A Friend of Caesar by William Stearns Davis

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[112] _Puls_, the primitive Italian food.

Agias wrung his manacled hands. Drusus would be murdered, Cornelia's
happiness undone, and he himself would become the slave of Lucius
Ahenobarbus, who, when he had heard Phaon's story, would show little
enough of mercy. He cursed the suspicious porter, cursed Falto, cursed
every slave and freedman on the estate, cursed Mamercus for not
leaving some word about the possibility of his coming from Rome.
Agias's imprecations spent themselves in air; and he was none the
happier. Would Drusus never come? The time was drifting on. The sun
had been up three or more hours. At any instant the gladiators might
arrive.

Then again there was a clatter of hoofs, at the very moment when Agias
had again remounted to the loophole. There were voices raised in
questions and greetings; slave-boys were scampering to and fro to take
the horses; Drusus with Pausanias and the Mamerci had returned from
Lanuvium. Agias pressed his head out the loophole and screamed to
attract attention. His voice could not penetrate the domestic hubbub.
Drusus was standing shaking hands with a couple of clients and
evidently in a very good humour over some blunt rustic compliment.
Mago was nowhere to be seen. Agias glanced up the road toward
Praeneste. The highway was straight and fairly level, but as it went
over a hill-slope some little way off, what was that he saw upon
it?--the sun flashing on bright arms, which glinted out from the
dust-cloud raised by a considerable number of men marching!

"Drusus! Master Drusus!" Agias threw all his soul into the cry. As if
to blast his last hope, Drusus hastily bowed away the salves and aves
of the two clients, turned, and went into the villa. Agias groaned in
agony. A very few moments would bring Dumnorix to the villa, and the
young slave did not doubt that Gabinius was with the lanista to direct
the attack. Agias tore at his chains, and cursed again, calling on all
the Furies of Tartarus to confound the porter and Falto. Suddenly
before the loophole passed a slave damsel of winning face and
blithesome manner, humming to herself a rude little ditty, while she
balanced a large earthen water-pot on her head. It was Chloe, whom the
reader has met in the opening scene of this book, though Agias did not
know her name.

"By all the gods, girl!" he cried frantically, "do you want to have
your master slaughtered before your very eyes?"

Chloe stopped, a little startled at this voice, almost from under her
feet.

"Oh, you, Master Assassin!" she sneered. "Do you want to repeat those
pretty stories of yours, such as I heard you tell last night?"

"Woman," cried Agias, with all the earnestness which agony and fear
could throw into face and voice, "go this instant! Tell Master Drusus
that Dumnorix and his gang are not a furlong[113] away. They mean to
murder him. Say that I, Agias, say so, and he, at least, will believe
me. You yourself can see the sun gleaming on their steel as they march
down the hill."

[113] About 606-3/4 English feet.

Perhaps it was the sight which Agias indicated, perhaps it was his
earnest words, perhaps it was his handsome face--Chloe was very
susceptible to good looks--but for some cause she put down the pot and
was off, as fast as her light heels could carry her, toward the house.

II

Drusus had ridden hard to get back early from Lanuvium and write some
letters to Cornelia, for he had expected that Agias would come on that
very afternoon, on one of his regular, though private, visits; and he
wished to be able to tell Cornelia that, so long a time had elapsed
since he had been warned against Ahenobarbus and Pratinas, and as no
attempt at all had been made on his life, her fears for him were
probably groundless and the plot had been for some cause abandoned.
Drusus himself was weary, and was glad to shake off the little knot of
clients and retire to his chamber, preparatory for a bath and a change
of clothes. He had seen Falto, but the latter deemed it best not to
trouble his patron at the time by mentioning the prisoner. Mago, too,
concluded that it was best to defer executing his promise. Drusus was
just letting Cappadox take off his cloak, when the shrill voice of
Chloe was heard outside the door, expostulating with the boy on guard.

"I must see the dominus at once. It's very important."

"Don't you see, you idiot, that you can't while he's dressing?"

