Georg Ebers
The Emperor. Complete
CHAPTER XXII
Antinous and Mastor at once quitted the Emperor’s room; in the corridor the lad beckoned the slave to him and said in a low voice:
“You can hold your tongue I know, will you do me a favor?”
“Three sooner than one,” replied the Sarmatian.
“You are free to-day—are you going into the city?”
“I think so.”
“You are not known here, but that does not matter. Take these gold pieces and in the flower-market buy with one of them the most beautiful bunch of flowers you can find, with another you may make merry, and out of the remainder spend a drachma in hiring an ass. The driver will conduct you to the garden of Pudeus’ widow where stands the house of dame Hannah; you remember the name?”
“Dame Hannah and the widow of Pudeus.”
“And at the little house, not the big one, leave the flowers for the sick Selene.”
“The daughter of the fat steward, who was attacked by our big dog?” asked Mastor, curiously.
“She or another,” said Antinous, impatiently, “and when they ask you who sent the flowers, say ‘the friend at Lochias,’ nothing more. You understand.”
The slave nodded and said to himself: “What! you too-oh! these women.”
Antinous signed to him to be silent, impressed on him in a few hasty words that he was to be discreet and to pick out the very choicest flowers, and then betook himself into the hall of the Muses to seek Pollux. From him he had learnt where to find the suffering Selene, of whom he could not help thinking incessantly and wherever he might be. He did not find the sculptor in his screened-off nook; prompted by a wish to speak to his mother, Pollux had gone down to the gatehouse where he was now standing before her and frankly narrating, with many eager gestures of his long arms, all that had occurred on the previous night. His story flowed on like a song of triumph, and when he described how the holiday procession had carried away Arsinoe and himself, the old woman jumped up from her chair and clapping her fat little hands, she exclaimed:
“Ah! that is pleasure, that is happiness! I remember flying along with your father in just the same way thirty years ago.”
“And since thirty years,” Pollux interposed. “I can still remember very well how at one of the great Dionysiac festivals, fired by the power of the god, you rushed through the streets with a deer-skin over your shoulders.”
“That was delightful—lovely!” cried Doris with sparkling eyes. “But thirty years since it was all different, very different. I have told you before now how I went with our maid-servant into the Canopic way to the house of my aunt Archidike to look on at the great procession. I had not far to go for we lived near the Theatre, my father was stage-manager and yours was one of the chief singers in the chorus. We hurried along, but all sorts of people stopped us, and drunken men wanted to joke with me.”
“Ah, you were as sweet as a rose-bud then,” her son interrupted.
“As a rose-bud, yes, but not like your lovely rose,” said the old woman. “At any rate I looked nice enough for the men in disguise—fauns and satyrs and were the cynic hypocrites in their ragged cloaks, to think it worth while to look at me and to take a rap on the knuckles when they tried to put an arm round me or to steal a kiss, I did not care for the handsomest of them, for Euphorion had done for me with his fiery glances—not with words for I was very strictly kept and he had never been able to get a chance to speak to me. At the corner of the Canopic way and the Market street we could get no farther, for the crowd had blocked the way and were howling and storming as they stared at a party of Klodones and other Maenads, who in their sacred fury were tearing a goat to pieces with their teeth. I shuddered at the spectacle, but I must need stare with the rest and shout and halloo as they did. My maid, who I held on to tightly, was seized with the frenzy and dragged me into the middle of the circle close up to the bleeding sacrifice. Two of the possessed women sprang upon us, and I felt one clasping me tightly and trying to throw me down. It was a horrible moment but I defended myself bravely and had succeeded in keeping on my feet when your father sprang forward, set me free and led me away. What happened after I could not tell you now; it was one of those wild happy dreams in which you must hold your heart with both hands for fear it should crack with joy, or fly out and away up to the sky and in the very eye of the sun. Late in the evening I got home and a week after I was Euphorion’s wife.”
“We have exactly followed your example,” said Pollux, “and if Arsinoe grows to be like my dear old woman I shall be quite satisfied.”
