Him and those who adored.

Taurus Antinor's very manhood had cried out to him then to fight the multitude single-handed, to shake the power of Rome and defy the will of the people, and to rush up to that one Cross, towering above the others, to pick out with firm fingers every cruel nail, to wrap the sacred body in soft, soothing cloths, and to kiss every wound until it closed in health.

Even now, after all these years, the rough soldier's cheeks were burning with the shame of impotence.

To look on that sacrifice and be unable to stop it. To look on such a death and to continue to live on, still blind, still ununderstanding, even though the Teacher Who had come to explain had sighed ere he died: "It is finished!" And yet Taurus Antinor, now looking back upon his own past self, knew that at the time, despite the horror, the pity and the sorrow, there was also in his heart a sense of happiness and even a vague feeling of triumph.

What he saw there—with eyes that comprehended not—that he knew was because it must be; because it had been preordained and done by One Whose will was mightier than death. Though with aching heart and seared eyes he had watched every minute of the supreme agony, yet something within him, even then, had told him that every minute of that agony was a sacrifice that would not be in vain. And whilst in weakness he groaned with the pathos of it all, yet did his heart thrill with strange exultation, and from that Cross—even when all was silent—there rang in his ear the last words of perfect fulfilment of a perfect sacrifice:

"It is finished!"

And even as the words rang once again in Taurus Antinor's ears, the awful darkness of that momentous hour fell upon the dream-hill far away. Golgotha, with its three towering crosses vanished from before the visionary's gaze. Once more there rose before him the marble temples of pagan Rome that crowned the Capitol—the gorgeous idols covered in gold, these gods of mockery before whom the mightiest Empire in the world was satisfied to bow the knee.

And that same sweet, sad longing rose in the dreamer's heart.

"Could I but have heard Thee speak more often!... Could I but have touched Thy hands, methinks that I would have understood.... But now ... now all is still dark before me ... and the way is so difficult."

And even as the sigh died upon his lips there came from behind him the sound of prolonged and hoarse laughter, followed by snatches of a drinking song and loud calls for slaves and litters.

Caius Nepos' guests were leaving the hospitable house at last. Drunk with wine, smothered in flowers, replete with every epicurean delight they were going home now, having, mayhap, forgotten that they had plotted to murder Caesar and to raise themselves to power at all costs, even if that cost was to be a sea of blood or the ruins of Rome.

The song and laughter soon died away in the distance. Taurus Antinor had distinguished the voice of Hortensius Martius and that of Ancyrus, the elder. The sigh of sadness turned to one of bitterness, his arms dropped by his side, and a cry of harsh contempt escaped his parched? throat.

"Oh, Man of Galilee," he murmured, "didst die for such as these?"



CHAPTER XI

"Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."—ST. MATTHEW XI. 28.

A timid voice roused Taurus Antinor from his dream:

"My gracious lord, thy litter is here!"

He started as a man suddenly wakened from sleep, and once or twice his eyes closed and opened again ere they rested finally on the broad back bent in a curve before him.

"Methought my gracious lord was waiting," continued the speaker in the same timid voice, "and mayhap did not see the litter among the shadows."

"I fear me I was dreaming, my good Folces," said the praefect with a sigh, "for truly I did know that thou wast here. Is the girl Nola with thee?"

"Aye, gracious lord. She waits on thy pleasure, and thy bearers——"

"Nay, did I not tell thee that I would have no bearers?"

"The way is long, gracious lord——"

"I told thee that I would walk."

"But my lord——"

"Silence now," he said with some of his habitual impatience; "send my litter and bearers home; bring me the mantle I required, and do thou and Nola follow me."

Reluctantly the old man obeyed.

"My gracious lord will be footsore—the way is long and ill-paved——" he muttered, half audibly, even as he made his way to the rear of the bosquet of lilies where a group of slaves stood waiting desultorily.

Anon he returned carrying a mantle of dark woollen stuff, and Taurus Antinor, having wrapped himself in this, slowly turned to walk down the hill.

Leaving the imperial palaces behind him, he went rapidly along the silent and deserted street. It wound its tortuous way at first on the crest of the hill, skirting the majestic temple of Magna Mater with its elevated portico and noble steps that lost themselves in the shadows of labyrinthine colonnades.

The street itself—narrow and unpaved—was in places rendered almost impassable by the piles of constructor's materials and rubbish that encumbered it at every step—debris or future requisites of the gigantic and numberless building operations which the mad Emperor pursued with that feverish energy and maniacal restlessness that characterised his every action. Palaces here and temples there, a bridge over the Forum, a new circus, new baths, the constant pulling down of one edifice to make room for the construction of another: all this work—commenced and still unfinished—had changed the whole aspect of the great city, turning it into a wilderness of enormous beams and huge blocks of uncut marble and stone that littered its every way.

But Taurus Antinor paid no heed to the roughness and inaccessibility of the road. Unlike the rich patricians of the time he hated the drowsy indolence of progress in a litter, and after the fatigues of a nerve-racking day, the difficulties of ill-paved roads were in harmony with his present mood.

Assuring himself that old Folces and the girl Nola were close at his heels, he stepped briskly along the now precipitous incline of the hill. The rapid movement did him good. The air came to him from across the gardens of the palaces, sweetly scented by late lilies and clumps of dying roses.

Soon he had left the great circus behind him too, and now he started climbing again, for his way led him upwards on the slope of the Aventine Hill. The silence here seemed more absolute than among the dwellings of the rich, for there, at times, a night watchman would emerge from a cross-road and give challenge to the belated passer-by, whilst a certain bustle of suspended animation always reigned around the palace of the Emperor even during the hours of sleep; some of his slaves and guard were always kept awake, ready to minister to any fancy or caprice that might seize the mad Caesar in the middle of the night.

But here where there were no palaces to guard, no insane ruler to protect, no one came to question the purpose of the benighted wanderers, nor did sudden outbursts of laughter or good cheer pierce the mud walls of the humble abodes that lay scattered on the slope of the hill.

The waning moon had hidden her light behind a heavy bank of clouds, a dull greyness pervaded the whole landscape, causing it to look weird and forlorn in the gloom. The few trees dotted about here and there looked starved and gaunt on the barren hill-side, with great skeleton-like arms that waved mournfully in the breeze; the ground uneven and parched—after the summer's drought—rose and sank in fantastic mounds and shapes like tiny fortresses of ghosts or ghouls; the street itself soon became merged in the general surroundings, only a tiny footway, scarcely discernible in the gathering darkness, wound upwards to the summit of the hill.

From time to time a solid block of what appeared only as impenetrable blackness loomed up from out the shadows, with all the grandeur of exaggerated size which the darkness of the night so generously lends. Soon it would reveal itself as a small mud-covered box, with four bare walls and a narrow doorway facing toward the south. Herein lived and suffered a family of human beings—freedmen and women without the stigma of slavery, but with all the misery of destitution and often of complete starvation.

