 Part 1 Chapter 1 of Quo Vadis, a tale of the time of Nero. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by David Leeson. Quo Vadis by Henrik Sinkiewicz. Translated by S. A. Binyan and S. Malevsky. Part 1 Chapter 1 It was not until about noon that Petronius finally woke. He felt greatly fatigued, as usual. The evening before he had been with Nero at a feast which had continued late into the night, for some time past his health had not been good. He said of himself that he felt like a log of wood in the mornings, and barely had sufficient strength to collect his thoughts. However, a bath and a careful massage administered by skilled slaves gradually quickened the flow of his sluggish blood, refreshed him, and restored his courage. From the last stage of the bath he issued a new man, his eyes sparkling with wit and animation, rejuvenated, vivacious, so superior that Otho could not equal him, in fact, honestly meriting his sobriquet, Arbiter of Elegance. Petronius seldom went to the public baths, and then only to hear some speaker whose reputation had aroused the gossip of the city, or when there were games of particular interest going on in the Great Hall. In ordinary circumstances he preferred his private baths on his own estate, which Selaire, the renowned companion of Severus, had enlarged and rebuilt for him. With so much taste were they equipped that in spite of the fact that the imperial baths were larger and immeasurably more luxuriously planned, Nero himself owned Petronius's superior. As Petronius, bored by Vitenius's joking, had taken part after last night's feast in a discussion with Nero, Lucan, and Seneca as to whether women possessed souls, he woke, as has been said, late, and according to his habit made use of the baths. Two colossal slaves having laid him upon a cypress wood table, which was covered with immaculate Egyptian linen, dipped their hands in perfumed oil and began to rub him. Meanwhile, closing his eyes, he waited till the warmth of the steam and the friction of the rubber's hands should penetrate his body and drive away fatigue. After a short time he opened his eyes and asked of the weather. Later he inquired concerning the precious stones which I dominaeus, the jeweler, had promised to bring him to examine. As the breeze was from the Albin Mountains, the weather promised fair, as for the precious stones they had not yet been sent. At the same instant the slave whose duty it was to announce the names of the visitors to the baths appeared from behind the curtain to say that young Marcus Vinicius, who had just returned from Asia Minor, wished to see Petronius. Petronius ordered the slaves to carry him to the warm room into which he directed that his guest should be admitted. Vinicius was the son of his eldest sister, who had years before become the wife of Marcus Vinicius, a consul in the reign of Tiberius. Under Corbulo's command the young Vinicius had been fighting the Parthians and had now, after the close of the war, returned to Rome. Petronius was extremely fond of him, because for one reason he was handsome and athletic, and also because he had sufficient delicacy of feeling not to exceed a certain moderation in his debaucheries, a faculty which Petronius valued above all others. "'My greetings to Petronius,' said the young man, as with an elastic step he entered the warm room. "'May all the gods and especially Escalapius and Cyprus be indulgent to thee, for under their joint protection nothing can go amiss. "'Welcome to Rome, and may thy rest be sweet after the war,' answered Petronius, extending his hand from the folds of the soft linen which covered him. "'What news from Armenia? And while thou wert in Asia did you happen to go to Bithynia?' For a period Petronius had himself been the governor of Bithynia, and had administered the province with firmness and justice. Then as much as this activity presented a curious contrast in the character of one noted for indolence and luxurious tastes, Petronius was fond of referring to his services to the state, since they showed not only what he was able to do, but what he might have been had he so wished. "'I did go to Heracleia,' answered Vinicius. "'I was sent there by Corbulla for reinforcements. Ah, Heracleia! There it was I knew a girl from Colchis, for whom I would give all the divorced women I know, for Pia included. But how long ago that was? Let us talk of other things. What news of the Parthians? Between ourselves they bore me the Vologeces, the Turidates, Antigranes, all those barbarians who are in the habit of going on all fours at home, as Oralinus says, and who affect to be human beings only with us. Rome talks much of them, however, for the reason, probably, that she is afraid to talk of anything else. This war fares badly, and but for Corbulla it might have ended in defeat. Corbulla, by Bacchus, a genuine war-god, a veritable Mars, a great general, and with all an irritable, blunt, thick-witted fellow, in spite of it all I like him, if for nothing else than because Nero fears him. Corbulla is no fool, perhaps thou art right, but what difference does that make, as Pyrrhus says, stupidity is no worse than intelligence, and cannot be told from it? Vinicius continued to talk of the war, but when Petronius again closed his eyes, and the young man noticed his uncle's weary, drawn face, he changed the subject of conversation, and inquired with solicitude concerning his health. Petronius once more raised his eyelids. How was his health? So so. He did not feel perfectly well. He did not feel so badly off, to be sure, as young Cicina, whose sensibilities were so dulled that, in the morning, when he was taken to the bath, he would have to ask whether he was sitting or standing. No, he did not feel well. Vinicius commended him to Escalapius and Cyprus, but he, Petronius, did not believe in Escalapius. It is not even known whose son that Escalapius was, whether Arsinoe's or Coronus's, and when the mother is in dispute, what is there to say of the father? In these days who will guarantee his own father? Petronius burst out laughing, and added, Two years ago I sent three dozen fat, live cocks and a golden cup to Epidorus. Canst thou imagine why? Said I to myself, whether it do good or no good, it can do no harm. I am of the opinion that those who bring offerings to the gods reason just as I do, all with the possible exception of the mule-drivers travelers hire at the gate of Capina. In addition to Escalapius, I accidentally had some business with some of his kind last year when my kidneys were out of order. They prescribed a night's sleep within the walls of a temple. I knew them for rogues, but even then I asked myself what harm can come to me from that. Society rests on roguery, and life itself is self-deception. Even the soul is a dream. Nevertheless, one ought to have a certain degree of intelligence to be able to distinguish the arrows that are pleasant from those that are not. I direct that my sweat room shall be heated with cedar wood sprinkled with ambergris, because while I am alive I prefer perfumes to stenches, as for Cyprus, to whose good graces thou hast also commended me, I know enough about her protection to have introduced shooting pains in my right foot. But for all that she is a good goddess, I foresee the time sooner or later, when thou also will be bringing white doves to her altar. Thou hast guessed right, answered Venetius, I came away scatheous from the arrows of the Parthians, but love transfixed me in a most unforeseen way, not a mile outside the city gate. By the white knees of the graces thou shalt tell me about this at length, said Petronius. I came to thee particularly for advice, answered Marcus. The manicures, who now began to busy themselves with Petronius, interrupted him, and Marcus, at Petronius's invitation, cut off his tunic and plunged into the tepid bath. Bless me, I did not even ask thee if thy love is returned, said Petronius, as he gazed at Venetius's youthful figure, which seemed as if chiseled from marble. If Lysipus had only seen thee, thou wouldst be gracing at this very moment the Palatine Gate as a statue of the young Hercules. The young man smiled with satisfaction, as he plunged about in the bath, and sent the warm water in an infinitude of sparkling drops over the mosaic, which represented Hera at that moment when the goddess begged that Lysipus might close the eyes of Zeus. Petronius stared at him with the delighted gaze of an artist. When Venetius came out of the bath, and in turn had given himself into the hands of the manicures, the reader entered, carrying at his chest a bronze tube containing rolls of papyrus. Wouldst thou like to listen, asked Petronius, if it is something of thine own with pleasure, answered Venetius? Otherwise I would prefer to talk, poets nowadays buttonhole one at every street corner. Right, it is impossible to get past any one of the Basilicas, or baths, or libraries, or bookshops without running into a poet gesticulating like a monkey. When a gripper came back from the east, he mistook them for lunatics. That is the way things go at present. Caesar is writing verses, therefore everyone is imitating him. Only one thing is forbidden to write better verses than Caesar's, and for that reason I fear somewhat for Lucan. As for me I write prose, with which, moreover, I neither regale myself nor others. The reader is about to read the lines of the ill-fated Fabricius Feinto. Why ill-fated? Because he has been commanded to amuse himself in the character of Odysseus, and forbidden to return to his household gods, till he receives a fresh command. In one respect, however, this Odyssey will not be as hard as Ulysses, his wife is not at all like Penelope. It is, I think, superfluous to explain to thee that the command was stupid, but in this place appearances are the only things that count. Fabricius wrote a wretched tiresome book, but for all that everyone is reading it with rapture, now that the author is exiled. From every quarter all one hears is, it is a scandal, a scandal, possibly Fabricius has exaggerated a trifle, but I assure you, knowing our city and its heads of families and its women so well, that his account is paler than the reality. But that fact does not prevent his readers searching for allusions to themselves with terror, and to their friends with delight. At Avernus' bookstore there are a hundred clerks kept copying the book at dictation. It is an assured success. Did any of your escapades get into it? Of course, but the author fooled himself, because he did not see that I am at once much worse and less stupid than he has represented me. You see we have here long since lost the faculty of distinguishing what is moral from what is immoral. For my part I am of the opinion that no distinction need be made, although Seneca, Musonius, and Trasca pretend to see one, but for me it is a matter of indifference. By Hercules I speak my mind openly, but I have persistently held to one point of superiority, which is that I do not confound what is ugly with what is beautiful, and this is, for instance, something our bronze-beard, the poet, the driver. Singer, dancer, and historian does not understand. Nevertheless I am sorry for Fabricius. He is a good companion, conceit ruined him. Everyone suspected him, yet no one was certain. He could not restrain himself and gave the whole thing away in confidence. Didst thou hear the story about Rufinas? No. In that case let us go into the cool room. We will cool off there, and I will tell thee the tale. They entered the cooling room. In the centre, a fountain arising from a pale rose-coloured basin diffused the perfume of violets. Seating themselves in an alcove covered with a silken fabric, they began to breathe in the coolness. For a few moments neither spoke. Venicius dreamily gazed at the statue of a bronze fawn, who, as he inclined over a nymph's arm, tried eagerly to kiss her in the lips. After an interval he said, There is one who knows the truth that certainly is the best that life has to give. Yes, to a degree, but that is not the only thing thou art fond of, thou likest war, for instance, to which I am not drawn, for the reason that in the camp one's fingernails break and lose their rosy tent. However, every one of us has his weakness, bronze-beard like singing, especially his own songs, and old Scorus his Corinthian vase, which stands at the foot of his bed, in which he kisses when he cannot sleep. He has destroyed the lip of the vase with his kisses. I say, dost thou not write verses? No, I have never been able to write even a single hexameter. And