“Happy and contented,” replied Doris. “Keep you health, snap your fingers at care and sorrow, do your duty on work-days and drink till you are jolly in honor of the god on holidays, and then all will be well. Those who do all they are able and enjoy as much as they can get, make good use of their lives and need feel no remorse in their last hours. What is past is done for, and when Atropos cuts our thread some one else will stand in our place and joys will begin all over again. May the gods bless you!”
“You are right,” said Pollux embracing his mother, “and two together can turn the work out of hand more lightly and enjoy the pleasures of existence better than each alone—can they not?”
“I am sure of it; and you have chosen the right mate,” cried the old woman. “You are a sculptor and used to simple things; you need no riches, only a sweet face which may every day rejoice your heart, and that you have found.”
“There is nowhere a sweeter or a lovelier,” said Pollux.
“No, that there is not,” continued Doris. “First I cast my eyes on Selene. She need not be ashamed to show herself either, and she is a pattern for girls; but then as Arsinoe grew older, whenever she passed this way I thought to myself: ‘that girl is growing up for my boy,’ and now that you have won her I feel as if I were once more as young as your sweetheart herself. My old heart beats as happily as if the little Loves were touching it with their wings and rosy fingers. If my feet had not grown so heavy with constantly standing over the hearth and at washing—really and truly I could take Euphorion by the arm and dance through the streets with him to-day.”
“Where is father?”
“Out singing.”
“In the morning! where?”
“There is some sect that are celebrating their mysteries. They pay well and he had to sing dismal hymns for them behind a curtain; the wildest stuff, in which he does not follow a word, and that I do not understand a half of.”
“It is a pity for I wanted to speak to him.”
“He will not be back till late.”
“There is plenty of time.”
“So much the better, otherwise I might have told him what you had to say.”
“Your advice is as good as his. I think of giving up working under Papias and standing on my own feet.”
“You are quite right; the Roman architect told me yesterday that a great future was open to you.”
“There are only my poor sister and the children to be considered. If, during the first few months I should find myself falling short—”
“We will manage to pull through. It is high time that you yourself should reap from what you sow.”
“So it seems to me, for my own sake and Arsinoe’s; if only Keraunus—”
“Aye—there will be a battle to fight with him.”
“A hard one, a hard one,” sighed Pollux.
“The thought of the old man troubles my happiness.”
“Folly!” cried Doris. “Avoid all useless anxiety. It is almost as injurious as remorse gnawing at your heart. Take a workshop of your own, do some great work in a joyful spirit, something to astonish the world, and I will wager anything that the old fool of a steward will only be vexed to think that he destroyed the first work of the celebrated Pollux, instead of treasuring it in his cabinet of curiosities. Just imagine that no such person exists in the world and enjoy your happiness.”
“I will stick to that.”
“One thing more my lad: take good care of Arsinoe. She is young and inexperienced and you must not persuade her to do anything you would advise her not to do if she were betrothed to your brother instead of to yourself.”
Doris had not done speaking when Antinous came into the gate-house and delivered the commands of the architect Claudius Venator, to escort him through the city. Pollux hesitated with his answer, for he had still much to do in the palace, and he hoped to see Arsinoe again in the course of the day. After such a morning what could noon and evening be to him without her? Dame Doris noticed his indecision and cried:
“Yes, go; the festival is for pleasure, besides, the architect can perhaps advise you on many points, and recommend you to his friends.”
“Your mother is right,” said Antinous. “Claudius Venator can be very touchy, but he can also be grateful, and I wish you sincerely well—”
“Good then, I will come,” Pollux interposed while the Bithynian was still speaking, for he felt himself strongly attracted by Hadrian’s imposing personality and considered that under the circumstances, it might be very desirable to revel with him for a while.
“I will come, but first I must let Pontius know that I am going to fly from the heat of the fray for a few hours to-day.”
“Leave that to Venator,” replied the favorite, “and you must find some amusing disguise and procure masks for him and for me and, if you like, for yourself too. He wants to join the revel as a satyr and I in some other disguise.”