"I _must!_" screamed Chloe. And, violating every law of subordination
and decorum, she threw open the door.

Cappadox flew to eject her, but Chloe's quick tongue did its work.

"A lad who calls himself Agias is chained in the ergastulum. He says
some gladiators are going to attack the house, and will be here in a
moment! Oh, I am so frightened!" and the poor girl threw her mantle
over her head, and began to whimper and sob.

"Agias!" shouted Drusus, at the top of his voice. "In the ergastulum?
_Per deos immortales!_ What's this? Mamercus! Falto!"

And the young master rushed out of the room, Cappadox, who like
lightning had caught up a sword, following him.

Falto came running from the stables; Mamercus from the garden. Drusus
faced his two subordinates, and in an eye's twinkling had taken in the
situation. Mamercus, who felt within himself that he, by his
oversight, had been the chief blunderer, to vent his vexation smote
Falto so sound a cuff that the under villicus sprawled his full
length.

"Go to the ergastulum and fetch Agias this instant," cried Drusus, in
thundering accents, to the trembling Mago, who had appeared on the
scene.

Mago disappeared like magic, but in an instant a din was rising from
the front of the house,--cries, blows, clash of steel. Into the
peristylium, where the angry young master was standing, rushed the old
slave woman, Lais.

"_Hei! hei!_" she screamed, "they are breaking in! Monsters! a hundred
of them! They will kill us all!"

Drusus grew calm in an instant.

"Barricade the doors to the atrium!" he commanded, "while I can put on
my armour. You, Mamercus, are too old for this kind of work; run and
call in the field-hands, the clients, and the neighbours. Cappadox,
Falto, and I can hold the doors till aid comes."

"I run?" cried the veteran, in hot incredulity, while with his single
hand he tore from its stout leather wall-fastenings a shield that had
been beaten with Punic swords at the Metaurus.[114] "I run?" he
repeated, while a mighty crash told that the front door had given way,
and the attackers were pouring into the atrium. And the veteran had
thrust a venerable helmet over his grizzled locks, and was wielding
his shield with his handless left arm, while a good Spanish
short-sword gleamed in his right hand.

[114] The great battle won in 207 B.C. over Hasdrubal.

The others had not been idle. Cappadox had barred both doors leading
into the front part of the house. Drusus had armed, and Falto,--a more
loyal soul than whom lived not,--burning to retrieve his blunder, had
sprung to his patron's side, also in shield and helm.

"They will soon force these doors," said Drusus, quietly, growing more
composed as closer and closer came the actual danger. "Falto and I
will guard the right. Cappadox and you, Mamercus, if you will stay,
must guard the left. Some aid must come before a great while."

But again the veteran whipped out an angry oath, and thundered, "You
stay, you soft-fingered Quintus! You stay and face those German
giants! Why, you are the very man they are after! Leave fighting to an
old soldier! Take him away, Cappadox, if you love him!"

"I will never leave!" blazed forth Drusus. "My place is here. A Livian
always faces his foes. Here, if needs be, I will die." But before he
could protest further, Cappadox had caught him in his powerful arms,
and despite his struggles was running with him through the rear of the
house.

Pandemonium reigned in the atrium. The gladiators were shivering fine
sculptures, ripping up upholstery, swearing in their uncouth Celtic or
German dialects, searching everywhere for their victim in the rooms
that led off the atrium. A voice in Latin was raising loud
remonstrance.

"_AEdepol!_ Dumnorix, call off your men! Phaon hasn't led our bird into
the net. We shall be ruined if this keeps on! Drusus isn't here!"

"By the Holy Oak, Gabinius," replied another voice, in barbarous
Latin, "what I've begun I'll end! I'll find Drusus yet; and we won't
leave a soul living to testify against us! You men, break down that
door and let us into the rest of the house!"