Here and there the little house would be surrounded by a vestibule—a mere projection from the roof supported on a few rough beams—but never a garden, scarcely a tree to cast a cooling shade on hot summer afternoons, or clump of lilies or mimosa to sweeten the air that came dank and fetid from over the marshes beyond the hill.

Not a sound now disturbed the stillness of the night save when a bat fluttered overhead, or when furtive footsteps—on unavowable errand bent—glided softly off the beaten track and quickly died away among the shadows.

The praefect walked on, heedless of his surroundings. The mood that had been on him ever since he left Caius Nepos' house still caused his mind to wander restlessly in the illimitable regions of perplexity and doubt. He scarcely looked where he was going, for he kept his eyes fixed upon the starlit canopy above him and upon the crest of the hill which lost itself in the darkness overhead.

Suddenly, out of the gloom, two pairs of hands emerged, and without warning fastened themselves on the praefect's throat: thin, claw-like hands they were, and above them gaunt arms, mere bones covered with wrinkled flesh that proclaimed starvation and misery.

The old slave from the rear uttered a cry of terror; Nola clung to him paralysed with fear. The slopes of the Aventine were noted for the gangs of malefactors that infested them, and defying the power of the aediles, rendered them unsafe for wayfarers even in the light of day.

Taurus Antinor, instantly brought back from the land of dreams, had no great difficulty in freeing himself from the claw-like grasp. With a quick gesture of his own powerful hands, he had in a moment succeeded in dragging the gaunt fingers from off his throat, and, holding the thin wrists with a firm grip, he gave them a sudden sharp twist, which elicited two cries of pain and brought two pairs of knees in hard contact with the ground.

It had all occurred in the space of a few seconds, and now a bundle of soiled rags seemed to be lying huddled up under the praefect's foot, and he looked like some powerful desert beast that has placed a massive paw on a pair of puny rats.

The thin arms wriggled like worms in his mighty grasp.

"Pity, my lord! Pity!" came in hoarse murmurs from the bundle of rags under his foot.

"Pity? Of that have I in plenty," he replied gruffly. "But methinks 'twas not pity ye sought by trying to strangle me."

"Pity, my lord, my children are starving...."

"Pity, my lord, I have not tasted food to-day——"

"Pity, my lord!" retorted the praefect with a grim laugh, and mimicking the wretched man's words, "I would have murdered you had I had the power."

Then he relaxed his grip, and with his foot pushed the bundle of dirt further away from him. He groped in his wallet and drew out some silver coins. These he threw, one by one, into the midst of the shapeless rags, and he stooped forward, striving in the darkness to see something of the faces that were wilfully hidden from him, something of the mouths that had uttered the pitiable groans.

Vaguely he discerned the outline of cadaverous cheeks, of sunken temples, of furtive eyes veiled by thin lids; he saw the glances half of fear, wholly of doubt, that were thrown on the silver coins, heard the muttered oaths, the incipient quarrel over the distribution of the unexpected hoard.

Then did the strange perplexities which had assailed him throughout this night find expression in bitter words. He threw down a few more coins and said slowly:

"These are for pity's sake, and in the name of One Whom mayhap ye will know one day. He died that ye should live! Bear that in mind and ponder on it. Mayhap ye will find the solution to that riddle. That such as you should live in eternity, therefore did He die.... When ye have understood this and can explain the value of your lives as compared with His, come and tell it to the praefect of Rome and he will shower on you wealth beyond your dreams."

Then, without waiting to hear protestations, or heeding the ironical laughter that came from the bewildered night-prowlers, he turned on his heels and resumed his interrupted walk along the slope of the hill.

The footpath—scarce more than a beaten track—soon disappeared altogether. Presently Taurus Antinor paused and called to Folces to come up to him.

"Methinks we must be near the house," he said.

"Aye, gracious lord," replied the man, "just on thy right, some two hundred steps from here. The way is very dark, wilt permit me to walk by thy side?"

"Walk by my side an thou wilt. Thou canst direct me more easily; but as to the darkness I can see through it well."

"But my gracious lord did not see those evil malefactors that set upon him."

"No, Folces, I was dreaming as I walked. They came upon me unawares."

"And my gracious lord allowed them to go. They were notorious miscreants."

"They were the embodiment of a strange riddle, good Folces. They helped to puzzle me—and Heaven knows that I was puzzled enough ere I saw those miserable wretches. Mayhap some day I'll understand the riddle which their abject persons did represent. But now tell me, is this the house?"

The wanderers had struck to their right and walked on some two hundred paces. Now they paused beside one of those square mud-walled boxes, of which they could only discern the narrow door made of unplaned wood, and through the chinks of which a faint light glimmered weirdly. Two or three steps fashioned in the earth itself led down toward the threshold. Taurus Antinor descended these and knocked boldly on the door.

It was opened from within, and under the rough lintel there appeared the figure of a man of short stature, clad in a long grey tunic. His head, which he held forward in an attempt to peer through the darkness, looked almost unnaturally large, owing to the mass of loose greyish hair that fell away from his forehead like a mane, and the long beard that straggled down upon his breast.

"May we enter, friend?" asked Taurus Antinor.

At the sound of the voice the man drew aside, and through the narrow doorway was now revealed the interior of the house—a straight, square room, with a few wooden seats disposed about, and at the top end an oblong table covered with a snow-white cloth. An aperture in the wall appeared to lead to an inner chamber, which must indeed have been of diminutive size, for the central room seemed to occupy almost the whole of the interior of the house. Suspended by an iron chain from the ceiling above there hung a small lamp in which flickered a tiny flame fed by some sweet-smelling oil. It threw but little light around and left deep and curious shadows in the angles of the room.

From out these, as the praefect entered, there emerged the figure of an old woman, with smooth grey hair half-hidden beneath a kerchief of strange oriental design, and straight dark robe, foreign in cut and appearance to those usually seen in the streets of Rome.

The massive figure of Taurus Antinor seemed almost to fill the entire room, but he stood to one side now disclosing the old slave and the girl Nola.

"This," he said, addressing the woman, "is the child of whom I spoke to thee. She is friendless and motherless, but she is free, and I have brought her so that thou mayest teach her all thou knowest."

In the meanwhile the man with the leonine head had closed the door on the little party. He came forward eagerly, and raising himself on the tips of his toes, he put his hands on Antinor's shoulder, and with gentle pressure forced him to stoop. Then he kissed him on either cheek.

"Greeting to thee, dear friend," he said cheerily. "Thou hast done well to bring the girl. My mother and I will take great care of her."

