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A Friend of Caesar by William Stearns Davis

W >> William Stearns Davis >> A Friend of Caesar




So passed the rest of the month since Cornelia had been brought from
Praeneste to Rome.


III

Cornelia began to grow sick at heart. The conviction was stealing over
her that she was the victim of a cruel destiny, and it was useless to
fight against fate. She had made sacrifices for Drusus's sake that had
cost her infinitely. All Rome said that Cornelia returned the love of
Lucius Ahenobarbus. And with it all, she knew that she had not
succeeded in discovering the real plot of Pratinas, and could not
thwart it. She knew that nearly every one placed her, if actually not
as vicious as the rest, at least in the same coterie with Clodia, and
the wife of Lentulus Spinther the younger Metella, and only a grade
better than such a woman as Arbuscula, the reigning actress of the
day. There was no defence to offer to the world. Did she not go with
her mother to the gay gathering, in the gardens by the Tiber? Was she
not waited on by half the fashionable young aristocrats of Rome? Was
she not affianced to a man who was notoriously a leader of what might
to-day be called the "fast set" of the capital? And from Drusus, poor
fellow, she gained not the least consolation. That he loved her as she
loved him, she had never cause to doubt. But in his self-renunciation
he gave her advice that sprang out of his own sorrow and pessimism. It
was no use, ran his letters, for a woman like her to try and battle
against the evident decrees of Fortune. He was a man, and must fight
his battle or die his death bravely; but she was not called on for
this. There was no reason why she should not really enjoy herself, in
the way most of the world thought she was enjoying herself. She had
better wed Lucius Ahenobarbus, and stoop to the inevitable. Her
husband could go his way and she go hers, and none would complain.
Perhaps the Epicureans were right,--this life was all, and it was best
to suck from it all the sweets one might, and not be disturbed by
pricks of conscience. Drusus and Cornelia were not lovers of a modern
romance, to entertain fantastic ideas of love and duty, to throw
themselves away for a fancy, or tie themselves with vows which
militated against almost every worldly advantage. They were both
Romans, and by that we mean eminently practical persons, faithful to
one another, pure and noble in their affections, but habituated to
look a situation in the face and accept the plain consequences. In
this spirit Drusus had advised as he did, and Cornelia became
discouraged accordingly. Her reason told her to submit to the
inevitable. Her heart cried out against it. And so she continued to
finger the hilt of the little dagger, and look at its keen
poison-smeared edge.

But one day at the end of this dreary period Agias appeared before his
mistress with a smiling face.

"Don't raise high hopes, my lady, but trust me. I have struck a path
that I'm sure Pratinas will wish I'd never travelled." And that was
all he would say, but laid his finger on his lips as though it was a
great secret. When he was gone, for Cornelia the sun shone brighter,
and the tinkling of the water in the fountain in the peristylium
sounded sweeter than before. After all, there had come a gleam of
hope.

Cornelia needed the encouragement. That same day when Herennia called
to see her, that excellent young lady--for not the least reason in the
world--had been full of stories of poisoning and murders, how some
years ago a certain Balbutius of Larinum was taken off, it was said,
at a wedding feast of a friend for whom the poison had been intended;
and then again she had to tell how, at another time, poison had been
put in a bit of bread of which the victim partook. The stories were
old ones and perhaps nothing more than second-hand scandal, but they
were enough to make poor Cornelia miserable; so she was doubly
rejoiced when Agias that evening pressed his lips again and smiled and
said briefly: "All is going well. We shall have the root of the matter
in a few days."

Agias had actually come upon what he was right in considering a great
piece of good fortune. He had easily found the tenement in the Subura
where Pratinas lodged, but to learn anything there that would be
useful was a far more difficult affair. He had hung around the place,
however, as much as he dared, making his headquarters at a tavern
conveniently near, and tried to learn Pratinas's habits, and whether
he ever took any visitors home with him. All this came to little
purpose till one morning he observed an old Ethiop, who was tugging a
heavy provision basket, stagger up the street, through the nondescript
crowd. The old slave was being assailed by a mob of street gamins and
low pedlers who saw in the contents of the hamper so much fair
plunder. These vagabonds had just thrown the Ethiop down into the mud,
and were about to divide their booty, when Agias, acting on a generous
impulse, rushed out from the tavern to the rescue. Nimble, for his age
powerful, and armed with a stout staff which he had caught up in the
wine-shop to aid him, the young Greek won an easy victory over
cowardly antagonists, put all the plunderers to flight, and lifted the
old slave out of the mire. The Ethiop was profuse in his thanks.