dost thou play the lute and sing? No. And dost thou drive a chariot? Once I competed in the hippodromat Antioch, but unsuccessfully. In that case I will make my mind easy on thy account, which faction didst thou belong to in the circus, to the green? Now I am perfectly satisfied, and the more so since, although thou art not as rich as palace or cynica, thou art nevertheless well off. Dost thou see that with us at present, while it is good if one can write verses or sing to the lute, declaim or compete in the circus, it is still better and immeasurably safer for one not to write verses, nor to play, nor to sing, nor to compete in the circus. The most useful thing of all is to know how to be enthusiastic when Bronzebeard is enthusiastic. Thou art a handsome young fellow, therefore the only thing that threatens thee is that Popea may fall in love with thee. But she has had too much experience. She learned quite enough of love with her two first husbands. With her third she has other plans. Noest thou that fool of an Otho still loves her insanely? Far away upon the Spanish cliffs he walks and sighs. He has lost his former habits, and has become so fastidious about his person that it does not take him more than three hours a day to dress his hair. Who could think of such a thing, especially of Otho? I understand him, answered Venetius, but in his place I should have acted otherwise. How exactly? I should have formed faithful legions from the native mountaineers. The Iberians make excellent soldiers. Venetius, Venetius, I was almost ready to tell thee that thou wouldst have been incapable of such a thing. And dost thou know why? Because that all those such things are done they are not even hinted at. For my part in his place I should have laughed at Popea, laughed at Bronzebeard, and should have formed legions for my own use, not of Iberian men, but of Iberian women. But more particularly would I have written epigrams which, like that unfortunate Rufinus, I would have read to no one. By the way, thou werest going to tell me about him. I will do that in the anointing-room. But in the anointing-room Venetius's attention was diverted by the beauty of the slave-women who awaited the bathers. Two of these, negrises, who reminded one of Ebony statues, began at once to anoint their bodies with Arabian perfumes. Others, Phrygians, capable hairdressers, held in their hands soft and flexible as serpents, polished mirrors of steel and combs, while two others, Grecian women from cause, who were beautiful as goddesses, waited till the time should come to arrange the gentleman's togas in graceful folds. By Zeus the cloud-scatterer, exclaimed Marcus Venetius, see what thou hast to choose from. I prefer quality to quantity, answered Petronius. My whole household in Rome does not exceed four hundred, and I fancy that a larger number of servants is not required for personal attendance. More beautiful bodies Bronzebeard himself does not own, said Venetius, distending his nostrils. Petronius answered with a suggestion of good-natured indifference, Thou art my kinsmen, and I am neither so yielding as Barsus, nor such a pedant as his Aulus Plotius. At the sound of the last name Venetius forgot the maidens from cause, and raising his head asked, What made they think of Aulus Plotius? Can it be thou dost not know that when I dislocated my arm outside the city, I spent more than two weeks in his house? Plotius happened to be passing at the time of the accident, and when he saw how much I was suffering carried me to his house, where his slave, the physician Merian, cured me. I wished to talk with thee of precisely this thing. What is the trouble? Are my fears correct that thou art in love with Pomponia? If this be true, I am sorry for thee. She is not young, and she is virtuous. There can be no worse combination. I did not fall in love with Pomponia, answered Venetius. With whom, then? Would that I knew myself, but I do not even know her name, whether it be Ligia or Kalina. In the house they call her Ligia, because she is a Ligian by descent, but she also has her barbarous name of Kalina. What a wonderful house is Plotius's! It is filled with people, yet it is as quiet as the groves of Subbiacum. In the course of the whole two weeks I was there I did not have a suspicion that there was a divinity not far off. But once at dawn I caught sight of her bathing in the garden fountain. By the foam from which Venus rose, the morning light passed right through her body. It seemed to me that let the sun but rise, and she would vanish in its light as the gleam of the morning stars. After this I saw her twice, and since then I have been unable to find rest. I know no other desires. I care for nothing that Rome can give me. I want no women, gold, nor Corinthian copper. I want not amber, pearls, nor wine, nor feasting. One thing alone I eagerly long for, Ligia. I confess to the Petronius sincerely that I am yearning for her, as yearns for Pesithia, that dream pictured on the mosaic of thy warm room, ceaselessly day and night I yearn. If she is a slave by her, she is not a slave. Who then is she, one of Plotius's freed women? Never having been a slave she could not have been given her freedom. What then is she? I do not know, a king's daughter or something like it. Vinnicius, thou art exciting my curiosity. If thou wilt listen to me, I will soon satisfy thy curiosity. It will not take long to tell the story. Doubtless thou knowest personally Vanius, the king of the Suevi, who, when he was banished from his own country, lived for many years in Rome, where he made himself a reputation for his luck at dice and his skill in chariot racing. The Emperor Drusus restored him again to his throne. Vanius, who was actually a man of parts, began by ruling well, and was successful in war, but later he gradually began to skin not only his neighbors, but his own Suevi. At this Vangio and Cido his two nephews, the sons of Vibilius, king of the Hermunduri, determined to force him to go back to Rome to try his luck at the dice. I remember it did not happen so long ago, in the time of Claudius. Yes, war broke out. Vanius summoned to his aid the Asagi. His fond nephews turned to the Ligians, who, having heard of Vanius's wealth and tempted by the hope of booty, poured in such multitudes that Claudius Caesar himself began to fear for the safety of his frontier. Claudius, not wishing to get involved in a foreign war, wrote to Atelius Hister, the commander of the Danubian legions, to follow closely the course of the war, and not to permit it to disturb our peace. Then Hister exacted of the Ligians that they should bind themselves not to cross the frontier. Not only did they agree to this, but gave hostages, among whom were the wife and daughter of their leader. They'll notice that the barbarians take their wives and children with them in the field. My Ligia is the daughter of this leader. Where didst thou learn all this? Aulus Plotius himself told me, as a matter of fact the Ligians did not cross the frontier, but barbarians come like a hurricane and disappear with the same impetuosity. Just so vanished the Ligians with their wild bullhorns on their heads. They, the Suevi and the Asagi, Vanius had assembled, but their king was killed. In consequence they disappeared with their booty, and left their hostages in Hister's power. The mother died after a short time, and the daughter was sent by Hister to the ruler of all Germany, Pomponius, for the reason that he did not know what else to do with her. At the conclusion of the war with Cati he returned to Rome, where, as you know, Claudius allowed him to hold a triumph. At that time the girl walked behind the conqueror's chariot, but when in his turn Pomponius became perplexed to know what to do with the girl, since a hostage might not be regarded as a captive, he gave her to his sister, Pomponius Grysina, the wife of Plotius. Here in this house, where everything from the host to the chickens in the yard are virtuous, she grew to maidenhood, alas, virtuous as Grysina herself, and to be so beautiful that in comparison to her even Poppia seems like an autumn fig to an apple of the hisperides. And what then? I repeat that from the instant I saw how the rays of light shone through and penetrated her body, I felt desperately in love with her. She is transparent, like a sea lampry or a young sardine. Do not laugh, Petronius, but if thou hast been led into a misunderstanding by my speaking so freely of my passion, remember that bright clothes often cover deep wounds. I must confess to thee that when I was returning from Asia, I slept the night in the temple of Mopsis in the hope that a revelation might come to me in my slumber, and indeed while I slept Mopsis himself appeared to me and declared that love would work a great change in my life. I have heard that Pliny says he does not believe in the gods, but does believe in dreams, and perhaps he is right. My justing does not prevent my thinking at times that there exists only one divinity, eternal, omnipotent, and creative, Venus Genetrix. It unites souls and bodies everything. Love it was who called the world from chaos whether he did well is another question, but since it is so we must of necessity acknowledges might, although one need not be thankful for it. Ah, Petronius, it is easier to talk philosophy than to give good counsel. Tell me what it is thou particularly wishest. I wish to have Ligia. I wish that these hands of mine which now only embrace the air might hold her and press her in their embrace. I wish to breathe her breath. If she were a slave I would give Aulus for her a hundred maidens with feet whiter than shock as signed that they had been for the first time exposed for sale. I wish to have her in my house till my head is as white as the summit of Soracti in winter. Though she is not a slave yet because she belongs to Plotius's family, and because she has been forsaken by her parents, she may be regarded as a foster daughter, had he wished Plotius might give her to thee. Clearly thou knowest not Pomponia Grisina. Both are bound up in her as in their own daughter. Did I know Pomponia, a veritable cypress tree? Were she not the wife of Aulis, she might have been hired as a professional mourner. Ever since Julia's death she has not dothed her mourning. In a word she looks as if while still living she were wandering over the Asphodel's strewn meadow. Moreover, she is a woman who has had only a single husband, which makes her a phoenix among our much divorced women. By the way, didst thou hear that a phoenix has actually appeared in Upper Egypt? The thing happens not oftener than once in five hundred years. Patronius! Patronius! We will talk of the phoenix some other time. Then hearken to me, dear Marcus! I know Aulis Plotius, who, although he disapproves of my manner of life, yet regards me with a certain attachment, and perhaps rates me above others, for he knows that I have never been an informer, as for instance were Domitius Arthur, Tigallinus, and the whole gang of Bronzebeard's friends, while making no pretensions of being a stoic, I have more than once turned away in disgust from certain acts of Nero's on which Seneca and Burus have looked with indulgence. If thou thinkest I can do something for thee with Aulis, I am thy servant. It seems to me thou canst, thou knowest how to influence him, and thy resources are inexhaustible. Think over the case, and speak with Plotius. Thou exaggeratest both my influence and my resourcefulness. However, if that is all thou wantest of me, I will speak to Plotius when he returns to Rome. They returned two days since. That being the case, let us go into the dining-room, where our breakfast is waiting, and when we have pulled ourselves together, we will have them take us to Plotius's. Thou hast always been good to me, exclaimed Venisius with fervor, but now there is nothing left for me but to set up thy statue among my lorries, a fine one like that over there, and make offerings to it. He turned to the statues which adorned one of the walls of the perfumed chamber, and designated the one which represented Petronius as Hermes with a staff in his hand. By the light of Helios, he added, if the god like Alexander was like to thee, I'm marvel not at Helena. This exclamation in an equal degree breathed sincerity and flattery, for although Petronius was older and physically not so well developed as Venisius, his face seemed handsomer. The Roman women not only went into ecstasies over the delicacy of his mind and taste, for which reason they called him the arbiter of elegance, but also over