‘A beast! O dullard! we beat the beasts hollow!’ cried Tetraides.
‘Well, well said Stratonice, who was now employed in smoothing her hair and adjusting her dress, ‘if ye are all good friends again, I recommend you to be quiet and orderly; for some young noblemen, your patrons and backers, have sent to say they will come here to pay you a visit: they wish to see you more at their ease than at the schools, before they make up their bets on the great fight at the amphitheatre. So they always come to my house for that purpose: they know we only receive the best gladiators in Pompeii—our society is very select—praised be the gods!’
‘Yes,’ continued Burbo, drinking off a bowl, or rather a pail of wine, ‘a man who has won my laurels can only encourage the brave. Lydon, drink, my boy; may you have an honorable old age like mine!’
‘Come here,’ said Stratonice, drawing her husband to her affectionately by the ears, in that caress which Tibullus has so prettily described—’Come here!’
‘Not so hard, she-wolf! thou art worse than the gladiator,’ murmured the huge jaws of Burbo.
‘Hist!’ said she, whispering him; ‘Calenus has just stole in, disguised, by the back way. I hope he has brought the sesterces.’
‘Ho! ho! I will join him, said Burbo; ‘meanwhile, I say, keep a sharp eye on the cups—attend to the score. Let them not cheat thee, wife; they are heroes, to be sure, but then they are arrant rogues: Cacus was nothing to them.’
‘Never fear me, fool!’ was the conjugal reply; and Burbo, satisfied with the dear assurance, strode through the apartment, and sought the penetralia of his house.
‘So those soft patrons are coming to look at our muscles,’ said Niger. ‘Who sent to previse thee of it, my mistress?’
‘Lepidus. He brings with him Clodius, the surest better in Pompeii, and the young Greek, Glaucus.’
‘A wager on a wager,’ cried Tetraides; ‘Clodius bets on me, for twenty sesterces! What say you, Lydon?’
‘He bets on me!’ said Lydon.
‘No, on me!’ grunted Sporus.
‘Dolts! do you think he would prefer any of you to Niger?’ said the athletic, thus modestly naming himself.
‘Well, well,’ said Stratonice, as she pierced a huge amphora for her guests, who had now seated themselves before one of the tables, ‘great men and brave, as ye all think yourselves, which of you will fight the Numidian lion in case no malefactor should be found to deprive you of the option?’
‘I who have escaped your arms, stout Stratonice,’ said Lydon, ‘might safely, I think, encounter the lion.’
‘But tell me,’ said Tetraides, ‘where is that pretty young slave of yours—the blind girl, with bright eyes? I have not seen her a long time.’
‘Oh! she is too delicate for you, my son of Neptune,’ said the hostess, ‘and too nice even for us, I think. We send her into the town to sell flowers and sing to the ladies: she makes us more money so than she would by waiting on you. Besides, she has often other employments which lie under the rose.’
‘Other employments!’ said Niger; ‘why, she is too young for them.’
‘Silence, beast!’ said Stratonice; ‘you think there is no play but the Corinthian. If Nydia were twice the age she is at present, she would be equally fit for Vesta—poor girl!’
‘But, hark ye, Stratonice,’ said Lydon; ‘how didst thou come by so gentle and delicate a slave? She were more meet for the handmaid of some rich matron of Rome than for thee.’
‘That is true,’ returned Stratonice; ‘and some day or other I shall make my fortune by selling her. How came I by Nydia, thou askest.’
‘Ay!’
‘Why, thou seest, my slave Staphyla—thou rememberest Staphyla, Niger?’
‘Ay, a large-handed wench, with a face like a comic mask. How should I forget her, by Pluto, whose handmaid she doubtless is at this moment!’
‘Tush, brute!—Well, Staphyla died one day, and a great loss she was to me, and I went into the market to buy me another slave. But, by the gods! they were all grown so dear since I had bought poor Staphyla, and money was so scarce, that I was about to leave the place in despair, when a merchant plucked me by the robe. “Mistress,” said he, “dost thou want a slave cheap I have a child to sell—a bargain. She is but little, and almost an infant, it is true; but she is quick and quiet, docile and clever, sings well, and is of good blood, I assure you.” “Of what country?” said I. “Thessalian.” Now I knew the Thessalians were acute and gentle; so I said I would see the girl. I found her just as you see her now, scarcely smaller and scarcely younger in appearance. She looked patient and resigned enough, with her hands crossed on her bosom, and her eyes downcast. I asked the merchant his price: it was moderate, and I bought her at once. The merchant brought her to my house, and disappeared in an instant. Well, my friends, guess my astonishment when I found she was blind! Ha! ha! a clever fellow that merchant! I ran at once to the magistrates, but the rogue was already gone from Pompeii. So I was forced to go home in a very ill humor, I assure you; and the poor girl felt the effects of it too. But it was not her fault that she was blind, for she had been so from her birth. By degrees, we got reconciled to our purchase. True, she had not the strength of Staphyla, and was of very little use in the house, but she could soon find her way about the town, as well as if she had the eyes of Argus; and when one morning she brought us home a handful of sesterces, which she said she had got from selling some flowers she had gathered in our poor little garden, we thought the gods had sent her to us. So from that time we let her go out as she likes, filling her basket with flowers, which she wreathes into garlands after the Thessalian fashion, which pleases the gallants; and the great people seem to take a fancy to her, for they always pay her more than they do any other flower-girl, and she brings all of it home to us, which is more than any other slave would do. So I work for myself, but I shall soon afford from her earnings to buy me a second Staphyla; doubtless, the Thessalian kidnapper had stolen the blind girl from gentle parents. Besides her skill in the garlands, she sings and plays on the cithara, which also brings money, and lately—but that is a secret.’