"And whose slave are you?" demanded Agias, well pleased to be out of
the adventure.

"I'm Sesostris, servant of Pratinas the Greek."

Agias pricked up his ears. "And you live--"

"In the top story of this tenement;" and Sesostris tried to pick up
the hamper.

"Oh!" laughed his rescuer, "you must let me save you that trouble. I
will carry up the basket. Your master is a brute to pile on such
loads."

Sesostris again fawned his gratitude, and Agias, with quickened wits
and eyes alert, toiled up the dark stairway, and found himself at the
top of the building. He had "entered the enemy's country." The Ethiop
might not have been open to bribes, but he might be unlocked through
friendship, and Agias never needed all his senses more than now. They
had reached the topmost flight of stairs, and Sesostris had stopped as
if embarrassed whether to invite his deliverer in to enjoy some
hospitality, or say him farewell. Then of a sudden from behind the
closed door came a clear, sweet, girlish voice, singing, in Greek:--

"O Aitne, mother mine: A grotto fair
Scooped in the rocks have I, and there I keep
All that in dreams man pictures! Treasured there
Are multitudes of she-goats and of sheep,
Swathed in whose wool from top to toe I sleep."

It was an idyl of Theocritus, very well known by Agias, and without
the least hesitation he took up the strain, and continued:--

"The fire boils my pot; with oak or beech
Is piled,--dry beech logs when the snow lies deep.
And storm and sunshine, I disdain them each
As toothless sires a nut, when broth is in their reach."[98]

[98] Calverly's translation.

Agias paused. There was a silence, then a giggle behind the door, and
it half opened, and out peered the plump and rosy face of the young
girl we have heard Pratinas salute as his niece, Artemisia. The moment
she caught sight of the rather manly form of Agias, the door started
to close with a slam, but the latter thrust out his foot, blocked the
door, and forced an entrance.

"_Eleleu!_" cried Agias, pushing into a small but neatly furnished
room. "What have we here? Do the muses sing in Subura? Has Sappho
brought hither her college of poetesses from Lesbos?"

"_Ai!_" exclaimed Artemisia, drawing back, "who are you? You're
dreadfully rude. I never saw you before."

"Nor I you;" replied Agias, in capital good humour, "but that is no
reason why I should take my eyes away from your pretty little face.
No, you needn't point your middle finger at me so, to ward off the
evil eye. I'm neither Chaldean astrologer, nor Etruscan soothsayer.
Come, tell me who you are, and whom you belong to?"

Artemisia did not have the least idea what to say. Agias, partly
through youthful love of adventure, partly because he felt that he was
playing now for very high stakes and must risk a good deal, had thrown
himself on the divan, and was holding Artemisia captive under his
keen, genial eyes. She grew redder in face than before, began to
speak, then broke off with more confused blushes.

"She means to say," finally ventured Sesostris, "that she is
Artemisia, the niece of Pratinas."

"The niece of Pratinas!" exclaimed Agias, settling himself upon the
cushions in a manner that indicated his intention to make a prolonged
stay; "and does Pratinas keep his pretty niece shut up in a gloomy
tenement, when she has the voice of one of the Graces, and more than
their share of beauty! Shame on him; I thought he had better sense
than that!"

"Sir," ventured Artemisia, trying desperately to stand on her dignity,
"I do not know you. My uncle will be greatly vexed to find you here.
Will you go away at once?"

"That I will not," replied Agias, firmly; and he drew from the hamper
a baker's bun, and began to munch it, as though laying in provision
for a lengthy stay.

Artemisia and Sesostris exchanged glances of dismay.

"What _shall_ I do?" said the girl to the Ethiop in a very audible
whisper.

"Sing," interrupted Agias. "Let me hear the rest of the Theocritus."

"I don't like to sing those songs," objected Artemisia. "Pratinas
makes me, I don't know why."

"Well," said Agias, smiling, "I wouldn't for the-world make you sing
against your will. Suppose you tell me about yourself. Tell me when
your uncle is away, and when I may come and see you again."

"He's away nearly all the time," said Artemisia, very incautiously.
"But _who are_ you? Why do you want to come and see me?"

"Why do I want to look at a flower? Why do I want to hear the
nightingale sing? Why do I like a cup of good wine?" laughed Agias.
"Then, fair mistress, you may look for my answer when _you_ have
answered all of these questions of mine."

"I don't see what you mean," said poor Artemisia, looking dreadfully
puzzled.