"And ye will teach her your religion," said Taurus Antinor earnestly; "because of that did I bring her. She is young and will be teachable. She'll understand as a child will, that which hardened hearts are unable to grasp."

"Nay, friend," said the man simply, "there is not a great deal to teach, nor a great deal to understand. Love and faith, that is sufficient ... and, as our dear Lord did tell us, love is the greatest of all."

For the moment the praefect made no reply. The man had helped him to cast off his heavy mantle, and he stood now in all the splendour of barbaric pomp, a strangely incongruous figure in this tiny bare room, both to his surroundings and to his gentle host and hostess with their humble garb and simple, timid ways.

She—the woman—had drawn Nola with kindly gesture to her. The child was crying softly, for she was half-frightened at the strangeness of the place, and also she was tired after her long walk up and down the rough road. The woman, with subtle feminine comprehension, soon realised this, and also understood that the girl, reared in slavery, felt awed in the presence of so great a lord. So, putting a kindly arm round the slender form of the child, she led her gently out of the main room to the tiny cubicle beyond, where she could rest.

The three men were now left alone. Folces, squatting in a dark corner, kept his eyes fixed upon his master. He took no interest in what went on around him; he cared nothing about the strangeness of the surroundings, his master was lord and praefect of Rome, and could visit those whom he list. But Folces, like a true watch-dog, remained on the alert, silent and ever suspicious, keeping an eye on his master, remaining obedient and silent until told to speak.

The man, in the meanwhile, had asked the praefect to sit.

"Wilt rest a while, O friend," he said, "whilst I make ready for supper."

But Antinor would not sit down. In his habitual way he leaned against the wall, watching with those earnest eyes of his every movement of his host, as the latter first passed a loving hand over the white cloth on the table and then smoothed out every crease on its satiny surface. Anon he disappeared for a moment in the dark angle of the room, where a rough wooden chest stood propped against the wall. From this he now took out a loaf of fine wheaten bread, also a jar containing wine and some plain earthenware goblets. These things he set upon the table, his big leonine head bent to his simple task, his small grey eyes wandering across from time to time in kindliness on his friend.

Intuition—born of intense sympathy—had already told him that something was amiss with the praefect. He knew every line of the rugged face which many deemed so fierce and callous, but in which he had so often seen the light of an all-embracing charity.

When Taurus Antinor used to visit his friend in the olden days he was wont to shed from him that mantle of rebellious pride with which, during the exercise of his duties in Rome, he always hid his real personality. People said of the praefect that he was sullen and morose, merciless in his judgments in the tribunal where he presided. They said that he was ambitious and intriguing, and that he had gained and held the Caesar's ear for purposes of his own advancement. But the man and woman who had come recently on the Aventine and who called the praefect of Rome their friend, knew that his rough exterior hid a heart brimming over with pity, and that his aloofness came from a mind absorbed in thoughts of God.

But to-day the praefect seemed different. The look of joy with which he had greeted his friends had quickly faded away, leaving the face darkened with some hidden care; and as the man watched him across the narrow room, he seemed to see in the strong face something that almost looked like remorse.

Therefore, whilst accomplishing the task which he loved so well, he quietly watched his friend and resolved that he should not recross the threshold of this house without having unburdened his soul.

"Friend," he now said abruptly, "I have a curious whim to-night. Wilt indulge it?"

"If it be in my power," responded the praefect, rousing himself from his reverie.

A look of deep affection softened for the moment the hard look on his face, as his deep-set eyes rested on the quaint figure of the man with the leonine head.

"What is thy whim?" he asked.

"Over in Judaea we were so little alone," rejoined the latter, "and then we had such earnest things to talk about, that I have never heard from thy lips how it came to pass that thou didst hear our dear Lord preach in Galilee."

"Yet I did tell thee," said the praefect, "when first thou didst ask my confidence."

"Then 'tis my whim to hear thee tell me again," rejoined the man simply. "All that pertains to our dear Lord doth lie so close to my heart, and 'tis long now since I have spoken of Him to one who hath seen and heard Him. 'Tis great joy to me to hear of every impression which He made on the heart of those whose life was gladdened by a sight of His face."

"Whose life was gladdened by a sight of His face!" repeated Taurus Antinor gently. "Aye! there dost speak the truth, O friend! for my life too was gladdened by a sight of His face. I was travelling through Judaea, on my way to Syria, and the Caesar had desired me to visit the proconsul. Thus did I halt in Jerusalem one day. Having done the Emperor's bidding, I had time to kill ere I started further on my journey. So I bethought me that I would like to see something of the Man from Nazareth of Whom I had heard speak."

"And God prompted thee, friend, to go and hear Him."

"God, sayest thou?" rejoined the praefect slowly. "Aye! mayhap thou'rt right. 'Twas God then that sent me. Disguised in humble raiment I went forth one day and made my way to the desert lands of Galilee."

"And didst see Him there?"

"I saw Him sitting on a low mound of earth with the canopy of blue above His head, and all around Him a multitude that hung entranced upon His lips. He spoke to them of the Kingdom of Heaven—a Kingdom of whose existence, alas! I had never dreamed. But His words did wring my heart, and the majesty of His presence has ever since been before mine eyes. To-day it all came back to me, the gentle face, the perfect mouth framing exquisite words. Above Him a curtain of azure, and far away, the illimitable stretch of horizon merging into the water beyond. The very air was still and listening to His words; from under jagged boulders tiny lizards peeped out, and on the branches of starved, gaunt trees the birds had stopped to rest. Then it was that panther-like, sleek sleuth-hounds hovered round Him, trying to entangle Him in His talk. They made their way close to Him, and with honeyed words and deft insinuations, spoke of allegiance and of the tribute due to Caesar. I stood not far off and could hear what they said. My very heart seemed to still its beating, for did not their questions embrace the whole riddle of mine own life. God and Caesar! I, the servant of Caesar—the recipient of rich gifts from his hands—should I forswear the Caesar and follow Jesus of Nazareth?"

"And didst hear what He answered, friend?"

"Aye! I heard it. And to-day when traitors spoke, it seemed as if the Divine Presence stood close to me amongst the shadows. Once more I saw the bleak and arid land, the skeleton arms of the trees, the blue firmament above my head, I saw the multitude of simple folk around Him and the leer in the eyes of the tempters. And above the din of drunken revelries to-night I heard again the voice that bade me then to render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's."

The other sighed, a sigh of glad content.

"I thank thee, friend, for telling me this. 'Tis a joy to hear thee speak of Him. It is so long since we talked of this matter. And—tell me yet again—thou wast in Jerusalem when He died?"