his figure. This was reflected even on the faces of the two maidens of Caus, who were at present engaged in arranging the folds in his toga. One of them, Eunice by name, who cherished a secret passion for Petronius, gazed in his eyes with tenderness and adoration. But he, without even looking at her, smiled at Venisius and began to quote to him by way of reply Seneca's epigram about women, animal impudence, et cetera. When he had finished, Petronius, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder, led him into the dining-room. In the anointing-room, the two Greek girls, the Phrygians, and the two Negresses were making ready to gather together the perfumes. But on the instant, from behind the drawn curtains of the cold room, protruded the heads of the bathing-masters, and a cautious call was heard. One of the Grecians, the Phrygians, and both of the Negresses immediately disappeared behind the curtain. The time of mirth and revelry had come in the baths. The superintendent did not restrain the slaves, because he himself had not infrequently taken part in similar orgies. Petronius, moreover, also had his doubts about them, but being an indulgent man and one not fond of criticizing, looked upon the revels through his fingers. Eunice remained alone in the anointing-room. She listened for a time to the sound of the voices and laughter retreating towards the sweat-room. Then she took the bench ornamented with amber and ivory, on which Petronius had just been sitting, and carefully moved it over to his statue. The anointing-room was filled with sunlight, and the bright reflection of the many-colored marble slabs with which the walls were covered. Eunice mounted the bench. When she found herself on a level with the statue, she threw her arms impetuously around its neck, then, throwing back her golden hair and pressing her rosy body against the white marble, she ardently covered with kisses Petronius's cold mouth. CHAPTER II After breakfast, as Petronius called it, in spite of the fact that the friends sat down at table when simple mortals had long since finished their noonday meal, Petronius proposed a short nap. It was still much too early for visiting, he thought. There are, to be sure, persons who begin to visit their friends at sunrise, holding that the custom is sanctioned by antiquity and is truly Roman. But he, Petronius, considered it barbarous. The best of all times for visiting is after noon, but not earlier than when the sun sinks towards the temple of Jupiter capitalinus, and begins to throw oblique shadows on the forum. It is usually still very warm in the autumn, and people are fond of sleeping after eating. At this time it is pleasant to listen to the murmuring of the fountain in the great hall, and when one has taken the thousand obligatory steps to muse in the purplish light sifted through the purple of the half-drawn awning. Venicius agreed with him. They walked up and down, taking in an offhand way of the gossip from the palace on the Palatine and the city, and carelessly reasoning of life. After a time Petronius retired into the sleeping-room, but did not sleep long. At the end of a half-hour he returned, and when he had ordered Verbena to be brought him, began to smell it and to rub it on his hands and temples. Thou canst imagine, said he, how stimulating and refreshing this is! Now I am ready. The Liddars had already been waiting long. They took their seats and directed that they should be born to the patrician quarter, to the house of Aulus. Aulus's villa was situated on the southern slope of the Palatine hill, near what is called the Carini, the shortest way thither lay through the forum. However, as Petronius wished to visit Master Idominaeus's jewelry shop, he directed that they should carry them through the Apollonus quarter and the forum in the direction of Scolaritus quarter, on the corner of which there were all sorts of booths. The stalwart negroes raised the Liddars and started on the way, preceded by slaves called Runners. For a certain time Petronius was silent. He kept raising his verbena-perfumed palms to his nostrils, and was evidently thinking of something. Afterwards he said, It occurs to me that if thy forest nymph be not a slave, nothing prevents her from leaving Plotius's house, and taking up her abode with thee. Thou wouldst surround her with love and shower riches upon her, as I do upon my divine Chrysothamus, with whom between ourselves I am satisfied, at least as well pleased as she is with me. Marcus shook his head disapprovingly. Why not, asked Petronius, if worst came to worst the case would go to Caesar, and thou mayest be certain that, irrespective of my influence, our Bronzebeard would take thy side. Thou dost not know, Lidgia, answered Venetius. In that case permit me to ask if thou thyself knewest more of her than her appearance. As thou talked with her, as thou told her thy love, I saw her first at the fountain, and afterwards I met her twice. Do not forget that while I was in Aulus's house, I lived in an extension intended for guests, and that with my dislocated hand I was not able to be present at the family table. Only on the eve of the day I announced my departure did I find myself with Lidgia at supper, but I did not succeed in exchanging even a word with her. I was forced to listen while Aulus told stories of his victories in Britain, and after that to a discussion of the failure of the small estates in Italy to prevent which Licinius Stolo was striving. In fact I do not know whether Aulus is capable of talking of anything else, and do not fancy that we shall be able to escape it, unless thou preferest to hear about the effeminacy of the times. They raise pheasants in their birdhouse, but do not eat them, being convinced that with every pheasant eaten the downfall of the Roman power is brought nearer. The second time I met her by the cistern in the garden. She had a reed in her hand, the end of which she was dipping in the water and sprinkling with it the iris growing about. Look at my knees, by Hercules's shield! They did not shake when the Parthian rushed with howls upon our ranks, but at the cistern they quaked. And embarrassed as a boy who still wears an amulet on his neck, my eyes alone prayed for indulgence, as for a long while I was not able to utter a word. Petronius gazed at him with an expression almost of envy. Fortunate fellow, said he, no matter how bad the world or life may be, there is one thing that remains eternally beautiful—youth. Then he asked, So thou didst not speak to her? Oh no! When I had got myself a little under control I said I was on my way back from Asia, that I had sprained my hand outside the city gates, but now that the time had come when I must leave this hospitable roof, I was persuaded that to suffer under it was more delightful than to divert oneself elsewhere, and to be ill there more consoling than to be in health away from it. She followed my words, herself confused, her head bent down, marking something the while with the reed on the yellow sand. Then she raised her eyes, looked again at the lines she had drawn, as if preparing herself to ask me something, and then suddenly ran away like a dryad from a stupid fawn. She must have beautiful eyes, like the sea, and I was drowned in them exactly as if in the sea. Believe me, the archipelago is not so blue as her eyes. In a moment Plotius's little boy ran up and asked me something, but I did not understand what he wanted. Oh, Minerva, exclaimed Patronius, take from this youth's eyes the bandage with which Eros has bound them, lest he dash his head on the columns of the temple of Venus. Then he turned to Venetius. Listen, thou spring bud on the tree of life, thou first green shoot of the vineyard. Better than take thee to the house of Plotius, let me order them to carry thee to the house of Galotius, where there is a school for young men who know nothing of life. I don't understand thee. But what did she write on the sand? Was it the name of love, or perchance a heart transfixed with his arrow, or something of that sort by which thou mightest learn that the satyrs had already whispered the secrets of life in the nymph's ear? Is it possible thou didst not examine the marks? From the time when I put on the toga more time had passed than thou thinkest," answered Venetius, before little Aulus ran up I carefully examined the marks, for well I know that the girls of Greece and Rome frequently write on the sand things which their lips know not how to speak. However, guess, guess what she had drawn. If it was not what I have supposed I will not guess. A fish? A what? I say a fish. Does not that signify that cold blood still runs in her veins? I do not know. But thou, who has named me a springtime bud on the tree of life, does not thou in truth know better than I how to interpret this sign? Beloved, ask Pliny about that. He knows everything about fish. Old Apicius, if he were still alive, might perchance also be able to tell you something about it. Not for nothing did he during his life eat more fish than could be gathered together in the Bay of Naples. The conversation was interrupted by the litters arriving in a crowded street where the noise of the multitude prevented further talk. Passing the Apollonus quarter they turned to the Boreum and thence to the Roman Forum. The Forum, in fair days, before sunset, was filled with loiterers who assembled in multitudes to centre among the columns, to tell stories, to learn the news, to stare at the litters born past with their distinguished occupants, to rub shoulders in the jeweler's shops, in the bookstalls, in the money-changers, in the shops where were sold silk, bronze, and every possible sort of thing. The houses occupying a part of the market extending towards the capital were filled with these shops. Half of the Forum under the cliffs of the Fortress, capital Citadel, was already plunged in darkness, while the columns which adorned the temples above were drowned in a splendour of gold and blue. The columns standing on a lower level cast their long shadows on the marble slabs. So great indeed were the number of columns standing about everywhere that the eye lost itself among them as in a forest. These buildings and columns seemed to have jammed themselves together. They were piled one on the other, they ran right and left, they ascended the hills, took refuge on the walls of the capital, or clung one to the other like trees, large and small, thick and thin, golden or white, now blooming under the architrave with acanthus blossoms, now ornamented with ionic spirals, now capped with a simple Doric square. On the forest glistened coloured triglyphs, out of tempons, stepped the sculptured figures of gods, winged golden four-horse chariots, struggled as it were to fly from their pediments into the air, into the imperturbable blue which overspread this city of crowded temples. Through the middle and along the edges of the market surged the populace. The throng as it wandered under the arches of the Basilica of Julius Caesar, or sat in the steps of the Temple of Castor and Pollux, or sauntered about the little temple of Vesta, resembled as it moved against this extensive marble background, a variegated swarm of butterflies or beetles. Above, along the enormous risso on the side of the temple dedicated to Jovi optimo maximo, new waves began to surge. The Romans were listening to the orator on the platform in the rostrum square. Here and there the calls of the peddlers were heard, as they sold fruit, wine, or water mixed with the juice of figs, the invitations of the fakers praising wonder-working nostrums, of diviners seeking out treasure, of the interpreters of dreams. Somewhere above the noise of the conversation and the hawker's cries were to be distinguished the sound of the cystrum, the Egyptian Sambuca, or of Grecian flutes, in other places the sick, the pious, and the afflicted were bringing offerings to the temples. Among the people flocks of doves flew down on the marble pavement, and threw themselves eagerly on the preferred grain. Like variegated or dusky spots in motion, these flocks now rose in the air, with a loud flutter of wings, now again alighted in a place vacated by the crowd. From time to time the people stood aside to make way for the litters in which were to be seen the painted faces of women, or the heads of senators or patricians, with features as it were congested and enfeebled by existence. The multitude, composed of members of many different tribes, called to them by name, adding a nickname, a bit of ridicule or praise, into the disordered groups at