"I mean," exclaimed the other, "what Sappho meant of the bride,--

'She like an apple turned red; which reddens far up on the tree-top:--
Upon the topmost of boughs,--the gatherers they have quite missed it.
Yes, they saw it indeed; but too high to dare try to pluck it.'

Only I, if you don't greatly mind, will be the bold tree-climber and
pluck the apple."

"But I do mind," cried Artemisia, all blushes, and springing a little
back. Old Sesostris looked alarmed.

"You--you mean the girl no ill?" he faltered.

Agias looked from the innocent little thing over to the Ethiop,
snapped his finger, and replied:--

"Ill? I am not a human wolf, making pretty objects like this my prey!"
Then, choosing his moment carefully, by a quick turn he confronted
Sesostris sternly, and almost thundered: "_You_ speak of my doing ill
to this maiden? You speak--the slave of Pratinas, who is the leader in
every vice and wild prank in Rome! Has the slave as well as the master
learned to play the hypocrite? Do you want to be tortured into
confessing your part in all your master's crimes when the hour of
reckoning comes and he is brought to justice. _A! A!_" he went on,
seeing that Sesostris was rolling the whites of his eyes, and was
trembling in every limb, "you know for a certainty how and when
Pratinas is to have Quintus Drusus killed! Don't deny it. You will
soon be in the meshes. Don't hope to escape. If murder comes to Drusus
he may perish, but he has friends who will fearfully avenge his
death."

"Mercy! Mercy!" howled the Ethiop, falling on his knees and clutching
at the young Greek's robe, "I know very little of the plot. I only
know--"

"Don't equivocate," thundered Agias. "If I had known the kind of man
you were, I would hardly have saved you from those street ruffians.
You don't deserve to live. Well, the crows will soon have you! You
Egyptians believe in a judgment of the dead; what defence can you make
before the court of Osiris[99] for being privy to a foul murder?
You'll come back to earth as a fly, or a toad, or a dung-beetle, to
pay the penalty for your sins."

[99] The Egyptian judge of the dead.

"Mercy," whined Sesostris, who was in a paroxysm of fright. "Indeed I
am innocent! I am only a poor slave! I can't help knowing what
Pratinas is doing; but how can I prevent him? Don't look at me so! I
am innocent--innocent!"

"I can scarce believe you," said Agias, affecting great reluctance to
show any leniency. "Doubtless you are steeped in blood. Still, you may
save yourself this once. Remember, you are known, and the plans of
Pratinas against Drusus are partly known. We know about Dumnorix, and
Lucius Ahenobarbus, and--"

"Oh!" cried Sesostris, as though a hot iron had touched him, "I will
find out everything, and tell you. Indeed I will. Only do not send me
to the rack or crucify me if my master's plans go astray!"

"Well," said Agias, still simulating hesitancy, "I will report to my
superiors. Perhaps you are not a willing accomplice of your master. In
that case, if he is apprehended, your life will doubtless be spared.
But we must thwart his plot before it can be carried out. This you
must aid us to do. When will Dumnorix start for Praeneste?"

Again Sesostris quailed. "I don't know," he faltered, "there has been
a postponement. There was a plan that if Drusus came to the city he
was to be lured outside the Esquiline gate, as if going to some villa,
and murdered in the sand-pits, as have been many people."

"But this plan has been given up? Speak the truth!" sharply demanded
Agias.

"Yes; for Drusus will not stir from Praeneste. So there the scheme must
be executed, as originally arranged."

"And Dumnorix will go soon?"

"I think in a few days. I will find out."

"As you love your own life do so! I will call on each day at this
hour. If Pratinas is at home, leave some bright garment outside near
the door, that I may not stumble on him. Deceive or betray me, and my
masters will take a terrible revenge on you; for you haven't the least
idea what is the power of the men Pratinas has for enemies."

Agias turned to depart. Then to Artemisia:--

"And you, my pretty,--when I come again, I will try to stay longer,
and make you feel as glad to see Agias, as Agias will be to see
Artemisia."

Agias was descending the stairs, when Sesostris called him back with a
whisper.

"You are a dreadful youth; but since I am so utterly in your power,
hear something that may prove that I am not a knave at heart. You have
a fancy to the girl?"

"Certainly I have eyes for her face, and ears for her sweet little
voice," said Agias, smiling.