Mamercus heard a rush down one of the passages leading to the
peristylium. The house was almost entirely deserted, except by the
shrieking maids. The clients and freedmen and male slaves were almost
all in the fields. The veteran, Falto, and Pausanias, who had come in,
and who was brave enough, but nothing of a warrior, were the only
defenders of the peristylium.

"You two," shouted Mamercus, "guard the other door! Move that heavy
chest against it. Pile the couch and cabinet on top. This door I will
hold."

There was the blow of a heavy mace on the portal, and the wood sprang
out, and the pivots started.

"Leave this alone," roared Mamercus, when his two helpers paused, as
if to join him. "Guard your own doorway!"

"Down with it!" bellowed the voice of the leaders without. "Don't let
the game escape! Strike again!"

Crash! And the door, beaten from its fastenings by a mighty stroke,
tumbled inward on to the mosaic pavement of the peristylium. The light
was streaming bright and free into that court, but the passageway from
the atrium was shrouded in darkness. Mamercus, sword drawn, stood
across the entrance.

"By the god Tarann!"[115] shouted Dumnorix, who from the rear of his
followers was directing the attack. "Here is a stout old game-cock!
Out of the way, greybeard! We'll spare you for your spirit. Take him,
some of you, alive!"

[115] The Gallic thunder-god.

Two gigantic, blond Germans thrust their prodigious bodies through the
doorway. Mamercus was no small man, but slight he seemed before these
mighty Northerners.

The Germans had intended to seize him in their naked hands, but
something made them swing their ponderous long swords and then, two
flashes from the short blade in the hand of the veteran, and both the
giants were weltering across the threshold, their breasts pierced and
torn by the Roman's murderous thrusts.

"_Habet!_" cried Mamercus. "A fair hit! Come on, you scum of the
earth; come on, you German and Gallic dogs; do you think I haven't
faced the like of you before? Do you think your great bulks and fierce
mustaches will make a soldier of Marius quiver? Do you want to taste
Roman steel again?"

And then there was a strange sight. A phantasm seemed to have come
before every member of that mad, murderous band; for they saw, as it
were, in the single champion before them, a long, swaying line of men
of slight stature like him; of men who dashed through their phalanxes
and spear hedges; who beat down their chieftains; whom no arrow fire,
no sword-play, no stress of numbers, might stop; but who charged home
with pilum and short-sword, and defeated the most valorous enemy.

"Ha! Dogs!" taunted Mamercus, "you have seen Romans fight before, else
you were not all here, to make sport for our holiday!"

"He is Tyr,[116] the 'one-armed,' who put his left hand in the jaws of
Fenris-wolf!" cried a German, shrinking back in dread. "A god is
fighting us!"

[116] A Germanic war-god.

"Fools!" shouted Gabinius from a distance. "At him, and cut him down!"

"Cut him down!" roared Dumnorix, who had wits enough to realize that
every instant's delay gave Drusus time to escape, or collect help.

There was another rush down the passage; but at the narrow doorway the
press stopped. Mamercus fought as ten. His shield and sword were
everywhere. The Roman was as one inspired; his eyes shone bright and
clear; his lips were parted in a grim, fierce smile; he belched forth
rude soldier oaths that had been current in the army of fifty years
before. Thrusting and parrying, he yielded no step, he sustained no
wound. And once, twice, thrice his terrible short-sword found its
sheath in the breast of a victim. In impotent rage the gladiators
recoiled a second time.

"Storm the other door!" commanded Dumnorix.

The two defenders there had undertaken to pile up furniture against
it; but a few blows beat down the entire barrier. Falto and Pausanias
stood to their posts stoutly enough; but there was no master-swordsman
to guard this entrance. The first gladiator indeed went down with a
pierced neck, but the next instant Falto was beside him, atoning for
his stupid folly, the whole side of his head cleft away by a stroke
from a Gallic long-sword.

"One rush and we have the old man surrounded," exhorted Dumnorix, when
only Pausanias barred the way.