"I stood on Golgotha," said the praefect slowly, "on that day before the Jewish Passover, seven years ago. Once again wrapped in a dark cloak, one among a multitude, I gazed with eyes that I felt could never look on anything else again. I saw the patient face smeared with blood, the God-like head crowned with thorns, the eyes—still brimming over with love—slowly closing in agony. Overhead the heavens murmured, vivid flashes of lightning rent the canopy of the sky, and men around me mocked and jeered, whilst the Divine Soul fled upwards back to God. At that moment, O friend! I seemed to lose mine own identity. I—even I alone—became the whole multitude. I was no longer just mine own self, but I was all of us who looked, who heard and saw and did not yet understand.... A multitude was looking through my eyes ... a multitude heard through mine ears ... I was the crowd of poor, of helpless slaves, and I was the whole of the patriciate of Rome. I was barbarian and Italian, I was British and Roman, all in one ... and my voice was the voice of the entire world, as suddenly I cried out to Him: 'Do not die now and leave us desolate!'"

His harsh voice broke down in a great sob that came from out the depths of an overburdened heart. He took a few steps forward and slowly dropped on his knees right against the table, his clasped hands resting on the cloth, his forehead buried in his hands.

The man had listened to him silently and patiently with, in his heart, that subtle understanding for another's sorrow, which his own mission had instilled into him. And thus understanding he went up to that end of the table where knelt the rich and mighty praefect of Rome, the friend of Caesar, all-powerful in the land, with burning head buried in his hands, and eyes from which despite his will hot tears gushed up that would not be suppressed.

He placed a kindly hand on the bowed shoulder of his friend.

"Wilt tell me what troubles thee?" he said gently.

Taurus Antinor passed his hand across his forehead as if to chase away the brain-searing thoughts. He raised himself from his knees and gratefully pressed the hand that had recalled him to himself.

"Nay, friend," he said, "I'll not do that. Thy friendship is too precious a guerdon that I should jeopardise it by showing thee the blackness of my soul."

"Dost talk at random," said the other firmly; "my friendship doth not come and go like fleeting sunshine on a winter's day. I gave it thee on that self-same unforgettable day when I saw thee standing alone upon the hill after the crowd had departed and we who loved Him were lifting Him down from His Cross."

"Thou didst take pity then on my loneliness."

"I saw in thee one who had faith," said the man simply. "I grasped thy hand in friendship then, not knowing who thou wast. When I knew, then did I follow thee to Rome, for I needed thy help. My Master sent me here. I do His work that He did enjoin on all His disciples. Thy protection and friendship, O mighty praefect of Rome, hath been an infinite help to me. Thy kindness and charity hath saved from want the many humble followers of Christ who have been forced to give up all for His sake. Therefore whatever doth burden thy soul now, I pray thee share it with me, so that I might bear it with thee and mayhap ease thy load."

"May God bless thee for these words."

"And thy burden, friend?"

"Ask not to share it—'tis one of treachery."

"Of treachery?... Whose treachery?..."

"Mine."

"Thine?... I'll not believe it.... Thou a traitor ... against Caesar?"

"No."

"Against whom, then?"

"Against Him Whose death I witnessed seven years ago."

"Then I'll not believe it. And 'tis sacrilege thus to jest."

"Jest?" said Taurus Antinor, with a laugh that rang unnatural and hoarse. "Jest! when for a day and a night my soul hath been on the rack and mocking demons have jeered at my torments? Jest! When——?"

He broke off abruptly and looked down with an earnest gaze on the upturned face of his friend.

"If thou wouldst tell me more it would ease thy heart," said the man simply.

For a moment or two the praefect was silent. His hand rested on his friend's shoulder, and his eyes, with their deep furrow between the brows, were fixed on the kind face that invited confidence.

"For seven years," he said abruptly, but speaking very slowly, "whilst I served the Caesar, every one of my waking thoughts and many of my dreams tended to that day in Jerusalem and the three hours' agony which I had witnessed on Golgotha. Yesterday did a woman cross my path—and now I have thoughts only of her."

"Who is this woman?" asked the other.

"She is of the House of Caesar, pure and chaste as the lilies in my garden at Ostia, proud and unapproachable as the stars ... her heart is a closed book wherein man hath never read ... but since her eyes have mocked me with their smile, my heart is enchained to her service and I see naught but her loveliness."

"Look upwards, man; a glowing Cross will blind thine eyes to all save to itself."

"Have I not looked," said the praefect, with a sharp, quick sigh, "until mine eyes have ached with trying to see that which once was so clear. But now, between me and that sacred memory that methought had been branded into my very soul, there always rises the vision of a girl, tall and slender as the lilies, clad all in white as they. She stands between me and memory, and mine eyes grow weary and dim trying to see beyond that vision, recalling to my mind the picture of that Cross, the thorn-crowned head, the pierced hands and feet. She stands between me and memory, and with laughing eyes defies me not to see her, and I look and look, and the vision of the Cross grows more faint, and she stands there serene and white and silent, with blue eyes smiling on my treachery and scornful voice upraised, denying God and Christ. She is of the House of Caesar and she is ignorant, and she laughs at my belief and scorns all thought of God, and I do find it in my treacherous heart to pity her and pitying her to kneel at her feet. And all the while a thousand demons shout mockingly unto mine ear: 'Thou art a traitor—a traitor to thy God—for were she to beckon, 'tis to her that thou wouldst go, forgetting all—thine immortal soul, thy crucified God...?' And thus do devils mock me, and my soul grows darker and darker and greater and greater grows the mystery, for my heart, broken, miserably doubting and weak, cries out not with resignation, not in patience, but in a spirit of angry rebellion: 'God, my God! why hast thou forsaken me?'"

He raised his arms up to heaven as if in a last desperate appeal; but now he did not kneel—he stood beside his friend shamed and yet proud, and the look in his eyes was that of one who sees a vision that is exquisitely beautiful and dear. The other saw the look, and with the kind indulgence taught by a sublime teacher, he found it in his heart to pity and to love. Once more he placed his thin, wrinkled hand on the praefect's shoulder, and his small eyes beamed with perfect faith and trust as he said gently:

"Do not try and probe any mystery just now, O friend, the day has been long and thou art weary and sad. Come and sit beside me here at table; my mother will join us and the girl Nola too, and the man who is thy slave, if thou wilt so allow it. Together we'll think of that day in Judaea seven years ago, and we'll break bread and drink wine, and—without trying to understand anything—we'll do it all together in memory of Him!"

For a moment Taurus Antinor was silent. In the strong face every line told of the great storm within the innermost heart.

And slowly the man beside him repeated the most exquisite words that have ever been spoken to a troubled soul.

"Come unto Me all ye that travail and are heavy laden and I will refresh you."

Taurus Antinor's head fell upon his breast. He closed his eyes, for not even his friend should see that they were wet with tears. But even whilst the heartstrings were torn by the ruthless hand of passion, it seemed as if—when the man had finished speaking—the magic words had already left upon the soul their impress of infinite peace.