times companies of soldiers or guards, enforcing order in the streets, forced their way, proceeding with measured tread. On all sides Greek was heard quite as frequently as Latin. Venicius, who had not been in the city for a long time, gazed with a certain curiosity on the human anthill, and on the famous Roman forum, lording it over this multitude, hailing from the four corners of the earth, and at the same time submerged in it. Petronius, divining his companions' thought, called the forum The Nest of Knights Without the Knights. Indeed the real Romans were completely lost in that throng, most of the representatives of every race and nationality. In it there appeared for an instant inhabitants of Ethiopia, enormous light-haired denizens of the far north, Britons, Gauls, and Germans, squint-eyed emigrants from Ceres, people from the Euphrates, and from India with brick-stained beards, Syrians from the banks of the Orontes, with black insinuating eyes, dried out like bones, nomads from the Arabian deserts, Jews with sunken breasts, Egyptians with changeless, indifferent smiles on their faces, Numidians and Africans, Greeks from Hellas, who governed the city on inequality with the Romans, but held sway through science, art, wisdom, and navery, Greeks from the islands, from Asia Minor, Egypt, Italy, and Narbonic Gaul. Among the throng of slaves, with pierced ears, were not a few men, idle people whom Caesar amused, clothed, and even fed at his own expense. Not a few voluntary immigrants had flocked here, attracted to the huge city by the possibility of living without labor, and by expectations of success, and usurers, and priests of Serapis with palm branches in their hands, priests of Isis to whose altars were brought more offerings than to the temple of the capitaline Jupiter, and priests of Sibel carrying in their hands the golden fruit of the maize, and priests of wandering divinities, eastern dancers in shining miters, vendors of amulets, snake charmers, and Chaldean soothsayers, and finally a considerable number of vagrants without any occupation, who weakly turned to the storehouse on the other side of the tiber for bread, who fought for lottery tickets in the circus, spent their nights in chronically ramshackle houses on the quarter beyond the river, and sunny warm days under porticoes in the filthy taverns of the Subura, on the Milvian Bridge, or before the villas of the distinguished Romans, wence from time to time the leavings from the slaves' table were thrown to them. Petronius knew the throng well. From every quarter the cry, It is he, reached Venetius' ear. Petronius was beloved for his liberality, but still more had his popularity increased after the Romans learned that he had appealed to Caesar for an annulment of the sentence of death pronounced against all the slaves of the prefect Padanius Secundus, without distinction of age or sex, because one of their number, driven to desperation, had killed the tyrant. Petronius had, to be sure, stated in public that the case concerned him personally not at all, and that he had gone before the emperor in his private capacity as the arbiter of elegance, because while a barbarous slaughter of the kind was worthy of the Scythians, it was not of Romans, and offended his aesthetic sensibilities. Nevertheless the multitude, outraged at the punishment, adored Petronius from that time. But he did not care for this popularity. Petronius did not forget that Britannicus, whom Nero poisoned, was also beloved of the mob, as well as Agrippina, assassinated at Caesar's command, and Octavia, who, after her veins had been opened, had been suffocated in a warm bath on the Panditaria, and rebellious Plautus, who had been banished, and Thrasia, who lived in daily expectation of a sentence of death. The disposition of the populace were consequently better counted as an ill omen, and skeptic that he was, Petronius was superstitious. His detestation of the multitude was twofold. He detested it as an aristocrat, and as a man of culture. In his opinion, those who smelt of dry beans carried in their shirts, who were always hoarse and sweating from playing mora on the street crossing, and in the peristals, did not deserve to be called human beings. For this reason, Petronius, giving no heed to the applause and the kisses wafted to him, told Marcus the story of the killing of Padanius, and he ridiculed the fickleness of the street-shouters who applauded Nero as he was going to the temple of Jupiter Stator the very day after they had expressed their indignation at his tyranny. At Avernus's bookshop he ordered the litter to halt, and descending bought an illuminated manuscript which he gave to Venetius. Here is a gift for thee, he said. Thanks, answered Venetius. When he had examined the title he asked, the Satiracan, is it something new? Whom is it by? It is mine, but I am not minded to follow in Rufinus's tracks whose story I was about to tell thee, nor in the tracks of Fabricius Feento, therefore no one knows of this, tell no one of it. But thou hast said thou dost not write verses, said Venetius looking over the manuscript, and here I observe prose and verse side by side. When you read it pay attention to the description of the Feast of Trimaeum, as for verses they disgust me since Nero began to write them. When Vitelius wants to ease his stomach he uses little ivory sticks which he thrusts down his throat, because for the same purpose use flamingo feathers steeped either in olive oil or in a decoction of some sort of grass possessing the same properties, but my unique remedy is to read Nero's verses. After words I can praise them, if not with a clear conscience, at least with a clean stomach. Having said this he again stopped the litter at the jeweler Adomeneus, and when he had arranged the question about the precious stones, directed that they proceed straight to Aulus's house. In the way, said he, I will tell thee the story of Rufinus as an instance of that to which self-conceit may bring an author. But before he began his story the litters turned into the patrician quarter, and they found themselves before Aulus's dwelling, a young and muscular gatekeeper opened before them the door leading to the main entrance, over which a caged magpie received the guests with a piercing greeting of welcome. On their way from the second vestibule to the court Venetius asked, "'Didst thou notice that the doorkeeper here goes unchained?' "'Tis a strange house,' answered Petronius in an undertone, "'thou probably knowest that Pomponia Grisina has been suspected of belonging to a superstitious sect of the east that worships a person called Christus. It appears that Crispinilla, who cannot forgive Pomponia for being satisfied during her life with a single husband, performed the kindness, a woman with a single husband. At present in Rome it is easier to find a plate of Norica mushrooms. She was tried before a domestic court. "'Thou outright it is truly a strange house. Afterwards I will tell thee what I have seen and heard while in it.' They entered the great hall. The slave standing at the entrance sent the butler to announce the visitors. Meanwhile servants presented them with chairs and placed stools under their feet. Petronius, who had never been in the house, imagined that in it there reigned an eternal gloom. He consequently looked about him with surprise, and even with a feeling of disappointment, as he observed that the court produced on the contrary a pleasing impression. From above, through a large opening, fell a sheaf of bright light which broke into a thousand sparks in the fountain. A four-sided basin with a jet of water in the center, designed to catch the rain in bad weather, was surrounded by anemones and lilies. It was evident that the persons in the house loved lilies. They grew in thick clumps of white and red blossoms. There were also many sapphire colored irises whose tender leaves were silvered by the spray. Among the moist moss which concealed the lily-pots, and the dense undergrowth of verger, were described bronze statues of children and sea-birds. In one corner a bronze row inclined her greenish head, turned gray by the moisture, to the water as if wishing to drink. The floor of the court was ornamented with mosaic. The walls, part faced with reddish marble, and in parts decorated with paintings representing trees, fishes, birds, and griffins, caressed the eye with their play of color. The casing of the doors leading into the side chambers were ornamented with tortoise shell and ivory. Beside the doors against the walls stood the statues of Aulus's forefathers. Everything evidenced a peaceful plenty, far removed from luxury, but full of dignity. Petronius, who lived in a style immeasurably more luxurious, could not find a single thing that offended his taste. He was about to point this out to Venetius when the doorkeeper suddenly pulled aside the curtain, separating the hall from the terrace, and Aulus Plotius appeared in the distance rapidly approaching. He was a man declining toward the evening of life, with grizzled yet vivacious head, and an energetic face, a trifle short, but suggesting in spite of that the head of an eagle. For the time being his face wore an expression of surprise. The unexpected visit of Nero's friend, companion, and confidant alarmed him somewhat. Petronius was a man too observant and worldly not to notice this. Therefore, after the first greetings he declared with all the eloquence and amiability he could summon, that he came to express his gratitude for the hospitality shown in this house to his sister's son, that gratitude alone had prompted the visit, and that his long acquaintance with Aulus had inspired him with this audacity. Aulus in return assured him that he was welcome, as for the gratitude he, Aulus, considered himself in his debt, as although Petronius of a truth would not guess what service he had rendered him. In fact Petronius did not guess. To no purpose did he raise his nut-brown eyes, did he strain his mind in an effort to recall the slightest service he had shown Aulus, or anyone else. He could remember none, except that it might be the one which he was about to render Vinicius. Perhaps something of the kind had happened in spite of himself and without his knowing it. I love and admire Vespasian, and you saved his life when he was unfortunate enough to fall asleep during one of Caesar's recitals. He slept to his own good fortune, replied Petronius, in that he did not hear the verses. I will not deny, however, that this blessing might not have turned out, unfortunately. Bronzebeard was for dispatching a centurion to him at once to advise him in a friendly way to open his veins, and thou, Petronius, laughed him out of it. Yes, or to be more truthful, I did the contrary. I told him that Orpheus knew how to lull the wild beasts to slumber. Consequently his triumph would have been still more complete if he had succeeded in putting Vespasian to sleep. It is possible to reprove Ahenobarbus, provided that to a modicum of reproof there be added a large amount of flattery. Her imperial highness, Popea, understands this very well. Alas! such is the way of the times, observed Aulus. Two of my front teeth are missing, knocked out by a stone thrown by a British slinger. On this account I whistle when I speak. Nevertheless I consider the days spent by me in Britain the happiest of my life, because they were victorious, Vinicius hastened to add. But Petronius, fearing that the veteran might begin his long tales of the wars, changed the topic of conversation. In the environs of Prinestae the inhabitants had found a dead wolf-cub with two heads, and three days ago during the storm the lightning knocked off a corner of the Temple of Luna, an unusual phenomenon so late in the fall, one Cotter, who told me this, went on to say that the priests of the Temple of Luna regard this as a sign of the fall of a city, or at least the ruin of a great house, which ruin may only be prevented by extraordinary sacrificial offerings. Aulus, when he had heard what Petronius said, remarked that portents of that kind ought not to be disregarded. No wonder that the gods have been angered by the incalculable evils, and in such cases one must offer propitiatory sacrifices. To this Petronius objected, thy house, Plotius, is not particularly great, although many live in it, and my house, although indeed much too large for so unworthy an owner, is in itself also not large. But if ruin threatens as great a house as, for instance, the Domus Transitoria, is it not worth a while to make offerings to save it? Plotius