There was a growl and a bound, and straight at the foremost attacker
flew Argos, Mamercus's great British mastiff, who had silently slipped
on to the scene. The assailant fell with the dog's fangs in his
throat. Again the gladiators recoiled, and before they could return to
the charge, back into the peristylium rushed Drusus, escaped from
Cappadox, with that worthy and Mago and Agias, just released, at his
heels.

"Here's your man!" cried Gabinius, who still kept discreetly in the
rear.

"Freedom and ten _sestertia_[117] to the one who strikes Drusus down,"
called Dumnorix, feeling that at last the game was in his hands.

[117] About $400.

But Mamercus had made of his young patron an apt pupil. All the
fighting blood of the great Livian house, of the consulars and
triumphators, was mantling in Drusus's veins, and he threw himself
into the struggle with the deliberate courage of an experienced
warrior. His short-sword, too, found its victims; and across Falto's
body soon were piled more. And now Drusus was not alone. For in from
the barns and fields came running first the servants from the stables,
armed with mattocks and muck-forks, and then the farm-hands with their
scythes and reaping hooks.

"We shall never force these doors," exclaimed Gabinius, in despair, as
he saw the defenders augmenting.

Dumnorix turned to his men.

"Go, some of you. Enter from behind! Take this rabble from the rear.
In fair fight we can soon master it."

A part of the gladiators started to leave the atrium, Gabinius with
them. An instant later he had rushed back in blank dismay.

"Horsemen! They are dismounting before the house. There are more than
a score of them. We shall be cut to pieces."

"We have more than fifty," retorted Dumnorix, viciously. "I will
sacrifice them all, rather than have the attack fail!--" But before he
could speak further, to the din of the fighting at the doors of the
peristylium was added a second clamour without. And into the atrium,
sword in hand, burst Caius Curio, and another young, handsome,
aquiline-featured man, dressed in a low-girt tunic, with a loose,
coarse mantle above it,--a man known to history as Marcus Antonius, or
"Marc Antony "; and at their backs were twenty men in full armour.

The courage of the lanista had failed him. Already Drusus's
reinforcements in the peristylium had become so numerous and so well
armed that the young chieftain was pushing back the gladiators and
rapidly assuming the offensive. Gabinius was the first to take flight.
He plunged into one of the rooms off the atrium, and through a side
door gained the open. The demoralized and beaten gladiators followed
him, like a flock of sheep. Only Dumnorix and two or three of his best
men stood at the exit long enough to cover, in some measure, the
retreat.

Once outside, the late assailants gained a temporary respite, owing to
the fact that the defenders had been disorganized by their very
victory.

"We have lost," groaned Gabinius, as the lanista drew his men together
in a compact body, before commencing his retreat.

"We are alive," growled Dumnorix.

"We cannot go back to Rome," moaned the other. "We are all identified.
No bribe or favour can save us now."

"A robber's life is still left," retorted Dumnorix, "and we must make
of it what we can. Some of my men know these parts, where they have
been slaves, before coming to my hands. We must strike off for the
mountains, if we live to get there."

All that day the country was in a turmoil. The Praenestean senate had
met in hasty session, and the _decurions_[118] ordered the entire
community under arms to hunt down the disturbers of the peace. Not
until nightfall did Dumnorix and a mere remnant of his band find
themselves able, under the shadow of the darkness, to shake off the
pursuit. Gabinius was still with him. Curio and Antonius had chased
them down with their horsemen; many of the gladiators had been slain,
many more taken. For the survivors only the life of outlaws remained.
The fastnesses of the Apennines were their sole safety; and
thither--scarce daring to stop to pillage for victuals--they hurried
their weary steps.

[118] Local municipal magistrates.

III

Lucius Ahenobarbus spent that day in frightful anxiety. One moment he
was fingering Drusus's money bags; the next haunted by the murdered
man's ghost. When he called on Cornelia, her slaves said she had a
headache and would receive no one. Pratinas held aloof. No news all
day--the suspense became unendurable. He lived through the following
night harassed by waking visions of every conceivable calamity; but
toward morning fell asleep, and as was his wont, awoke late. The first
friend he met on the street was Calvus, the young poet and orator.