And without another word, he went slowly forward and took his place at the table.

At a call from the man, the old woman entered softly, her woollen shoes making no sound upon the wooden floor. She had Nola by the hand who seemed comforted and rested. The praefect beckoned to Folces, who silently obeyed and came forward to the table.

Then the five of them sat down and quietly partook of supper, sitting side by side, the disciple from Judaea and his mother, the two slaves and the praefect of Rome. The Christians sat beside the pagans, the mighty lord beside his slave, and they broke bread and drank wine, all in memory of Him.



CHAPTER XII

"Hell from beneath is moved for thee to meet thee at thy coming."—ISAIAH XIV. 9.

I pray you follow me now to an inner chamber in the palace of the mighty Caesar. A square room with walls of marble inlaid with precious stones, and with hangings of crimson silk to exclude the searching light of day. The air heavy with the fumes of burning incense that wound in spiral curves upwards to the domed roof, and escaped—ethereal and elusive—through the tiny openings practised therein, the seats of gilded wood with downy cushions that seemed to melt at a touch, and in a recess a monumental bed of solid and priceless citrus, carved by the hand of a Greek sculptor, with curtains of purple silk wrought all over with stars.

In vases of delicate murra huge bunches of blood-red roses hung their drooping heads, and beneath the feet carpets of heavy silk hid the exquisite beauty of mosaics of lapis-lazuli and chrysoprase.

And in the midst of all this stately gorgeousness a creature—hardly human—raging round like a thwarted beast.

Caius Julius Caesar Caligula was in one of his maddest moods; his hollow eyes glowed with unnatural fire, his scanty, light-coloured hair stood up around his head like the bristly mane of a hyena. Up and down the room he stamped with heavy feet; his robe, weighted with precious stones, striking out around him as he trod the smooth surface of silken carpets or the slippery mosaic of the floor. His thin arms and ankles were covered with numerous bracelets and on his feet were shoes studded with diamonds.

At first sight it would indeed have been difficult to say if it was a man or a woman who was thus pacing this magnificent cage, with wild gestures of the arms and hoarse cries that seemed to proceed from no human throat. The face, white and puffy, might have been of either sex, and the flowing garment and wealth of jewellery suggested a woman rather than a man.

The Caesar was crazy with rage, and all round the room slaves and attendants cowered, terrified. In his hand he had a short whip with five thongs of solid, knotted leather, at the end of each of which was an iron hook. From these five hooks a few drops of blood were trickling down his white silk tunic. At intervals, at the slightest noise or sound from the cowering slaves, he struck out savagely with the whip, and the thongs with their sharp hooks would descend whizzing on some naked shoulder and tear out a piece of flesh and start the flow of a fresh stream of blood.

Then the madman would break out into a diabolical fit of laughter, and strike out with his whip again and again all around him, wildly and indiscriminately, until his garments and his face were spattered all over with blood, and to right and left of him shrieking figures fell fainting to the ground.

The Caesar was crazy with rage, and he who had thus angered him reclined on a couch, out of the reach of the shrieking demon, and his thin lips were curled in a smile of satisfaction. It was Caius Nepos who was here that he might betray those of his accomplices who had swerved from their allegiance to himself, and behind him—well hidden by the draperies of the couch—cowered Hun Rhavas, the dusky slave of the treasury, he who yesterday had appeared before the tribunal of the praefect of Rome for conspiracy to defraud the State in connection with the sale of the slave-girl Nola.

The law in such matters was severe. It demanded that a delinquent against the State—if he be a slave—shall lose his right hand, or his tongue, or his ears; that he should moreover forfeit his entire hard-saved belongings to the treasury and lose all chance of ever obtaining his freedom. But the praefect had been lenient, and though he could not dismiss the offender, he mitigated his punishment.

Hun Rhavas was publicly scourged and branded, but he lost neither ears, tongue, nor hand, nor was he deprived of the peculium with which ultimately he hoped to purchase his own freedom and that of his children. Yet such was the African's nature, such the result of the training which slavery in the imperial entourage had drilled into him, that Hun Rhavas forgot the clemency and only remembered the punishment.

With bleeding back and mind saturated with hate, he sought audience of the Emperor, and obtained it half an hour after Caius Nepos, the praetorian praefect, had himself been introduced in the presence of Caligula. The story which Hun Rhavas—the paid spy—brought to the ear of Caesar, was but a confirmation of what Caius Nepos had to tell.

A conspiracy was on foot to murder the father of the armies, the greatest and best of Caesars. The flower of the Roman patriciate was wallowing in this monstrous treachery. Hortensius Martius was in it up to the neck, so was Marcus Ancyrus, the elder, and Philippus Decius and Philario, of the imperial household.

Hun Rhavas had seen them consorting together and whispering among themselves the day of the sale of the late censor's slaves. He was able to state positively that the praefect of Rome was at one with the band of traitors.

This last fact had brought the frenzied Caesar to the verge of death. He nearly choked with the violence of his rage. He had believed in the honesty of Taurus Antinor: had even looked on him as a lucky fetish. This man's treachery was more infuriating than that of a thousand others. In the madness of his wrath he would have killed Hun Rhavas with his own hands had not the latter succeeded in hiding himself out of the raving maniac's reach.

Had he dared, Caligula would have tortured Caius Nepos until he too gave him evidence against Taurus Antinor; but on this point the praetorian praefect was guarded. He had not yet made up his mind whether friendship or enmity with the praefect of Rome would be to his own advantage. All that he wanted at this moment was to be rid of those who had opposed him last night for the sake of their own schemes. Therefore in measured words he only spoke of the whisperings which he had overheard in the vestibule of his own house, between a certain band headed by Hortensius Martius and Marcus Ancyrus, the elder.

"During the Circensian games, O Caesar," he explained, "they hope to raise a tumult amongst the people ... and whilst the attention of thy faithful guard is drawn away from thy sacred person, one of the miscreants is to plunge a dagger in thy throat——"

Here he was forced to silence by a cry like that of a slaughtered ox, which shook the marble pillars of the hall. Caligula had thrown himself upon the bed and was writhing there like a mad beast, biting the coverlets, beating with clenched fists against the woodwork, while foam dripped from the corners of his mouth.

"Tell me more—tell me——" he bellowed at last, during an interval between two of these maniacal spasms.

The slaves all round the room were trembling with fear; Hun Rhavas, huddled under the couch, was shaking like a leaf.

But Caius Nepos, calm and dignified, waited in silence until the paroxysm had abated, then he quietly went on with his tale.

"There is but little else to tell, O Caesar. I came to warn thee ... for 'tis easy for thee to wear a shirt of mail to cover thy throat and breast against the dagger of assassins. But the conspirators hushed their talk in my presence. I tried to hear more and played the spy in thy service, but my heart was burdened with loyalty for thee, so I came thus early to put thee on thy guard."