made no answer to this question, and his silence offended Petronius because, although he had lost the capacity of distinguishing good from evil, he had never been a spy, and it was possible to speak to him without fear. Therefore he again changed the conversation, and started to praise Plotius's house and the excellent taste displayed in all the details. "'Tis an old homestead,' answered Plotius, "'I have altered nothing in it, since I inherited it. The curtain separating the hall from the covered terrace was thrown aside, and the house was open to view through its entire extent, so that, looking through the terrace and the peristyle and hall behind it, the gaze reached to the garden itself, which, as seen from a distance, looked like a brilliant picture in a dark frame. From the garden the sound of happy children's voices were brought to the court. "'Our commander,' cried Petronius, "'allow us to enjoy at shorter range this genuine laughter, which nowadays it is given to one to hear but rarely.' "'Willingly,' answered Plotius, rising from his chair, "'that is my little owlass and ligia playing ball, as for the laughter I suppose, Petronius, that thou spendest my whole life in pleasure. Life deserves to be laughed at, therefore I laugh at it,' replied Petronius. "'That laughter, however, sounds different. As for that,' answered Venetius, Petronius does not laugh during the day, rather he laughs all night. Talking thus, they passed through the whole extent of the house and found themselves in the garden, where ligia and little owlass were playing ball. Slaves, called Spharistii, who were especially appointed for this game, picked the balls up from the ground and handed them to the players. Petronius cast a passing glance at ligia. Little owlass, seeing Venetius, ran up to ask after his health. The young man inclined his head as he passed the girl, who stood with a ball in her hand, her hair slightly disordered and somewhat out of breath and flushed. In the garden dining-room, upon which the ivy, vine, and honeysuckle threw their shade, sat Pomponia Grisina. The visitors hastened to greet her. Petronius, although he had never visited owlass's house, knew her, as he had met her at Antistias, the daughter of Rebellius Plotus, and also in the houses of Seneca and Polion. He could not conceal a certain surprise which her sad but agreeable face, the nobility of her bearing, her movements and speech, inspired in him. To such a degree did Pomponia contradict his ideas of women, that even this man, corrupt to the marrow, self-confident as no one else in Rome, this man not only felt a certain admiration for her, but even lost when at times he was in her presence, his self-confidence. And now, as he was thanking her for her care of Vinicius, he involuntarily addressed her as Lady, a title which never came to his mind when conversing with Calvia Crispanilla, Scribonia, Valeria, Solona, or with other women of the great world. When he had greeted her and expressed his gratitude, Petronius fell to complaining that Pomponia so seldom left her home, that she was not to be seen either in the circus or in the amphitheater. Laying her hand on her husband's, she answered him calmly, We are both growing old and are beginning to appreciate the quiet of our home. Petronius was about to reply when Plotius added in his whistling voice, And we feel ourselves becoming more and more strangers among people who call even our Roman gods by Greek names. For some time past the gods have been converted into mere figures of speech, replied Petronius lightly. So since the Greeks have taught us rhetoric it is easier for me to say, for instance, Hera than Juno. When he said this he turned his gaze toward Pomponia as if to explain that in her presence he could think of no other divinity. Then he started to complain of what she had said of old age, to be sure people grow old quickly but not those who lead her kind of life. Besides there are faces of which Saturn seems to remember nothing. Petronius spoke with a certain degree of sincerity, for Pomponia Grisina, although she had already passed the meridian, nevertheless retained a fair freshness of face, and as she possessed a small head and delicate features, presented at times in spite of her somber dress, her sedateness and pensiveness, the impression of a quite young woman. In the interval little Aulus, who had become extraordinarily friendly with Venisius while he was in the house, came up to the young patrician to invite him to play ball. Ligia herself followed the boy into the dining-room. Under the ivy shade, with the light sparkling and trembling on her face, she seemed to Petronius to be much more beautiful than he had first seen her, and in very fact nymph-like. Still without exchanging a word with her, he rose and bowing began to quote in place of the customary greeting the words in which Odysseus saluted Nausicaa, If thou art one of the gods, queen of the broad heaven, then only from Artemis the great daughter of Zeus can come the beauty of that face, and the dignity of that stature. If thou art born of mortals, if thou art under the power of the destiny of the living, then blessed be on words thy father and thy mother, and blessed be thy brothers. Even Pomponia was delighted with the exquisite courtesy of this man of the world. Ligia listened in embarrassment. Her face flushed, she dared not lift her eyes. But little by little a mischievous smile began to play about the corners of her mouth, and her face reflected the struggle going on within, between maiden modesty and a desire to answer. The latter evidently won. For, looking suddenly up at Petronius, she answered him in the very words of Nausicaa. She spoke without taking breath, and in a tone of voice suggestive of the classroom, Stranger, thou art neither wicked nor dull. Then, turning quickly, she ran away like a frightened bird. Now came his turn to be surprised. He had not expected to hear Homer's verses from the lips of a girl who, according to Vinicius, was a barbarian birth. He glanced in perplexity at Pomponia, but she could not give any explanation, for she herself smilingly observed only the pride with which the elder Alice's face was illuminated. He could not hide his satisfaction. In the first place, he loved Ligia as his own daughter. In the second, despite his old Roman prejudices, which compelled him to decry the new fashion of using the Grecian language, he nonetheless counted a knowledge of it a crown of social culture. He himself had never been able to learn Greek well, and was secretly distressed at it. Therefore he was glad that this grand gentleman and writer, who was prepared to consider his house as little more than barbarian, had been answered in the language and verses of Homer. We have a teacher, a Greek, said Plotius, turning to Petronius. He instructs our little one, and the girl overhears the lessons. She is a mere chit but a worthy one, and my wife and I have become very fond of her. Petronius looked through the green of the ivy and the honeysuckle at the young people playing ball. Having laid off his toga, retaining only his single tunic, Vinicius was throwing a ball which Ligia caught as she stood opposite with uplifted hands. At first she had not impressed Petronius, to whom she appeared scrawny, but in the dining-room she impressed him quite differently. She would, he thought, make a good model for Aurora, and as an expert he discerned that she possessed some peculiar latent charm. He observed her in detail, and appraised everything on its merits, the rosy transparent face, the fresh mouth created as it were for kissing, the eyes blue as the azure sea, and the alabaster whiteness of her forehead, and the sumptuousness of her dark hair, with its coils giving forth a reflection of amber or Corinthian copper, and the delicate neck and the divine roundness of her shoulders, and the liveness, the pose of her whole body which breathed the youth of May and of budding flowers. In him spoke the artist and devotee of beauty who felt that under the statue of this maiden might be written the word spring. Suddenly he remembered Chrysothemus, and Petronius was ready to laugh with disgust. She seemed to him strangely faded, with her hair bespringled with golden powder, with her blackened eyebrows like a withered falling rose. But still all Rome envied him his connection with Chrysothemus. Then he compared Popea to Ligia, and likewise this renowned beauty seemed to him soulless as a waxen mask. Between this girl with her tenagrian features there in haired not only spring but the effulgent spirit of life which radiated through her rosy form as light from a lamp. "'Vinicius is right,' he reflected, and my Chrysothemus is old, old, old as Troy.' Then turning to Pomponia Grisina and pointing to the garden said, "'I now understand, lady, that with two such beings home seems dearer than the circus, and the feast's in the palace on the Palatine.' "'Yes,' answered she, looking aside at little Aulus and Ligia. The old commander began to tell the girl's history, and what he had heard many years ago from Atelius Hister about the Ligian tribe that lived in the dark north. The young people, having finished their game of ball, had been for some time walking along the sandy paths of the garden. Against the backdrop of myrtle and cypresses they seemed like three white statues. Ligia held little Aulus by the hand. When they had strolled for a short time they sat down on a bench beside the fish pond, situated in the center of the garden. Little Aulus almost immediately ran away to frighten the fish in the transparent water, and Vinicius resumed the conversation, begun while they were walking. "'Yes,' said he, in a low hesitating voice, scarcely had I thrown aside the robe which the children of freeborn citizens wear till they are seventeen, then they sent me to the Ligians in Asia. I had no knowledge of Rome or life or of love. I had heard by heart a few verses of Anacrian and Horus, but could not, like Petronius, quote verses when the mind is mute with ecstasy and cannot express itself in its own words. When I was a boy I was sent to the school of Mussonius, who used to tell us that happiness consists in desiring what the gods wish, and depends consequently upon our will. But I think that there is another more sublime and sweeter happiness which does not depend on our will, which love alone can give. The gods themselves are striving to obtain it. Therefore I who have not yet put love to the test follow their example, Ligia, and I also seek that one who would desire to give me bliss.' He paused. For a time nothing was heard save the gentle splashing of the water into which little Aulus was throwing stones to frighten the fish. Soon Vinicius again spoke in a softer and lower voice. Thou hast probably heard of Titus, the son of Vespasian. It is related of him that when little more than a boy he fell so deeply in love with Veronica that grief almost brought him to the grave. I am capable of such love, Ligia. Wealth, glory, power, all or smoke, vanity. A rich man can find another still richer. The famous man is cast in the shadow by the greater glory of another. The mighty may be conquered by one more mighty, but can Caesar himself, or one of the gods, seek to know greater delight? Can he feel happier than a mere mortal when at his breast a beloved breast is breathing, when he kisses beloved lips? Consequently love makes us equal with the gods, Ligia. She listened, disturbed, astonished, and yet as if she were hearkening to the sounds of a Grecian flute or a lyre. At certain moments it seemed to her that Vinicius was singing a marvelous song, which poured itself into her ear, set her blood surging, strove to freeze her heart, frightened yet filled with an uncomprehended joy. But in addition it seemed to her that he spoke of something which was already latent in her, but something which she could not explain. She felt that he was arousing in her something which had been sleeping in her heart, and that from that instant confused dreams began to dispose themselves in a form which was becoming more definite, more fascinating, more beautiful. Meanwhile the sun had long passed the tiber and stood low over the janniculum hill. A purple light illuminated the motionless cypresses as if permeating the whole air. Ligia raised her like blue eyes, eyes that seemed just to have been awakened from sleep to Vinicius, and all at once in the glow of the sunset he bent over her with an entreaty trembling in his gaze, and appeared to her more beautiful than any human being, or any of the gods of Greece