"Then listen," went on the Ethiop; "I care for the dear more than
anything else in the world. She said she was Pratinas's niece. It
isn't true. She is a slave-girl he picked up when very little at
Delos,[100] as he told me, though I doubt it. He took a fancy to her,
and really thought of adopting her. Then his soul became so set on
money, that he saw she would fetch a great price when grown; and sell
her he will. He still pretends to call her his niece; but that won't
be for long. He is teaching her to sing, to add to her value. _A!_ But
my old heart is almost breaking for her sake. _Mu, mu!_" and Sesostris
puffed his groans through his nostrils. "Think of it! He has an idea
to sell her to that rich Roman, Lucius Calatinus--and then I don't
dare hint what will be her fate."

[100] At this period the great slave emporium of the world.

"Calatinus!" hissed Agias, concentrating volumes of scorn into a word.

"You know him! You hate him!" cried Sesostris. "Then by Ammon-Ra, by
Isis, by every god in whom you believe, save my darling from worse
than death! Do that, and I will die for you!"

Sesostris's emotion was too genuine to be a mere trap for ensnaring
his visitor; and Agias in turn was stirred.

"Old man," he exclaimed, seizing the other's hand, "you and I have
suffered much from evil masters. Thank the gods, I am now serving one
I love--albeit unfortunate enough! But we have a common right to
punish the wrongdoers, and earn a little bit of happiness for
ourselves. Come, now! If Artemisia is a slave, she is in no wise above
me. Let me save Drusus from Pratinas, and I pledge my word that I will
save Artemisia from him and his nefarious schemes,--yes, and you, too.
If Artemisia likes me, why then there will be perhaps more to add to
the story. Come--I am your friend, and you, mine."

Sesostris wrung the other's hand. The honest servant was moved too
much to speak. His heart and soul had been bound up in Artemisia.

"May your _Ka_[101] stand before Osiris justified!" he choked. "I have
been privy to many a dark action, until I used to try to forget the
day when I must answer to the Judge of the Dead for every deed done
and word spoken. But I could not stifle my fear for the only dear
thing in the world."

[101] The spiritual double which belonged to every man according to
the Egyptian ideas.

Agias went away in a happy frame of mind. He had every confidence that
Sesostris would worm out of Pratinas the exact details of the plot,
and put the conspirators at the mercy of Drusus and Mamercus.

* * * * *

And Agias had felt there was good reason to rejoice in his discovery
in more ways than one. Especially was he conscious that there were no
lips as red and as merry, no cheeks as rosy, no eyes as dancing, no
chatter as sweet, as those of Artemisia. And what is more, he rejoiced
to believe that that young lady was not half so shy of him as at
first, and was as anxious to see him as he to see her. Thanks to due
warnings and precautions, Agias never stumbled on Pratinas, when the
latter was at his lodgings. The time he dared to stay was all too
short for Artemisia. She was always telling how lonesome she was with
only old Sesostris for company, before she knew Agias. Once when the
latter was late in his daily visit, he was delighted to find scribbled
on the wall, "Artemisia to her Agias: you are real mean." Agias hated
to make her erase it lest it fall under Pratinas's eagle eye.

But still Sesostris had nothing to tell about the plot against Drusus.
Some days passed. Agias began to grow uneasy. Sesostris had
represented that he was conversant with everything his master had on
foot; but Pratinas might have been more discreet than to unfold all
his affairs, even before his servant; and then, too, there was always
the possibility that Sesostris was playing fast and loose, and about
to betray Agias to his master. So the latter grew disquieted, and
found it a little hard to preserve the character of cheerful mystery
which he simulated to Cornelia. The long-sought information came at a
time when he was really off his guard. Agias had been visiting
Artemisia. Sesostris as well as Pratinas had been out; the two young
people were amusing themselves trying to teach a pet magpie to speak,
when the Ethiop rushed into the room, all in a tremble with anxious
excitement.

"_A! A!_" he was ejaculating. "Up, speed, don't delay! There's murder
afoot!"

Agias let the bird slip from his hands, and never noticed that it
fluttered on its clipped wings around the room, to Artemisia's
infinite dismay.

"What? Is the plot hatched?"

"Yes, yes," puffed Sesostris, great beads of perspiration on his
honest face. "I was attending Pratinas when he met Lucius Ahenobarbus
in the Forum. They veiled their talk, but I readily caught its drift.
Dumnorix went yesterday with the pick of his band to Anagnia for some
games. To-morrow he will return through Praeneste, and the deed will be
done. Phaon, Ahenobarbus's freedman, has started already for Praeneste
to spy out the ground and be ready to direct Dumnorix where, when, and
how to find Drusus. Phaon has been spying at Praeneste, and is the
dangerous man!"

"He has gone?" demanded Agias.

"Gone, early this morning!"

"Then,--the gods reward you for your news,--I am gone too!"