The Caesar had once more resumed his restless walk up and down the room. He was biting his fists, trying to restrain himself from striking the noble informer as brutally as he did his slaves, for he loathed the bearer of evil tidings almost as much as the secret traitors. He suffered from an overwhelming fury of hatred and from an unquenchable thirst for blood.

But three years ago the people and patricians had acclaimed him with shouts and rejoicings; they had feasted in his honour, proclaimed his godhead and his power, and now they were plotting to murder him! The madman threw out his arms in a passionate longing for revenge.

"They would kill me," he cried hoarsely, "kill me!" ... And a demoniacal laugh broke from his swollen throat. He tore the garments from off his chest and buried his nails in his own flesh, whilst roar upon roar of his mad laughter woke the echoes of his stately palace.

Then suddenly the paroxysm died completely down. An unnatural calm succeeded the violent outbursts of rage. Caligula, with a corner of his silken robe, wiped the perspiration from his streaming face. He threw himself on a seat, and resting both elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, he stared contemplatively before him.

Of a truth this calm seemed even more awe-inspiring than the snarls and cries of a while ago. Caius Nepos' sallow cheeks became still more ashen in colour as he cast a quick glance round the room, feeling perhaps for the first time to-day how completely he was at the mercy of a raving lunatic if the latter should turn against him. But the Caesar sat there for some time, ruminating, with great hollow eyes fixed on one spot on the ground and gusts of stertorous breathing escaped from his chest.

After a while he spoke:

"Thou didst not tell me yet, O kind friend!" he said dully, "what the traitors mean to do once they have murdered their Caesar. Whom would they set up as his successor? They cannot all be emperors of Rome. For whose sake then do they intend to commit this damnable treachery?"

"Nay, great Caesar!" replied Caius Nepos drily, "methinks they all have a desire to become Emperor of Rome, and this being impossible, there was a vast deal of wrangling in my vestibule last night. I caught the purport of several words, and——"

"And of several names?" asked Caligula in the same even voice.

"I heard one name spoken in particular, O Caesar."

"Tell me."

"That of the Augusta, thy kinswoman," said Caius Nepos, after a slight moment of hesitation.

"Of Dea Flavia?"

"Even hers."

"But she is a woman, and cannot lead an army," said the Emperor, whose voice sounded hollow and distant, as if it came from out the depths of a grave.

"Nor was that suggested, O Caesar."

"What then?"

"The conspirators, methinks, have agreed amongst themselves that the future husband of Dea Flavia Augusta—whoever he might be—should be the successor of the murdered Caesar."

"Whoever he might be," repeated the Emperor, mechanically echoing the other's words.

"Aye! The Augusta, I understand, favours no one as yet."

"She hath made no choice ... to thy knowledge?"

"No, no ... her choice was to be made after ... afterwards."

"Her choice to be made by her—or by them?"

"That I know not, great Caesar. The Augusta, I feel sure, was not a consenting party to the treachery. The traitors would use her for their own ends."

After this there was silence for a while. Caligula still sat staring with wide-open eyes before him, whilst the slaves held their breath, staring fascinated on that terrible whip, lying momentarily forgotten.

Caius Nepos, pale as a withered maple leaf, was from time to time moistening his dry lips with his tongue.

The minutes sped on. Who shall say what fiendish thoughts were coursing through the mad tyrant's brain?

At last he rose, and resumed his walk up and down the room. But no longer did he rave now, no longer did he strike about him like one bereft of reason. His face, though flushed and streaming with perspiration, was set and calm; his footsteps across the carpets were measured and firm. He had cast his whip aside and his hands were clenched behind his back, and on his brow there had appeared a deep furrow, the sign of concentrated thought.

Then at last he paused in his walk and stood in the centre of the room facing the informer.

"I thank thee, good Caius Nepos," he said, "for thy loyalty to me. To-morrow, mayhap, I shall think of a reward in accordance with thy service, but for the nonce I would wish to be alone. I have much to think of. The present crisis demands of me those qualities of courage and of statesmanship for which the citizens of Rome already know me. To-morrow I go to the opening of the games in the Circus. Mayhap there will be a tumult amongst the people, and mayhap a damnable traitor will make an attempt against the sacred life of one who is god and Caesar and emperor all in one. If all this occurs, and I find that thou didst not lie, then will I give thee such reward as even thou dost not at present dream of. But if between now and to-morrow I find that thou didst lie, that thou didst try to gain my favour and didst rouse my wrath only for the gaining of thine own ends, that thou didst slander Roman patricians with a view to removing thine own personal enemies, then will I devise for thee such punishment that on thy knees wilt beg of death to release thee from torment. And thou didst know, O Caius Nepos, that in the inventing of torture thy Caesar has the genius of a god."

His voice had become perfectly steady and natural in its tones; all his restless, jerky movements had ceased. Outwardly he seemed to be completely master of himself. But of a truth the aspect of the madman now was more terrible than before. His sallow cheeks were the colour of lead, his pale eyes had narrowed down till they were mere slits through which gleams of deadly hate shot mercilessly on the informer.

Caius Nepos had great difficulty in keeping up an appearance of dignity. It was obviously in his interest to show neither confusion nor fear just now. Nothing but calm demeanour and a proud show of loyalty would ensure his personal safety at this moment. The praetorian praefect knew enough of the imperial despot to appreciate the danger of this outwardly quiet mood, which hid the utter callousness of demoniacal cruelty.

Therefore, in response to the horrible threat, Caius Nepos merely bent his head as if in humble submission to the will of one who was as a god. He felt his teeth chattering against one another, his limbs trembling, his blood frozen within him, and with it all he had the additional horror of knowing that the brutish tyrant was looking him through and through, that he saw the fear in him and was gloating on it with delight.

It was with a feeling of inexpressible relief that he at last understood that he was being dismissed. Steadying his limbs as best he could, he rose from his couch and made obeisance before the Caesar. Then almost mechanically and like one in a dream, but holding himself erect and composed, he walked backwards out of the room.

The silken curtains weighted with gold fell together with a swishing sound behind him. And even as they did so a loud and prolonged roar of laughter, like that of a hundred demons let loose, echoed throughout the length and breadth of marble halls. Caius Nepos took to his heels and fled like one possessed, with hands pressed to his ears, trying to shut out the awful sounds that pursued him all down the corridors: the shrieks of pain, the whizzing of whipcord through the air, and, rising above all these, that awful laugh which must have found its origin in hell.



CHAPTER XIII

"Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?"—ST. JOHN I. 46.

Dea Flavia was standing beside a tall stool, on the top of which—on a level with her hands—was a shapeless mass of clay. Her fingers buried themselves in the soft substance or ran along the surface, as the exigencies of her task demanded.