or Rome, whose statues she had seen on the pediment of the temple. He gently seized her arm above the elbow, and asked, Can't thou not guess, Ligia, why I tell thee this? No, she whispered, so low that Vinicius could scarcely hear her. But he did not believe her, and drawing her arm still more vigorously, he would have pressed her to his heart, which, in the glow of passion awakened by the beauty of the girl, was beating like a hammer. He would have made her ardent declarations, were it not that the elder Alice appeared on the myrtle-framed path. Son is setting, he said, be careful of the evening cold, and do not trifle with Libertina, the goddess of funerals. Nay, answered Vinicius, although I have not yet resumed my toga, I do not feel the cold. But over the hill even now one sees but half the sun's disk, continued the old warrior in a warning voice. We have not here the favourable climate of Sicily, where at evening the people assemble in the market square that they may salute the setting Phoebus with a parting song. Forgetting that but a moment before he had warned them against Libertina, Plotius began to speak about Sicily, where he had estates and extensive farms, to which he was much attached. He mentioned also that he thought many times of moving to Sicily, and there spending the remainder of his life in quietness. He whose head has been whitened by many winters has no further need of frosts. The leaves are not yet falling from the trees, and the sky smiles on the city lovingly, but when the grapevine grows sear, when the snow falls on the albin hills and the gods with piercing winds visit the Campania, he perhaps might remove with his whole household to his retired country farm. Can it be that thou wishes to leave Rome? asked Vinicius in alarm. For a long time I have been striving to that end, answered Aulus, because it is quieter and safer. He began again to praise his garden, his herds, his house, hidden in the verdant hills, where buzzed swarms of bees. Vinicius, however, was not tempted by the bucolic picture, and thinking only that he would be deprived of Ligia, looked aside towards Petronius as if salvation could come from him alone. Meanwhile Petronius, seated near Pomponia, enjoyed the view of the setting sun, the garden, and the people standing in the garden. Against the dark background of the myrtles, their white garments were bathed with the golden reflection of the sunset. The evening light, which had previously impurpled the horizon, began to change to violet, and then to opal. The zenith of the heavenly dome became lilac covered. The dark silhouettes of the cypresses were defined still more strictly than in the day. Among the people, in the trees and in the whole garden, rained an evening calm. Petronius was astonished by this calm, especially at that of the people. There passed over the features of Pomponia, of Aulus, their sun, and of Ligia, a something which he had never noticed on the faces which surrounded him daily, or more correctly, nightly. The life led by everyone here filled, as it were, the whole soul with light, and instilled it with a certain peace and tranquility. He reflected with a degree of wonder that there existed a beauty and delight which he, who was constantly seeking for beauty and delight, might not discover. He could hardly disguise this thought, and, turning to Pomponia, he said, I was considering how unlike is your world to that which Nero rules. She turned her slight face to the evening light, and replied with simplicity, the world is ruled not by Nero, but by God. The conversation was interrupted. Near the dining-room in the avenue was heard the footsteps of the old commander, of Vinicius, Ligia, and little Aulus. But before they came up, Petronius asked, which means that thou believest in the God's Pomponia? I believe in God who is one, almighty, all merciful, answered the wife of Aulus end of part one, chapter two, part one, chapter three of Quo Vadis, a tale of the time of Nero, this Librivox recording is in the public domain. Quo Vadis by Henrik Sinkiewicz, translated by Binyon and Malewski, part one, chapter three, she believes in one God, almighty and all merciful, repeated Petronius, when he found himself again with Vinicius in the litter. If her God be almighty, life and death are in his power, but if he be just all merciful, then justly does he send death. Then why does Pomponia mourn Julius? By mourning for Julius she rebukes her God. I will repeat this course of reasoning to our bronze-bearded ape, since I deem myself the equal of Socrates in dialectics. As regards women, I agree that each of them has three or four souls, but not one of them has a reasoning soul. Pomponia ought to reason with Seneca or Cornutus on the essence of their great logos. Let them summon the shades of Xenophonies, Parmenides, Xeno and Plato, who are as wearied in the Cimmerian regions as a finch in a cage. I wanted to speak to her and plotious about something else. By the sacred belly of the Egyptian Isis, if I should have told them frankly the purpose of our coming, their virtue would surely have begun to thunder like a copper shield struck with a stick. And I did not determine to tell, nor did I dare to. Will thou believe Vinicious I dared not? Peacocks are very beautiful birds, but their cry is too piercing. I was frightened, dreading the cry. I ought to praise thy taste, a genuine, rosy-fingered aurora, and dost thou know of what she reminded me besides? Spring! Not our Italian spring, when apple trees are rarely covered with blossoms, and olive trees are unchangingly gray, but that spring which I happen to see in Switzerland, young, fresh, vividly green, by this pale moon I wonder not at thee, Marcus. Be assured that thou hast fallen in love with Diana, and that Aulus and Pomponia are able to lacerate thee, as in ancient times the dogs lacerated Actaeon. Vinicious bowed his head in silence for a time, then in a voice husky with passion he began. I desired her before, but now my desire is still greater. When I touched her arm, a flame swept through me. I must have her. Were I Zeus, I would surround her with a cloud as he did E.O., or I would descend on her in the form of rain as he did on Danae. I would continue to kiss her on the lips until they smarted. I would desire to hear her scream in my arms. I am ready to kill Aulus and Pomponia, and capture her and carry her away into my house. I will not close my eyes to-night. I will order that one of my slaves be beaten and I will listen to his groans. Calm thyself, said Petronius. What desires, like those of a carpenter from the Subura? It matters not to me what thou sayest. I must possess her. I have come to thee for aid, but if thou canst do nothing, I know what is left for me to do. Aulus considers Ligia his daughter. Then why shall I regard her as a slave? If there is no other way, let her wind the door of my house with thread. Let her anoint it with wolf's fat and sit as my wife at my hearth. Calm thyself, thou mad descendant of the consuls. We bring barbarians tied to our carts not for the purpose of marrying their daughters. Beware of extreme measures. Use first of all the simple becoming means and leave thyself and me time for reflection. There was a time when Chrysothymus seemed to me a daughter of Jupiter, yet I did not marry her. Nero did not marry Acti, though they feigned that she was a daughter of King Attalus. Calm thyself. Do not forget that Aulus and his wife have no right to retain her, if Ligia is willing to leave their house for thee. And know that not alone art thou burning with desire. Aeros hath lit in her also a flame of passion. I notice that, and I am an observer to be trusted. Summon your patience. Everything can be accomplished, but I have thought too much today, and I am tired of thinking. However, I promise thee that I shall consider thy love-case to-morrow. I should not be patronious if I could not find some remedy. Again there was silence. At length Venisius said more calmly, I thank thee, and may fortune bless thee. Have patience. Where did thou order us to be born? To Chrysothymus? Happy man to possess the woman thou lovest. I? Does thou know what amuses me about Chrysothymus? This, that she is untrue to me with my own freedmen, Theocles, and imagines that I do not notice it. There was a time when I loved her, now I am merely amused by her lies and her stupidity. Let us go together to her. If she commences to coquette with thee, and draw letters on the table with wine-steeped fingers, know that I am not jealous. They gave command to be carried to Chrysothymus. In the vestibule Petronius placed his hand on Venisius's shoulder and said, Wait! It seems to me I have found a way. May the gods all reward thee. Yes, yes, I think it will go without a hitch. Knowest thou what, Marcus? I hearken to thee, my wisdom. After a few days the divine Ligia will taste the gifts of Demeter in thy house. Thou art greater than Caesar, enthusiastically exclaimed Venisius. End of Part 1 Chapter 3. Petronius was as good as his word. The day after his visit to Chrysothymus he slept till evening. Then he directed that he should be carried to the Palatine hill, where he had a private conversation with Nero. The results of this conversation were not long in coming to light. On the third day a centurion with a small legion of Praetorian soldiers appeared before Plotius's house. In that period of lawless and bloody deeds such messengers were generally heralds of death. From the moment when the centurion knocked with his hammer at Aulis's gate, and the guard of the court announced the presence of soldiers in the vestibule, a sudden terror seized the entire house. The family surrounded the old commander. There was no doubt that Peril threatened Aulis especially. Pomponia, throwing her arms around his neck, clung to him with all her might, while she whispered words which were almost unintelligible. Ligia, her face white as a sheet, kissed his hand. Little Aulis clung to his toga. From the corridors, from the apartments on the upper floor reserved for the servants, from the domestic's room, from the baths and the arches of the lower dwelling. From the whole house, in short, crowds of slaves of both sexes began to pour forth. Cries of alas, alas, and miserable me, were heard repeatedly. The women began to cry. Some of the slaves were already scratching their cheeks, while others covered their heads with their handkerchiefs. Only the old commander, who had accustomed himself for many years to look death in the face, preserved his self-composure. His small aquiline face was like after he had ordered his servants to cease crying and to return to their rooms, Plotius said, Leave me alone, Pomponia, if my end has come we have yet time to say goodbye. He pushed her gently away. Pomponia cried, I pray to God I shall share death with you, Aulis. Then kneeling, she began to pray with the fervor which could be inspired only by fear in behalf of one beloved. Aulis went into the hall where the centurion was waiting for him. It was the old Chaius Hasta, his former subordinate, and his companion in arms in the wars in Britain. I greet thee, General, said he, I bring thee a command and a greeting from Caesar. Here are the tablets and the signets certifying that I come in his name. My thanks to Caesar for his greeting, and I shall fulfill his commands, answered Aulis. I greet thee, Hasta, tell me what commands thou bringest to me. Aulis Plotius began, Hasta, Caesar has learned that in thy house is living the daughter of the Lydian king, who during the time of the divine Claudius was given to the Romans as a hostage that the boundaries of the empire should never be violated by the Lydians. The divine Nero is thankful to thee, Commander, for the hospitality shown her so many years, but not desiring to burden thy house any longer, and considering that this girl as a hostage ought to be under the protection of Caesar himself and the Senate, he commands that thou deliver her to me. Aulis was too hardened a warrior and too valiant a man to permit himself to answer a command by lamentations, useless words and complaints. Yet on his forehead there appeared a wrinkle of sudden anger and sadness. Years ago the British legions had trembled before Aulis's eyebrows contracted in this way, for a moment fear was reflected in Hasta's face. But now, before Caesar's command, Plotius felt disarmed. He looked for a time at the tablets and signet, and raising his eyes towards the old Centurion said calmly, Wait thou, Hasta, in the hall until the hostage is delivered to thee. When he had said this he