“Good,” replied the sculptor. “I will go at once and order what is requisite. A quantity of dresses for the Dionysiac processions are lying in our workshop and in half an hour I will be back with the things.”
“But pray make haste,” Antinous begged him. “My master cannot bear to be kept waiting, and besides—one thing—”
At these words Antinous had grown embarrassed and had gone quite close up to the artist. He laid his hand on his shoulder and said in a low voice but impressively:
“Venator stands very near to Caesar. Beware of saying anything before him that is not in Hadrian’s favor.”
“Is your master Caesar’s spy?” asked Pollux, looking suspiciously at Antinous. “Pontius has already, given me a similar warning, and if that is the case—”
“No, no,” interrupted the lad hastily.
“Anything but that; but the two have no secrets from each other and Venator talks a good deal—cannot hold his tongue—”
“I thank you and will be on my guard.”
“Aye do so—I mean it honestly.” The Bithynian held out his hand to the artist with an expression of warm regard on his handsome features and with an indescribably graceful gesture. Pollux took it heartily, but dame Doris, whose old eyes had been fixed as if spellbound on Antinous, seized her son’s arm and quite excited by the sight of his beauty cried out:
“Oh! what a splendid creature! moulded by the gods! sacred to the gods! Pollux, boy! you might almost think one of the immortals had come down to earth.”
“Look at my old woman!” exclaimed Pollux laughing, “but in truth friend, she has good reasons for her ecstasies, I could follow her example.”
“Hold him fast, hold him fast!” cried Doris. “If he only will let you take his likeness you can show the world a thing worth seeing.”
“Will you?” interrupted Pollux turning to Hadrian’s favorite.
“I have never yet been able to keep still for any artist,” said Antinous. “But I will do any thing you wish to please you. It only vexes me that you too should join in the chorus with the rest of the world. Farewell for the present, I must go back to my master.”
As soon as the youth had left the house Doris exclaimed:
“Whether a work of art is good for any thing or not I can only guess at, but as to what is beautiful that I know as well as any other woman in Alexandria. If that boy will stand as your model you will produce something that will delight men and turn the heads of the women, and you will be sought after even in a workshop of your own. Eternal gods! such beauty as that is sublime. Why are there no means of preserving such a face and such a form from old age and wrinkles?”
“I know the means, mother,” said Pollux, as he went to the door. “It is called Art: to her it is given to bestow eternal youth on this mortal Adonis.”
The old woman glanced at her son with pardonable pride, and confirmed his words by an assenting nod. While she fed her birds, with many coaxing words, and made one which was a special favorite pick crumbs from her lips, the young sculptor was hurrying through the streets with long steps.
He was greeted as he went with many a cross word, and many exclamations rose from the crowd he left behind him, for he pushed his way by the weight of his tall person and his powerful arms, and saw and heard, as he went, little enough of what was going around him. He thought of Arsinoe, and between whiles of Antinous and of the attitude in which he best might represent him—whether as hero or god.
In the flower-market, near the Gymnasium, he was for a moment roused from his reverie by a picture which struck him as being unusual and which riveted his gaze, as did every thing exceptional that came under his eyes. On a very small dark-colored donkey sat a tall, well-dressed slave, who held in his right hand a nosegay of extraordinary size and beauty. By his side walked a smartly dressed-up man with a splendid wreath, and a comic mask over his face followed by two garden-gods of gigantic stature, and four graceful boys. In the slave, Pollux at once recognized the servant of Claudius Venator, and he fancied he must have seen the masked gentlemen too before now, but he could not remember where, and did not trouble himself to retrace him in his mind. At any rate, the rider of the donkey had just heard something he did not like, for he was looking anxiously at his bunch of flowers.