Now and then she paused in her work, drew back a step or two from the stool, and with head bent on one side surveyed her work with an anxious frown.

Some few paces from her, at the further end of the room, a young girl sat on an elevated platform, with shoulders bare and head straight and rigid, the model for the proposed statue. Dea Flavia, in a simple garment of soft white stuff falling straight from her shoulders, looked peculiarly young and girlish at this moment, when she was free from all the pomp and paraphernalia of attendants that usually surrounded her wherever she went.

The room in which she indulged her artistic fancy was large and bare, with stuccoed walls on which she herself had thrown quaint and fantastic pictures of goddesses and of beasts, and groups of charioteers and gladiators, drawn with a skilful hand. The room derived its light solely from above, where, through a wide opening in the ceiling, came a peep of cloud-covered sky. There was little or no furniture about, and the floor of iridescent mosaic was innocent of carpet. Only in the corners against the wall stood tall pots of earthenware filled with flowers, with a profusion of late summer lilies and roses and with great branches of leaves on which the coming autumn had already planted its first kiss that turns green to gold.

"Hold thy head up, girl, a little higher," said Dea Flavia impatiently; "thou sittest there like a hideous misshapen bunch of nothing-at-all. Dost think I've paid a high price for thee that thou shouldst go to sleep all day upon that trestle?"

And the girl, roused from semi-somnolence, would pull herself together with a little jerk, would straighten her shoulders and lift her chin, whilst a quickly smothered sigh of weariness would escape her lips.

The air was heavy both within and without, with the presage of a coming storm. It had been terribly hot the last few days. The weather-wise—for there were many such at this time in Rome—had prophesied that Jupiter would send his thunders roaring before very long, and the feeling of thunder in the air caused the model to feel very sleepy, and on the forehead of Dea Flavia beads of perspiration would appear at the roots of tiny fair curls.

She was working with a will but with strange, fretful movements, like one whose mind seems absent from the present task. Short sighs of impatience escaped her parted lips at intervals and a frown appeared and disappeared fitfully between her brows.

"Chin up, girl ... shoulders straight!" came in curt admonitions once or twice to the drowsy model.

Whereupon from the furthest corner of the room Licinia would emerge, rod in hand, to emphasise the necessity of keeping awake when a beloved mistress so desired it.

"Let her be, Licinia," said Dea Flavia with angry impatience when for the fifth time now the model fell in a huddled heap, with nose almost touching her knees, and heavy lids falling over sleepy eyes. "It's no use ... there is something in the air to-day. I cannot work.... Phew!... methinks I feel the approach of thunder."

She threw down her modelling tools with a fretful gesture and then nervily began to destroy her morning's work, patting the clay aimlessly here and there until once more it became a shapeless mass.

"That lazy baggage hath spoilt thy pleasure," said Licinia gruffly; "but I'll teach her——"

"No, no, good Licinia!" interposed the young girl with a weary smile. "Teach her nothing to-day.... The air is too heavy for serious lessons. Send her away and bring me water for my hands."

Then as Licinia—muttering various dark threats—drove the frightened girl before her, Dea Flavia breathed a sigh of relief. Her hands were covered with clay, so she stood quite still waiting for the reappearance of Licinia with the water; and all the while the frown on her face grew darker and the look of trouble in her eyes more pronounced.

Soon the old woman returned with a basin full of water in her hands and a white cloth over her arm. With her wonted loving care she washed Dea's hands between her own and dried them on the towel. Dea allowed her to perform this kindly office for her, standing quite still and gazing absently out into vacancy.

"What can I do now for thee, my precious?" asked Licinia anxiously.

"Nothing, Licinia, nothing," replied Dea with a sigh. "Just leave me in peace.... I have a desire for solitude and silence."

It was the old woman's turn to sigh now, for she did not like this unwonted mood of her beloved. Dea Flavia, when in the privacy of her own house, was always gay and cheerful as a bird, prattling of all sorts of things, telling amusing anecdotes to her old nurse and playing light-heartedly with her young slaves, whenever she was not occupied with her artistic work. This frown upon the smooth, white brow was very unusual, and the fretful, impatient gestures were as unwonted as was that dreamy, absent gaze which spoke of anxious, troubled thoughts.

Dea Flavia herself could not understand her own mood. She could not have confided in the faithful old woman, even had she been so minded, for truly she would not have known what to confide.

Her thoughts worried her. They were so insistent, dwelling obstinately on one moment which had flitted by yesterday—the moment when she stood facing the praefect of Rome, and looking into his deep, dark eyes, which then and there had reminded her of a stormy sea suddenly lulled to rest. It seemed as if nothing now or ever hereafter would chase from her mind the memory of his look and of his rugged voice, softened to infinite gentleness as he said: "I told thee that He died upon the Cross."

She could hear that voice now, even as at this moment from afar a muffled sound of thunder went echoing over the hills, and, strive as she might, wherever she looked her eyes were haunted by the vision which he had conjured up of a man with arms outstretched upon a cross, whose might was yet greater than that of Rome.

At the time she had been greatly angered. The praefect had spoken traitorous words, and she had hated him—she hated him still—for that allegiance which he seemed to have given to another. Then, with a quick, elusive trick, memory showed her the massive shoulders bent humbly at her feet, tying the strings of her shoe—a simple homage due to the daughter of Caesar—and the sharp pang of wrath once more shot through her heart with the remembrance that he had not deigned to press his lips against her foot.

The man's face and figure haunted her for it was the face and the figure of one whom she had learnt to hate. Yes! She hated him for his treason to Caesar, for his allegiance to that rebel from Galilee; she hated every word which he had spoken in that arrogant, masterful way of his, when he smiled upon her threats and calmly spoke of immortality. She hated the voice which perpetually rang in her ear, the voice with which he spoke of his own soul being in the keeping of God—of One Whose Empire is mightier than that of Rome.

Yet vaguely still—for she was but a girl—the woman in her was stirred; the power and desire which exists in every woman's soul to conquer that which seems furthest from her reach. She hated the man, and yet within her inmost heart there had sprung the desire to curb and possess his; to disturb the perfect serenity that dwelt in his deep-set eyes, to kindle in them a passion which would make of that proud spirit a mere slave to her will.

There was in her just now nothing but the pagan desire to rule, and to break a heart if need be, if she could not otherwise subdue it.

Memory had fanned her wrath. She saw him now as she had seen him yesterday, arrogantly thwarting her will, his bitter tongue lashing her with irony; and now, as yesterday, the blush of humiliation burned her cheeks, and her pride and dignity rose up in passionate revolt against the one man who had ever defied her and who had proudly proclaimed his allegiance to a man who was not the Caesar.