went to the other end of the house, in the room where Pomponia Grisina, Lydia, and little Aulis were awaiting him with alarm. Death threatens none nor banishment into far off islands, said he. Nevertheless, Caesar's messenger is a herald of misfortune. Lydia, it concerns thee. Lydia! exclaimed Pomponia, perplexed. Yes, returned Aulis. Turning to Lydia, he began. Lydia, thou hast been brought up in our house as our child. Both Pomponia and I love thee as our own daughter, but thou art a hostage, confided by thy nation to Rome, and the guardianship over thee belongs to Caesar, and now Caesar takes thee from our house. Plotius spoke calmly, but in a strained, changed voice. Lydia listened to his words, her eyes opening and shutting in bewilderment, not understanding what was the matter. Pomponia's cheeks turned pale. At the door leading from the corridor to the salon appeared the terrified faces of the female slaves. The will of Caesar must be fulfilled, said Aulis. O Aulis! exclaimed Pomponia, throwing her arms about the girl as if to protect her. It would be better for her to die. Lydia, leaning on her breast, repeated, Mama, Mama, not finding in her agony any other words. Aulis's face contracted again with wrath and grief. If I were only alone in the world, said he gloomily, I would not surrender her alive, and my relatives would have this very day to bring offerings to Jupiter Liberator. But I have no right to ruin thee and our son, who may live to see happier days, so I will apply to Caesar to-day and will entreat him to change his mind, whether he will listen or know I what not. But now, Lydia, farewell, know thou that both Pomponia and I have always blessed the day when thou first sat at our hearth. He put his hand on her head, despite all his efforts to preserve his calm, when Lydia turned her tearful eyes upon him, and catching his hand began to cover it with kisses, Aulis's voice vibrated with the deep grief of a parent. Farewell, our joy and light of our eyes! he cried, turning quickly he went into the hall so as not to surrender to an emotion unworthy of a Roman and a general. Meanwhile Pomponia, conducting Lydia to her bedroom, began to console and encourage her with words which had a strange sound in this house, where in an adjoining room stood the sanctuary of the household deities and the altar on which Aulis Plotius, true to ancient custom, made offerings to the domestic guards. The hour of trial has come. Virginia stabbed his daughter to save her from apias. Lucretia redeemed her shame with the price of her life. Caesar's house is a den of corruption, vice, and crime. But we, Lydia, have no right to commit suicide, we submit to another law, more sublime and more holy, and this law permits us to defend ourselves from sin and infamy, even if we have to pay the price of death and torture. It is by far a greater glory for a person to come out pure from the house of infamy. Our world is such a den, but fortunately our life is short, and the real life begins after the resurrection from the dead, beyond which not nearer rules, but mercy, and where pain is effaced by delight and tears by joy. Then she began to speak of herself. Yes, she was quite calm, but there were painful wounds in her heart. Her husband's moral vision was not penetrating, his soul did not glow with a single ray of eternal light. She could not even bring up her son in the spirit of truth, and when she reflected that this condition of things might be prolonged to the end of her life, and that then might come a moment of separation, a hundred times more terrible than that temporary one over which they were lamenting, she could not imagine herself happy without them, even in heaven. And she had already spent many sleepless nights in tears and prayers imploring pardon and mercy. But she brought her sufferings to God, she waited and hoped. Even now when a new blow struck her, when the command of the tyrant took from her a dear one, whom Aulus called the light of their eyes, Pomponia still hoped, believing that there was a power above Nero's, and a mercy greater than his wrath. She pressed the girl's head still more closely to her breast. Ligia dropped to her knees, and hiding her face in the folds of Pomponia's garment was silent for a long time. When she finally raised her head, she had in a measure recovered her calm. Although with great suffering I think of leaving the mother and father and my brother, yet I know that resistance would not help but would destroy us all. I swear that I will never forget thy words in Caesar's house. Throwing her arms again around Pomponia's neck, Ligia went with her to take farewell of the young Aulus, of the old Greek who was their teacher, of the servant who had nursed her, and all the slaves. One of these, a huge broad-shouldered Ligian, who in Aulus's house was called Ursus, or the bear, and who came to the Roman camp with Ligia, her mother and their slaves, fell at her feet, and then, kneeling before Pomponia, said imploringly, O Lady, permit me to follow my mistress. I will serve her and watch over her in Caesar's house. Thou art Ligia's servant not mine, answered Pomponia, Grisina, but I doubt if thou wilt be admitted into Caesar's gates. How couldst thou watch her? I know not, but this I know, iron I can break as if it were wood. At this moment Aulus Plotius approached them, and when he learned what they were talking of, not only raised no objection, but declared that they had not even the right to detain the Ligian. They were by Caesar's command sending Ligia as a hostage. Therefore they were also bound to send her suite under Caesar's protection. At this he whispered to Pomponia that, under the name of suite, they might send as many slaves as she deemed necessary. The centurion would make no objection. As there was some consolation to Ligia in this arrangement, Pomponia was pleased that she was able to surround Ligia with servants of her choice. Therefore she assigned her, in addition to Ursus, an old servant, two Greek women from Cyprus who were expert hairdressers, and two German girls to tend her at her bath. She chose none but followers of the new faith, which Ursus had professed for several years. For this reason Pomponia felt that she might rely on the servant's devotion, and also consoled herself by thinking that the seeds of truth would soon be sown in Caesar's house. Besides this she wrote a few lines to Caesar's free woman, Actia, committing Ligia to her protection. For, although Pomponia had never seen her at the meetings of the adherents of the new faith, she was told that Actia never refused to assist them, and read with eagerness the epistles of Paul of Tarsus. She also knew that the young freedwoman was constantly distressed because of the difference between herself and the rest of Nero's women. In a word she was the incarnation of the spirit of virtue in the palace. Hasta promised to deliver this letter to Actia in person, and deeming it natural that a king's daughter should be surrounded by her suite, he did not refuse to take the servants to the palace. On the contrary, he was surprised at their small number. All he asked was that the preparations for the start be hastened, fearing that he might be accused of lack of zeal in executing his order. The moment of parting came. Pomponia's and Ligia's eyes again filled with tears, and Alice laid his hand on the girl's head. A moment later, pursued by the cries of little Alice, who had been threatening the centurion with his tiny fist in defense of his sister, the soldiers conducted Ligia to Caesar's palace. When the old commander had ordered that a litter should be gotten ready for him, he went into the picture gallery with Pomponia and said, Listen, Pomponia, I will apply to Caesar, though I think my effort will be fruitless, and I shall see Seneca, though Seneca's opinion counts for nothing with him. Petronius and Phoenicia's have more influence. Caesar probably never heard of the Ligian nation, and if he demanded Ligia as a hostage, it is manifest he did so through someone's influence. It is not hard to guess whose. Pomponia raised her eyes in agitation. Petronius's, yes. There was a brief silence, and the commander continued, See what it means to let one of these consciousnessless and dishonorable persons pass one's threshold. Cursed be the moment Phoenicia centered our house. It is he that brought Petronius woe to Ligia. It is not a hostage they want, but a harlot. From anger, helpless agitation, and pity for his adopted daughter, his voice was more than usually husky. For some time he had been trying to conquer his emotion, and his clenched fist indicated how severe was the struggle. The gods I have honored, but at this moment I think the gods do not rule the world. There is but one divinity, malevolent, vindictive, monstrous, and his name is Nero. Aulus exclaimed Pomponia. In the sight of God Nero is as a handful of perishable dust. Aulus strode heavily over the mosaic of the gallery. Many acts of valor he had accomplished, but he had known no great misfortune. Therefore he was not prepared for this unforeseen blow. The old commander was attached to Ligia more deeply than he knew. He could not realize that he was to be deprived of her. Moreover he felt insulted. A hand which he condemned was over him, yet he knew that he was powerless against it. At length, conquering the anger which had overshadowed his mind, Plotius said, Petronius, I fancy did not take Ligia from us for Caesar. He would fear Papia's vengeance. Consequently he took her either for himself or for Venetius. I shall investigate the case today. Shortly afterwards he was being carried in a litter in the direction of the Palatine Palace, while Pomponia, left alone, went to comfort little Aulus, who was still crying for his sister and threatening Caesar. Vodis by Henrik Sinkiewicz, translated by Benyonant Mulevsky. Part 1 Chapter 5 As Aulus had expected he was denied admittance to Nero's presence, he was told that Caesar was engaged in singing with Terpnos the loot player and that he generally received only such persons as were summoned by him, which meant that Aulus must not hear after even try to obtain an interview with Caesar. But Seneca, even though suffering fever, received the old commander with due respect. When he had heard his tale a mournful smile came to his lips as he said, One service, noble Plotius, I can render thee. I promise not to reveal to Caesar my pity for thee, nor my readiness to assist thee. If Caesar had the least suspicion of this he would never return Ligia to thee, even were it only to thwart my wish. Seneca advised him not to apply to Tijalinas, nor to Vinicius, nor to Vitelius. They were not above bribes, they might be glad to do an injury to Petronius, whose influence they were trying to undermine. But more probably they would tell Caesar how much Ligia was prized by Plotius and his wife. Nero would become all the more unwilling to return her. Then the venerable sage, assuming a sarcastic tone, continued, Thou hast held thy tongue, Plotius, held it so many years, and Caesar likes not those who are silent. And how could thou withstand the fascinations of his good looks, his virtue, his singing and recitations, his chariot driving and his poems? Why did Thou abstain from rejoicing at the death of Britannicus, and fail to write a panagiric in honour of the matricide, and bring thy congratulations when Octavia was suffocated? Aulis, thou hast not the foresight possessed by us who live in the palace here. Taking a cup he carried at his belt, he filled it at the fountain, and moistening his lips added, Ah, Nero is grateful! He loves thee because thou hast served Rome, and made his name glorious in the four corners of the earth. Me he loves because I taught him in his youth. For that reason I know that this water is not poisoned, and drink it peacefully. Wine would scarcely be harmless, but if thou art thirsty thou mayest drink this water without fear. The aqueduct brings it from over the Alban hills, so that were it to be poisoned all the fountains in Rome would be so. Thou seest even in this world one may enjoy a peaceful old age in security. I am sick, but in mind rather than body. True it was that Seneca did not have the mental courage of such men as Cornutus and Thrasia. His whole life had been spent in indulging and conniving at crime. He felt this himself. He admitted his adherence to the doctrine of Xeno of Scytium, acknowledged that he ought to have chosen another course, and suffered more because of it than from fear of death. Plotius broke in on his self-recrimination. Noble