After Pollux had hurried past this strange party his thoughts reverted to other, and to him far nearer and dearer subjects. But Mastor’s anxious looks were not without a cause, for the gentleman who was talking to him was no less a person than Verus, the praetor, who was called by the Alexandrians the sham Eros. He had seen the Emperor’s body-slave a hundred times about his person; he therefore recognized him at once, and his presence here in Alexandria led him directly to the simple and correct inference that his master too must be in the city. The praetor’s curiosity was roused, and he at once proceeded to ply the poor fellow with bewildering cross-questions. When the donkey-rider shortly and sharply refused to answer, Verus thought it well to reveal himself to him, and the slave lost his confident demeanor when he recognized the grand gentleman, the Emperor’s particular friend.
He lost himself in contradictory statements, and although he did not directly admit it, he left his interrogator in the certainty that Hadrian was in Alexandria.
It was perfectly evident that the beautiful nosegay, which had attracted the praetor’s attention to Mastor could not belong to himself. What could be its destination? Verus recommenced his questioning, but the Sarmatian would betray nothing, till Verus tapped him lightly first on one cheek and then on the other, and said gaily:
“Mastor, my worthy friend Mastor, listen to me. I will make you certain proposals, and you shall nod your head, towards that of the estimable beast with two pairs of legs on which you are mounted, as soon as one of them takes your fancy.”
“Let me go on my way,” the slave implored, with growing anxiety.
“Go, by all means, but I go with you,” retorted Verus, “until I have hit on the thing that suits you. A great many plans dwell in my head, as you will see. First I must ask you, shall I go to your master and tell him that you have betrayed his presence in Alexandria?”
“Sir, you will never do that!” cried Mastor.
“To proceed then. Shall I and my following hang on to your skirts and stay with you till nightfall, when you and your steed must return home? You decline—with thanks! and very wisely, for the execution of this project would be equally unpleasant to you and to me, and would probably get you punished. Whisper to me then, softly, in my ear, where your master is lodging, and from whom and to whom you are carrying those flowers; as soon as you have agreed to that proposal I will let you go on alone, and will show you that I care no more for my gold pieces here, in Alexandria, than I do in Italy.”
“Not gold—certainly I will not take gold!” cried Mastor.
“You are an honest fellow,” replied Verus in an altered tone, “and you know of me that I treat my servants well and would rather be kind to folks than hard upon them. So satisfy my curiosity without any fear, and I will promise you in return, that not a soul, your master least of all, shall ever know from me what you tell me.” Mastor hesitated a little, but as he could not but own to himself that he would be obliged at last to yield to the stronger will of this imperious man, and as moreover he knew that the haughty and extravagant praetor was in fact one of the kindest of masters, he sighed deeply and whispered:
“You will not be the ruin of a poor wretch like me, that I know, so I will tell you, we are living at Lochias.”
“There,” exclaimed Verus clapping his hands. “And now as to the flowers?”
“Mere trifling.”
“Is Hadrian then in a merry mood?”
“Till to-day he was very gay—but since last night—”
“Well?”
“You know yourself what he is when he has seen lead signs in the sky.”
“Bad signs,” said Verus gravely.
“And yet he sends flowers?”
“Not he, can you not guess?”
“Antinous?”
Mastor nodded assent.
“Only think,” laughed Verus. “Then he too is beginning to think it better worth while to admire than to be admired. And who is the fair one who has succeeded in waking up his slumbering heart?”
“Nay—I promised him not to chatter.”
“And I promise you the same. My powers of reserve are far greater than my curiosity even.”
“Be content, I beseech you with what you already know.”
“But to know half is less endurable than to know nothing.”
“Nay—I cannot tell you.”
“Then am I to begin with fresh suggestions, and all over again?”
“Oh! my lord. I beg you, entreat you—”
“Out with the word, and I go on my way, but if you persist in refusing—”
“Really and truly it only concerns a white-faced girl whom you would not even look at.”
“A girl-indeed!”
“Our big dog threw the poor thing down.”
“In the street?”
“No, at Lochias. Her father is Keraunus the palace-steward.”
“And her name is Arsinoe?” asked Verus with undisguised concern, for he had a pleasant recollection of the beautiful child who had been selected to fill the part of Roxana.