"Have you heard the news from Praeneste?" began Calvus.

"News? What news?"

"Why, how Dumnorix's gang of gladiators attacked the villa of your
distant relative, Quintus Drusus, and were beaten off, while they
tried to murder him. A most daring attempt! But you will hear all
about it. I have a case at the courts and cannot linger."

And Calvus was gone, leaving Ahenobarbus as though he had been
cudgelled into numbness. With a great effort he collected himself.
After all, Dumnorix's gladiators were nothing to him. And when later
he found that neither Dumnorix, nor Gabinius, nor Phaon had been taken
or slain at Praeneste, he breathed the easier. No one else except
Pratinas, he was certain, knew _why_ the lanista had made his attack;
and there was no danger of being charged with complicity in the
conspiracy. And so he was able to bear the stroke of ill-fortune with
some equanimity, and at last rejoice that his dreams would no longer
be haunted by the shade of Drusus. He was in no mood to meet Pratinas,
and the smooth Greek evidently did not care to meet him. He went
around to visit Cornelia again--she was still quite indisposed. So he
spent that morning with Servius Flaccus playing draughts, a game at
which his opponent was so excessively stupid that Ahenobarbus won at
pleasure, and consequently found himself after lunch[119] in a
moderately equable humour. Then it was he was agreeably surprised to
receive the following note from Cornelia.

[119] _Prandium_.

"Cornelia to her dearest Lucius, greeting.

I have been very miserable these past two days, but this afternoon
will be better. Come and visit me and my uncle, for there are several
things I would be glad to say before you both. Farewell."

"I think," remarked Lucius to himself, "that the girl wants to have
the wedding-day hastened. I know of nothing else to make her desire
both Lentulus and myself at once. I want to see her alone. Well, I
cannot complain. I'll have Drusus's bride, even if I can't have his
money or his life."

And so deliberating, he put on his finest saffron-tinted synthesis,
his most elegant set of rings, his newest pair of black shoes,[120]
and spent half an hour with his hairdresser; and thus habited he
repaired to the house of the Lentuli.

[120] Black shoes were worn as a sort of badge by _equites_.

"The Lady Cornelia is in the Corinthian hall," announced the slave who
carried in the news of his coming, "and there she awaits you."

Lucius, nothing loth, followed the servant. A moment and he was in the
large room. It was empty. The great marble pillars rose cold and
magnificent in four stately rows, on all sides of the high-vaulted
apartment. On the walls Cupids and blithesome nymphs were careering in
fresco. The floor was soft with carpets. A dull scent of burning
incense from a little brazier, smoking before a bronze Minerva, in one
corner of the room, hung heavy on the air. The sun was shining warm
and bright without, but the windows of the hall were small and high
and the shutters also were drawn. Everything was cool, still, and
dark. Only through a single aperture shot a clear ray of sunlight, and
stretched in a radiant bar across the gaudy carpets.

Lucius stumbled, half groping, into a chair, and seated himself.
Cornelia had never received him thus before. What was she preparing?
Another moment and Lentulus Crus entered the darkened hall.

"_Perpol!_ Ahenobarbus," he cried, as he came across his prospective
nephew-in-law, "what can Cornelia be wanting of us both? And in this
place? I can't imagine. Ah! Those were strange doings yesterday up in
Praeneste. I would hardly have put on mourning if Drusus had been
ferried over the Styx; but it was a bold way to attack him. I don't
know that he has an enemy in the world except myself, and I can bide
my time and pay off old scores at leisure. Who could have been back of
Dumnorix when he blundered so evidently?"

Ahenobarbus felt that it was hardly possible Lentulus would condemn
his plot very severely; but he replied diplomatically:--

"One has always plenty of enemies."

"_Mehercle!_ of course," laughed the consul-elect, "what would life be
without the pleasure of revenge! But why does my niece keep us
waiting? Jupiter, what can she want of us?"