Aeneas said he, I know how Caesar hath repaid thee for the care thou gaveest him in his youth, but our child has been taken from us at the instigation of Petronius. Tell me how to prevail on him, how to sway him, and do thou employ all the eloquence thine old friendship may suggest thee. Petronius and I, answered Seneca, belong to different camps. I know of no remedies with which to mollify him. No one's influence prevails on him. Perhaps, in spite of his corrupt nature, he is better than the other rascals that surround Nero at present. But to attempt to demonstrate to him that he has done wrong is a profitless waste of time. Petronius long ago lost the capacity of distinguishing good and evil, proved to him that what he does offends against good taste, and he will be ashamed. When I see him I will tell him that his conduct is worthy of a freedman. If that does no good, then nothing will. Thank thee even for that, answered the commander. After this he directed that he should be born to Venisius, whom he found practicing fencing with his private master. When Aulus saw how the young man was calmly occupying himself with athletics after the attempt against Ligia, he was overwhelmed with rage. Scarcely had the curtain fallen on the departing fencing master than his anger found vent in shrill reproaches and crimination. But as soon as Venisius heard that Ligia had been carried away, he became so pale that even Aulus could no longer suspect him of being an accomplice. The young man's forehead was moist with sweat. His blood, after surging to his heart, rushed like a hot wave back to his face. His eyes flashed, his lips moved in incoherent questioning. Jealousy and rage buffeted him like a hurricane. It seemed to him that from the instant Ligia entered Caesar's house, she was lost to him. But when Aulus mentioned Petronius' name, quick as lightning the suspicion flashed across the young man's mind that Petronius had tricked him, thinking either to curry new favors from Nero by giving him Ligia or to keep the girl for himself. He could not admit the possibility of anyone seeing her and not being fascinated by her. Quick tempered like the other members of his family, a paroxysm of rage deprived him of his reason and carried him away like an angry horse. Commander, said he in a broken voice, go home and wait for me. Know that were Petronius my own father I should avenge this insult against Ligia. Go home and await me. Neither Petronius nor Caesar shall have her. Turning to the draped wax statues in the court, he shook his fist and exclaimed, by the faces of the departed, rather would I kill her and myself! Then he repeated, wait for me, and running from the court flew like a madman to Petronius, pushing aside everyone he met on the way. Aulus went home somewhat hopeful that if Petronius had persuaded Caesar to take Ligia away to give her to Venisius, Venisius would return her to her foster parents. He was also consoled by the reflection that if he should not succeed in saving Ligia, the insult to her would be avenged by death. He knew Venisius would fulfill his promises. He was a witness to his rage, and he knew the reputation of the family for passion. He himself, who loved Ligia as a father, would prefer to kill her than to give her to Caesar. But for the fear of injuring his son, the last of the old line, he would certainly have done so. Aulus was a soldier, and knew of the Stoics only by report, but he was not unlike them in character. He preferred death to disgrace. When he reached home he pacified Pomponia, telling her of his hopes, and both awaited news from Venisius. At intervals, when the approaching steps of the slaves were heard in the hall, they imagined that Venisius had come, bringing them their beloved girl, and from the bottom of their hearts they were ready to bless both of them. But time passed, and no news came. Not till evening was a hammer-stroke heard on the gate. A slave delivered a note to Aulus. The old commander, who usually liked to make a show of self-control, now took the letter with a trembling hand, and began to read as rapidly as if its contents concerned his whole family. His face was suddenly overcast as if shadowed by an approaching cloud. Read, said he, turning to Pomponia. Pomponia took the letter and read. Marcus Venisius greets Aulus Plotius. What has been done was done by Caesar's will, before which thou must bow thy head, even as do Petronius and I. They fell into prolonged silence. CHAPTER VI Petronius was at home. The doorkeeper did not dare to stop Venisius, who broke into the hall like a tempest. Learning that the master of the house was in the library, he speeded thither. Finding Petronius was writing, Venisius snatched the reed from his hands, broke it, and threw it on the floor. Then he laid his hands upon Petronius's shoulders, and, thrusting his face under his, cried in a hoarse voice, What has thou done with her? Where is she? Then an astonishing thing happened. The elegant and indolent Petronius seized the hands which grasped his shoulders, and, pressing them in one hand as in a vice, said, I am weak only in the morning, but in the evening I recover my courage. Try to escape. A weaver must have taught thee gymnastics, and a blacksmith politeness. He said this without any sign of anger, but in his eyes there was a hint of boldness and energy. After a few moments he dropped the hands of Venisius, who stood before him, humbled, abashed, yet with a furious rage in his heart. Thou hast a hand of steel, said the younger man, but by all the infernal gods, if thou hast betrayed me, I will put a knife into thy throat, even though I should have to do it in the chambers of Caesar. Let us talk calmly, replied Petronius. Steel, as thou seest, is stronger than iron. Therefore, though from each of thy arms both of mine could be made, I am not afraid of thee. But I grieve over thy rudeness, and if human ingratitude could astonish me, I should be astonished at thy ingratitude. Where is Ligia? In a house of ill-fame, in other words, in the house of Caesar. Petronius, calm thyself, sit down. Caesar promised to fulfill two requests of mine, first to get Ligia out of the house of Aulus, and secondly to give her to thee. Didst thou conceal a knife in the folds of thy toga? Perhaps thou dost want to stab me? I advised thee to postpone the attempt for a few days, otherwise thou wouldst be thrown into prison, and Ligia would weary herself in thy house. Silence ensued. For some time Venisius looked at Petronius with astonished eyes. Then at last he said, Pardon me. I love her. Love blinds my mind. Look at me, Marcus. The day before yesterday I said to Caesar, my nephew hath fallen so deeply in love with an emaciated maiden in the house of Aulus, that his house has been turned by his size into a steam-bath. Neither thou, said I to Caesar, nor I, who understand what real beauty is, would give for her a thousand cestercies. But this youth is stupid, and now he has lost his mind entirely. Petronius, if thou dost not understand that I said it with the purpose of protecting Ligia, I am prepared to think that I said the truth. I told Caesar that a man of his aesthetic tastes could not consider her a beautiful woman. Nero, who still looks at everything through my eyes, will not find her beautiful, and Popea will evidently try to get her out of the palace at the earliest opportunity. And I continue to say carelessly to Bronzebeard, take Ligia and give her to Venetius. Thou hast the right to do so, because she is a hostage. Moreover, in doing this, thou wilt annoy Aulus. So he agreed. He had no reason to dissent, especially as I gave him the opportunity to do an ill turn to decent people. Thou wilt be appointed an official guardian over her. This Ligian treasure will be committed to thy care. Surely thou as an ally to the brave Ligians, and a true servant to Caesar, wilt not lose the treasure, but wilt do thy best to increase it. Caesar, in order to preserve appearances, will retain her a few days in his house, and then he will send her to thy island, fortunate man. Is that true in Caesar's house? Is she in no danger? Should she have to stay there permanently, Popea would mention her name to the Poisoner Locusta, but for a few days she can remain in safety. In Caesar's house live ten thousand people. Nero may not see her at all, which is the more likely because he has left the matter entirely in my hands. Only a few moments ago a Centurion came to me, with the information that the maiden had been taken into the palace, and delivered into the hands of Actia. Actia is kind and good, and that is why I directed that Ligia be entrusted to her guardianship. Pomponia Grisina evidently thinks the same, as she has sent Actia a letter. There will be a feast tomorrow in Nero's house. I have secured a place for thee near Ligia. Karius, said Venetius, forgive my rage. I thought thou hadst ordered her to be taken away for thyself or for Caesar. I can forgive thy anger, but it is more difficult to forgive thy rude manners, indecent shouts, and thy voice reminding one of clayors at street games. I like it not, Marcus, and in future mend thy ways. Know that Caesar's pander is Tijellinus. Know also that if I desired this maiden for myself, I would look straight in thy eyes and say, Venetius, I have taken Ligia from thee, and I will keep her till I weary of her. With these words he fastened his nut-like eyes on the eyes of Venetius with an expression of cold self-confidence. The young tribune was utterly abashed. I am guilty before thee, said he, thou art good and magnanimous. I thank thee from my heart. Let me ask only one more question. Why did thou not command that Ligia be brought directly to my house? Because Caesar must preserve appearances. This matter will excite talk at Rome. As we take her as a hostage, she will remain in Caesar's palace until the talk ceases. Then we shall remove her quietly to thy house, and the matter ends. Bronzebeard is a cowardly dog. He knows he is omnipotent, yet he tries to give a color of decency to all his actions. Perchance, thou art not cool enough to view the case philosophically, I have repeatedly sought to explain why it is that transgression, no matter how powerful and secure be the transgressor as, for instance, Caesar, invariably tries to justify itself by law, justice, and virtue. Why take this trouble? In my opinion, to slay a brother, a mother or a wife is an act worthy only of a petty Asiatic king, not of a Roman Caesar. But had I done any of these things, I should not write letters of justification to the senate. And Nero does right. He is striving to justify his crimes because he is a coward. On the other hand, Tiberius, who was no coward, yet he too always strove to justify himself. Why is this? How strange and spontaneous is this homage of vice to virtue. And do you know what I think? I think it is so because transgression is ugly and virtue is beautiful. Ergo, a genuine man of taste is also virtuous. Ergo, I am virtuous. Today will I make a libation of wine to the shades of Protagoras, Prodacus, and Gorgias. Manifestly the Sophists are of little use. Listen, I am not through with my argument. I took Ligia from the Owly to give her to thee. Ah, Lysippus would have made marvellous groups of you too. Both of ye are beautiful. Consequently what I have done is beautiful. Being beautiful, it cannot be evil. Look, Marcus Thousius, before the virtue personified in Caius Petronius. Were Aristides alive, he would have to come to me for a condensed treatise on virtue, and pay me a hundred minni for it. But Venisius, who was more occupied with the facts than with any treatise on virtue, answered, I shall see Ligia to-morrow, and after that she shall spend every day in my house ceaselessly till death. Thou shalt have, Ligia, and I will be accountable to Owlis for thee. He will call down the vengeance of all the gods of the netherworld upon me, would that the creature could take a lesson in declamation as a preparation. However, he will rail against me as my old gate porter used to rail against my followers. I banished him to the country. Owlis has been to see me. I promised to send him news of Ligia. Write him that the will of the godlike Caesar is the law of the gods, and that thou wilt call thy first son Owlis. We must give him some consolation. I am ready to ask Bronzebeard to invite Plotius to the banquet. Let him have the pleasure of seeing thee next Ligia. Do not so, replied Venisius. I pity them both, especially Pomponia. Then Venisius sat down to write the letter which was to deprive the old commander of his last hope.