And without another word to Artemisia or the old slave, Agias had
rushed out into the street. He had a double game to play--to prevent
Phaon from ever reaching Praeneste, and then get such help to Drusus as
would enable him to beat off Dumnorix and his gang. For Agias felt
certain that the hard-hitting Gaul would execute his part of the
bargain, whether he met Phaon or not, and afterward look into the
consequences of what--unmitigated by the freedman's _finesse_--would
take the form of an open clumsy murder. But Phaon had started that
morning; and it was now well into the afternoon. Time was dangerously
scanty. Cornelia he felt he should inform; but she could do nothing
really to help him. He turned his steps toward the Forum and the
Atrium Vestae. He had some difficulty in inducing the porter to summon
Fabia, to meet in personal interview a mere slave, but a gratuity won
the point; and a minute later he was relating the whole story and the
present situation of Drusus to Fabia, with a sincere directness that
carried conviction with it. She had known that Drusus had enemies; but
now her whole strong nature was stirred at the sense of her nephew's
imminent peril.

"If you were a freeman, Agias," were her words, "and could give
witness as such, Pratinas and Ahenobarbus--high as the latter
is--should know that my influence at the law outweighs theirs. But
they shall be thwarted. I will go to Marcellus the consul, and demand
that troops be started to Praeneste to-night. But you must go after
Phaon."

"You will send word to Cornelia?" requested Agias.

"Yes," said Fabia, "but not now; it is useless. Here is an order on
Gallus, who keeps a livery-stable[102] by the Porta Esquilina. He will
give you my new white Numidian, that I keep with him. Ride as you have
never ridden before. And here is money. Twenty gold philippi in this
bag. Bribe, do anything. Only save Drusus! Now go!"

[102] Such establishments were common near the gates, and the Vestals
often had their horses at such places.

"Farewell, lady," cried Agias, "may I redeem the debt of gratitude I
owe you!"

Fabia stood looking after him, as he hastened out from the quiet
atrium into the busy street. Little Livia had cuddled up beside her
aunt.

"Oh, Livia," said Fabia, "I feel as though it were of no use to live
good and pure in this world! Who knows what trouble may come to me
from this day's doings? And why should they plot against your
brother's dear life? But I mustn't talk so." And she called for her
attendants to escort her abroad.




Chapter VIII

"When Greek Meets Greek"


I

Cornelia had surmised correctly that Pratinas, not Lucius Ahenobarbus,
would be the one to bring the plot against Drusus to an issue. Lucius
had tried in vain to escape from the snares the wily intriguer had
cast about him. His father had told him that if he would settle down
and lead a moderately respectable life, Phormio should be paid off.
And with this burden off his mind, for reformation was very easily
promised, Lucius had time to consider whether it was worth his while
to mix in a deed that none of Pratinas's casuistry could quite
convince him was not a foul, unprovoked murder, of an innocent man.
The truth was, Ahenobarbus was desperately in love with Cornelia, and
had neither time nor desire to mingle in any business not connected
with the pursuit of his "tender passion." None of his former
sweethearts--and he had had almost as many as he was years old--were
comparable in his eyes to her. She belonged to a different world from
that of the Spanish dancers, the saucy maidens of Greece, or even the
many noble-born Roman women that seemed caught in the eddy of Clodia's
fashionable whirlpool. Lucius frankly told himself that he would want
to be divorced from Cornelia in five years--it would be tedious to
keep company longer with a goddess. But for the present her vivacity,
her wit, her bright intelligence, no less than her beauty, charmed
him. And he was rejoiced to believe that she was quite as much
ensnared by his own attractions. He did not want any unhappy accident
to mar the smooth course which was to lead up to the marriage in no
distant future. He did not need Drusus's money any longer to save him
from bankruptcy. The legacy would be highly desirable, but life would
be very pleasant without it. Lucius was almost induced by his inward
qualms to tell Pratinas to throw over the whole matter, and inform
Dumnorix that his services were not needed.

It was at this juncture that Cornelia committed an error, the full
consequences of which were, to her, happily veiled. In her anxiety to
discover the plot, she had made Lucius believe that she was really
pining for the news of the murder of Drusus. Cornelia had actually
learned nothing by a sacrifice that tore her very heart out; but her
words and actions did almost irreparable harm to the cause she was
trying to aid.

"And you have never given me a kiss," Lucius had said one morning,
when he was taking leave of Cornelia in the atrium of the Lentuli.
"Will you ever play the siren, and lure me to you? and then devour, as
it were, your victim, not with your lips, but with your eyes?"

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