That allegiance belonged to Caesar and to his might alone; beyond that there was the House of Caesar, and failing that, nothing but rebellious treachery. And the troubled look grew deeper in Dea Flavia's face, and now she buried her hot cheeks in her hands, for the humiliation which she had endured yesterday from one man seemed to shame her even now.

"I'll break thy will," she murmured, whilst angry tears rose, burning, to her eyes. "I'll shame thy manhood and never rest until I see thee crawling—an abject slave—at the feet of Caesar, who shall kick thee in the face. Caesar and the House of Caesar brook no rivalry in the heart of a Roman patrician."

Her hands dropped from before her face. She threw back her head, and looked straight before her into the darkest corner of the room.

"Jesus of Nazareth, he called thee!" she said slowly and as if speaking to an invisible presence. "And he said at thy call he would give up the world, and suffer death and torture and shame for thee!... Then so be it! And I do defy thee, O man of Galilee! even I, Dea Flavia Augusta, of the imperial House of Caesar! For that man whom I hate and despise, for that man who has defied and shamed me, for that man whose heart and allegiance thou hast filched from Caesar, for him will I do thee battle ... and that heart will I conquer; and it shall be Caesar's and mine—mine—for I will break it and crush it first and then wrest it from thee!"

And even as she spoke, from far away over the hills and beyond the Campania the thunder rolled dully in response.



CHAPTER XIV

"Hast thou an arm like God? or canst thou thunder with a voice like him."—JOB XL. 9.

A few moments later Licinia came running back into the room.

"Augusta!" she exclaimed excitedly even before she had crossed the threshold. "Augusta! quick! the Caesar!"

Dea Flavia started, for she had indeed been suddenly awakened from a dream. Slowly, and with eyes still vague and thoughtful, she turned to her slave.

"The Caesar?" she repeated, whilst a puzzled frown appeared between her brows and the young blood faded from her cheeks. "The Caesar?"

"Aye," said the old woman hurriedly. "He is in the atrium even now, having just arrived, and his slaves fill the vestibule. He desires speech with thee."

"He does not often come at this hour," said Dea Flavia, whose face had become very white and set at mention of a name which indeed had the power of rousing terror in every heart just now. "Doth he seem angered?" she asked under her breath.

"No, no," said Licinia reassuringly, "how could he be angered against thee, my pet lamb? But come quickly, dear, to thy robing room; what dress wilt put on to greet the Caesar in?"

"Nay, nay," she said with a tremulous little laugh, "we'll not keep my kinsman waiting. That indeed might anger him. He has been in this room before and hath liked to watch me at my work. Let him come now, an he wills."

Licinia would have protested for she loved to deck her darling out in all the finery that, to her mind, rendered the Augusta more beautiful than a goddess, but there was no time to say anything for even now the Caesar's voice was heard at the further end of the atrium.

"Do not disturb your mistress. I'll to her myself. Nay! I'll not be announced. 'Tis an informal cousinly visit I am paying her this morning."

"He seemeth in good humour," whispered Dea Flavia, whose little hands were trembling as they made pretence once more of taking up the modelling tools. Licinia hurriedly tried to smooth down the golden hair which had become unruly during the course of the morning, but in her haste only succeeded in completely disarranging it and it fell in wavy masses down the young girl's shoulders, all but one plait which remained fixed over her brow like a wide band of gold.

Dea uttered an exclamation of horror and made a quick gesture, trying to capture the recalcitrant curls, even at the very moment that the Emperor Caligula entered the room.

He paused on the threshold and her arms dropped down to her side. Her golden hair fell all round her as she bent her knees making obeisance to the Caesar. There was nothing regal about her now, nothing imperious or proud; she looked just like a child caught unawares at play.

Blushing with confusion she advanced toward her kinsman, and with head bent received his kiss upon her pure forehead. Nor did she shrink at this loathsome contact which would have filled almost any other woman's heart with horror. To her this man was not really human—he was the Caesar—a supernatural being blessed by the gods, and endowed by them with supreme majesty and power.

"Dismiss thy slaves," he said curtly, "I would have speech with thee."

He had well schooled his turbulent temper to calmness. After Caius Nepos' departure and a final outburst of unbridled violence, he had plunged into a cold bath and given himself over for half an hour to the ministrations of his slaves. Then, cool and refreshed—at any rate outwardly—he had dressed himself in simple robes, and passing right through the halls of the Palace of Tiberius which adjoined his own, he had reached the precincts of Dea Flavia's house, which in its turn abutted on that built by Germanicus.

At any other time but the present one—when his frenzied mind was wholly given over to thoughts of the terrible treachery against his own person—he would have been conscious of Dea Flavia's exquisite beauty, as she stood before him, humble with the proud humility of one who has everything to give and nothing to receive; chaste with that pure ignorance which refuses to know what it cannot condone, and withal a perfect woman, imbued with a fascination which no man had ever been able to resist, for it was the fascination of youthful loveliness combined with the stately aloofness of conscious power.

At any other time but this, the unscrupulous voluptuary would have gazed on his beautiful kinswoman with eyes that would have shamed her with their undisguised admiration, and mayhap his look and actions would have placed a severe test on her loyalty and on her respect for him.

But to-day Caligula only saw in her the tool whom conspirators meant to use for their treacherous ends, her loveliness paled in his eyes before the awful suspicion which he had of her guilt, and whilst she stood quietly awaiting his pleasure, he marvelled how much she knew of the traitors' plans and whether her white fingers would effectually thrust the dagger into an assassin's hand.

She had dismissed her slaves at his bidding—all unconscious as she was of any danger that might threaten her through him. He waited for a while in silence, then he said abruptly:

"Dea Flavia, what is thine age?"

She looked up at him, smiling and puzzled.

"Some twenty years, great Caesar," she replied, "but of a truth I had not kept count."

"Twenty years?" he retorted, "then 'tis high time that I chose a husband for thee."

This time she looked up at him boldly, and although in her glance there was all the respect due to the immortal Caesar, yet was there no show of humility in her attitude as she threw back the heavy masses of her hair and drew up her slender figure to its full stately height.

"Was it to tell me this," she asked simply, "that the greatest of Caesars sought his servant's house to-day?"

"In part," he rejoined curtly, "and I would hear thine answer."

"My lord has not deigned to ask a question?"

"Art prepared to accept the husband whom I, thine Emperor will choose for thee?"

"In all things do I give thee honour and reverence, O Caesar," she replied, "but——"

"But what?"

"But I had no thought of marriage."

"No thought of marriage!" he retorted roughly as, unable to sit still, harassed by rage and doubt, he once more started on that restless walk of his up and down the room.

She watched him with great wondering eyes. That something serious lay behind his questionings was of course obvious. He had not paid her this matutinal visit for the sole purpose of passing the time of day; and she did not like this strange mood of his nor his reference to a topic over which he had not worried her hitherto.