“No, her name is Selene, Arsinoe indeed is her younger sister.”
“Then you bring these flowers from Lochias?”
“She went out, and she could not get back home again, she is now lying in the house of a stranger.”
“Where?”
“That must be quite indifferent to you—”
“By no means, quite the contrary. I beg you to tell me the whole truth.”
“Eternal gods! what can you care about the poor sick creature?”
“Nothing whatever; but I must know whither you are riding.”
“Down by the sea. I do not know the house, but the donkey driver—”
“Is it far from here?”
“About half an hour yet,” said the lad.
“A good way then,” replied Verus. “And Hadrian is particularly anxious to remain unknown.”
“Certainly.”
“And you his body-servant, who are known to numbers of others here from Rome, like myself, you propose to ride half a mile through the streets where every creature that can stand or walk is swarming, with a large nosegay in your hand which attracts every body’s attention. Oh Mastor that is not wise!”
The slave started, and seeing at once that Verus was right, he asked in alarm:
“What then can I do?”
“Get off your donkey,” said the praetor. “Disguise yourself and make merry to your heart’s content with these gold pieces.”
“And the flowers?”
“I will see to that.”
“You will? I may trust you; and never betray to Antinous what you compelled me to do?”
“Positively not.”
“There—there are the flowers, but I cannot take the gold.”
“Then I shall fling it among the crowd. Buy yourself a garland, a mask and some wine, as much as you can carry. Where is the girl to be found?”
“At dame Hannah’s. She lives in a little house in a garden belonging to the widow of Pudeus. And whoever gives it to her is to say that it is sent by the friend at Lochias.”
“Good. Now go, and take care that no one recognizes you. Your secret is mine, and the friend at Lochias shall be duly mentioned.”
Mastor disappeared in the crowd. Verus put the nosegay into the hands of one of the garden-gods that followed in his train, sprang laughing on to the ass, and desired the driver to show him the way. At the corner of the next street, he met two litters, carried with difficulty through the crowd by their bearers. In the first sat Keraunus, whose saffron-colored cloak was conspicuous from afar, as fat as Silenus the companion of Dionysus, but looking very sullen. In the second sat Arsinoe, looking gaily about her, and so fresh and pretty that the Roman’s easily-stirred pulses beat more rapidly.
Without reflecting, he took the flowers from the hand of the garden-god—the flowers intended for Selene—laid them on the girl’s litter, and said:
“Alexander greets Roxana, the fairest of the fair.” Arsinoe colored, and Verus, after watching her for some time as she was carried onwards, desired one of his boys to follow her litter, and to join him again in the flower-market, where he would wait, to inform him whither she had gone.
The messenger hurried off, and Verus, turning his ass’s head soon reached a semicircular pillared hall on the shady side of a large open space, under which the better sort of gardeners and flower dealers of the city exposed their gay and fragrant wares to be sold by pretty girls. To-day every stall had been particularly well supplied, but the demand for wreaths and flowers had steadily increased from an early hour, and although Verus had all that he could find of fresh flowers arranged and tied together, still the nosegay, though much larger, was not half so beautiful as that intended for Selene, and for which he substituted it.
Now this annoyed the Roman. His sense of justice prompted him to make good the loss he had inflicted on the sick girl. Gay ribbons were wound round the stalks of the flowers, and the long ends floated in the air, so Verus took a brooch from his dress and stuck it into the bow which ornamented the stem of the nosegay; then he was satisfied, and as he looked at the stone set in a gold border—an onyx on which was engraved Eros sharpening his arrows—he pictured to himself the pleasure, the delight of the girl that the handsome Bithynian loved, as she received the beautiful gift.
His slaves, natives of Britain, who were dressed as garden-gods, were charged with the commission to proceed to dame Hannah’s under the guidance of the donkey-driver to deliver the nosegay to Selene from ‘the friend at Lochias,’ and then to wait for him outside the house of Titianus, the prefect; for thither, as he had ascertained from his swift-footed messenger, had Keraunus and his daughter been carried.