"Uncle, Lucius, I am here." And before them, standing illumined in the
panel of sunlight, stood Cornelia. Ahenobarbus had never seen her so
beautiful before. She wore a flowing violet-tinted stola, that tumbled
in soft, silky flounces down to her ankles, and from beneath it peered
the tint of her shapely feet bound to thin sandals by bright red
ribbons. Her bare rounded arms were clasped above and below the elbow
and at the wrists by circlets shaped as coiled serpents, whose eyes
were gleaming rubies. At her white throat was fastened a necklace of
interlinked jewel-set gold pendants that shimmered on her half-bare
shoulders and breast. In each ear was the lustre of a great pearl. Her
thick black hair fell unconfined down her back; across her brow was a
frontlet blazing with great diamonds, with one huge sapphire in their
midst. As she stood in the sunlight she was as a goddess, an Aphrodite
descended from Olympus, to drive men to sweet madness by the ravishing
puissance of her charms.

"Cornelia!" cried Lucius, with all the fierce impure admiration of his
nature welling up in his black heart, "you are an immortal! Let me
throw my arms about you! Let me kiss you! Kiss your neck but once!"
And he took a step forward.

"Be quiet, Lucius," said Cornelia, speaking slowly and with as little
passion as a sculptured marble endued with the powers of speech. "We
have other things to talk of now. That is why I have called you here;
you and my uncle."

"Cornelia!" exclaimed the young man, shrinking back as though a sight
of some awful mystery had stricken him with trembling reverence, "why
do you look at me so? Why do your eyes fasten on me that way? What are
you going to do?"

It was as if he had never spoken. Cornelia continued steadily, looking
straight before her.

"Uncle, is it your wish that I become the wife of Lucius Ahenobarbus?"

"You know it is," replied Lentulus, a little uneasily. He could not
see where this bit of affection on the part of his niece would end. He
had never heard her speak in such a tone before.

"I think, uncle," went on Cornelia, "that before we say anything
further it will be well to read this letter. It was sent to me, but
both you and Lucius will find it of some interest." And she held out
two or three wax tablets.

Lentulus took them, eager to have done with the by-play. But when he
saw on the binding-cords the seal--which, though broken, still showed
its impression--he gave a start and exclamation.

"_Perpol!_ The seal of Sextus Flaccus, the great capitalist."

"Certainly, why should it not be from him?"

Lentulus stepped nearer to the light, and read: Lucius standing by and
hanging on every word, Cornelia remaining at her previous station
rigid as the bronze faun on the pedestal at her elbow. Lentulus
read:--

"Sextus Fulvius Flaccus, to the most noble lady Cornelia:--

If you are well it is well with me.

Perhaps you have heard how the plots of the conspirators against my
dear friend and financial client Quintus Drusus have been frustrated,
thanks, next to the god, to the wit and dexterity of Agias, who has
been of late your slave. Drusus as soon as he had fairly beaten off
the gladiators sent at once for me, to aid him and certain other of
his friends in taking the confession of one Phaon, the freedman of
Lucius Ahenobarbus, whom Agias had contrived to entrap in Gabii, and
hold prisoner until the danger was over. Phaon's confession puts us in
complete possession of all the schemes of the plotters; and it will be
well for you to inform that worthy young gentleman, Lucius
Ahenobarbus, that I only forbear to prosecute him, and Pratinas, who
really made him his supple tool, because I am a peaceable man who
would not bring scandal upon an old and noble family. If, however,
anything should befall Drusus which should indicate that fresh plots
against his life were on foot, let Ahenobarbus be assured that I can
no more regard him so leniently. I may add that since it was through a
marriage with you that Ahenobarbus expected to profit by the murder, I
have already advised Drusus that, according to the decisions of
several of the most eminent _jurisconsulti_,[121] a property provision
such as his father inserted in his will would not be binding,
especially in view of the present facts of the case. Drusus has
accordingly prepared a new will which, if questioned, I shall defend
in the courts with all my power. Farewell."

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