Verus needed a longer time than the boy, to make his way through the crowd. At the door of the prefect’s residence he laid aside his mask, and in an anteroom where the steward was sitting on a couch waiting for his daughter, he arranged his hair and the folds of his toga, and was then conducted to the lady Julia with whom he hoped, once more, to see the charming Arsinoe.
But in the reception-room, instead of Arsinoe he found his own wife and the poetess Balbilla and her companion. He greeted the ladies gaily, amiably and gracefully, as usual, and then, as he looked enquiringly round the large room without concealing his disappointment, Balbilla came up to him and asked him in a low voice:
“Can you be honest, Verus?”
“When circumstances allow it, yes.”
“And will they allow it here?”
“I should suppose so.”
“Then answer me truly. Did you come here for Julia’s sake, or did you come—”
“Well?”
“Or did you expect to find the fair Roxana with the prefect’s wife?”
“Roxana?” asked Verus, with a cunning smile. “Roxana! Why she was the wife of Alexander the Great, and is long since dead, but I care only for the living, and when I left the merry tumult in the streets it was simply and solely—”
“You excite my curiosity.”
“Because my prophetic heart promised me, fairest Balbilla, that I should find you here.”
“And that you call honest!” cried the poetess, hitting the praetor a blow with the stick of the ostrich-feather fan she held in her hand. “Only listen, Lucilla, your husband declares he came here for my sake.” The praetor looked reproachfully at the speaker, but she whispered:
“Due punishment for a dishonest man.” Then, raising her voice, she said:
“Do you know, Lucilla, that if I remain unmarried, your husband is not wholly innocent in the matter.”
“Alas! yes, I was born too late for you,” interrupted Verus, who knew very well what the poetess was about to say.
“Nay—no misunderstanding!” cried Balbilla. “For how can a woman venture upon wedlock when she cannot but fear the possibility of getting such a husband as Verus.”
“And what man,” retorted the praetor, “would ever be so bold as to court Balbilla, could he hear how cruelly she judges an innocent admirer of beauty?”
“A husband ought not to admire beauty—only the one beauty who is his wife.”
“Ah Vestal maiden,” laughed Verus. “I am meanwhile punishing you by withholding from you a great secret which interests us all. No, no, I am not going to tell—but I beg you my lady wife to take her to task, and teach her to exercise some indulgence so that her future husband may not have too hard a time of it.”
“No woman can learn to be indulgent,” replied Lucilla. “Still we practise indulgence when we have no alternative, and the criminal requires us to make allowance for him in this thing or the other.”
Verus made his wife a bow and pressed his lips on her arm, then he asked. “And where is dame Julia?”
“She is saving the sheep from the wolf,” replied Balbilla.
“Which means—?”
“That as soon as you were announced she carried off little Roxana to a place of safety.”
“No, no,” interrupted Lucilla. “The tailor was waiting in an inner room to arrange the charming child’s costume. Only look at the lovely nosegay she brought to Julia. And do you deny my right to share your secret?”
“How could I?” replied Verus.
“He is very much in need of your making allowances!” laughed Balbilla, while the praetor went up to, his wife and told her in a whisper what he had learnt from Mastor. Lucilla clasped her hands in astonishment, and Verus cried to the poetess:
“Now you see what a satisfaction your cruel tongue has deprived you of?”
“How can you be so revengeful most estimable Verus,” said the lady coaxingly. “I am dying of curiosity.”
“Live but a few days longer fair Balbilla, for my sake,” replied the Roman, “and the cause of your early death will be removed.”
“Only wait, I will be revenged!” cried the girl threatening him with her finger, but Lucilla led her away saying:
“Come now, it is time we should give Julia the benefit of our advice.”
“Do so,” said Verus. “Otherwise I am afraid my visit to-day would seem opportune to no one.—Greet Julia from me.”
As he went away he cast a glance at the nosegay which Arsinoe had given away as soon as she had received it from him, and he sighed: “As we grow old we have to learn wisdom.”