‘That is a secret! What!’ cried Lydon, ‘art thou turned sphinx?’
‘Sphinx, no!—why sphinx?’
‘Cease thy gabble, good mistress, and bring us our meat—I am hungry,’ said Sporus, impatiently.
‘And I, too,’ echoed the grim Niger, whetting his knife on the palm of his hand.
The amazon stalked away to the kitchen, and soon returned with a tray laden with large pieces of meat half-raw: for so, as now, did the heroes of the prize-fight imagine they best sustained their hardihood and ferocity: they drew round the table with the eyes of famished wolves—the meat vanished, the wine flowed. So leave we those important personages of classic life to follow the steps of Burbo.
Chapter II
* * *
Two Worthies.
IN the earlier times of Rome the priesthood was a profession, not of lucre but of honour. It was embraced by the noblest citizens—it was forbidden to the plebeians. Afterwards, and long previous to the present date, it was equally open to all ranks; at least, that part of the profession which embraced the flamens, or priests—not of religion generally but of peculiar gods. Even the priest of Jupiter (the Flamen Dialis) preceded by a lictor, and entitled by his office to the entrance of the senate, at first the especial dignitary of the patricians, was subsequently the choice of the people. The less national and less honored deities were usually served by plebeian ministers; and many embraced the profession, as now the Roman Catholic Christians enter the monastic fraternity, less from the impulse of devotion than the suggestions of a calculating poverty. Thus Calenus, the priest of Isis, was of the lowest origin. His relations, though not his parents, were freedmen. He had received from them a liberal education, and from his father a small patrimony, which he had soon exhausted. He embraced the priesthood as a last resource from distress. Whatever the state emoluments of the sacred profession, which
at that time were probably small, the officers of a popular temple could never complain of the profits of their calling. There is no profession so lucrative as that which practises on the superstition of the multitude.
Calenus had but one surviving relative at Pompeii, and that was Burbo. Various dark and disreputable ties, stronger than those of blood, united together their hearts and interests; and often the minister of Isis stole disguised and furtively from the supposed austerity of his devotions; and gliding through the back door of the retired gladiator, a man infamous alike by vices and by profession, rejoiced to throw off the last rag of an hypocrisy which, but for the dictates of avarice, his ruling passion, would at all time have sat clumsily upon a nature too brutal for even the mimicry of virtue.
Wrapped in one of those large mantles which came in use among the Romans in proportion as they dismissed the toga, whose ample folds well concealed the form, and in which a sort of hood (attached to it) afforded no less a security to the features, Calenus now sat in the small and private chamber of the wine-cellar, whence a small passage ran at once to that back entrance, with which nearly all the houses of Pompeii were furnished.
Opposite to him sat the sturdy Burbo, carefully counting on a table between them a little pile of coins which the priest had just poured from his purse—for purses were as common then as now, with this difference—they were usually better furnished!
‘You see,’ said Calenus, that we pay you handsomely, and you ought to thank me for recommending you to so advantageous a market.’
‘I do, my cousin, I do,’ replied Burbo, affectionately, as he swept the coins into a leathern receptacle, which he then deposited in his girdle, drawing the buckle round his capacious waist more closely than he was wont to do in the lax hours of his domestic avocations. ‘And by Isis, Pisis, and Nisis, or whatever other gods there may be in Egypt, my little Nydia is a very Hesperides—a garden of gold to me.’
‘She sings well, and plays like a muse,’ returned Calenus; ‘those are virtues that he who employs me always pays liberally.’
‘He is a god,’ cried Burbo, enthusiastically; ‘every rich man who is generous deserves to be worshipped. But come, a cup of wine, old friend: tell me more about it. What does she do? she is frightened, talks of her oath, and reveals nothing.’
‘Nor will I, by my right hand! I, too, have taken that terrible oath of secrecy.’
‘Oath! what are oaths to men like us?’
‘True oaths of a common fashion; but this!’—and the stalwart priest shuddered as he spoke. ‘Yet,’ he continued, in emptying a huge cup of unmixed wine, ‘I own to thee, that it is not so much the oath that I dread as the vengeance of him who proposed it. By the gods! he is a mighty sorcerer, and could draw my confession from the moon, did I dare to make it to her. Talk no more of this. By Pollux! wild as those banquets are which I enjoy with him, I am never quite at my ease there. I love, my boy, one jolly hour with thee, and one of the plain, unsophisticated, laughing girls that I meet in this chamber, all smoke-dried though it be, better than whole nights of those magnificent debauches.’
‘Ho! sayest thou so! To-morrow night, please the gods, we will have then a snug carousal.’
‘With all my heart,’ said the priest, rubbing his hands, and drawing himself nearer to the table.
At this moment they heard a slight noise at the door, as of one feeling the handle. The priest lowered the hood over his head.
‘Tush!’ whispered the host, ‘it is but the blind girl,’ as Nydia opened the door, and entered the apartment.
‘Ho! girl, and how durst thou? thou lookest pale—thou hast kept late revels? No matter, the young must be always the young,’ said Burbo, encouragingly.
The girl made no answer, but she dropped on one of the seats with an air of lassitude. Her color went and came rapidly: she beat the floor impatiently with her small feet, then she suddenly raised her face, and said with a determined voice:
‘Master, you may starve me if you will—you may beat me—you may threaten me with death—but I will go no more to that unholy place!’
‘How, fool!’ said Burbo, in a savage voice, and his heavy brows met darkly over his fierce and bloodshot eyes; ‘how, rebellious! Take care.’
‘I have said it,’ said the poor girl, crossing her hands on her breast.
‘What! my modest one, sweet vestal, thou wilt go no more! Very well, thou shalt be carried.’
‘I will raise the city with my cries,’ said she, passionately; and the color mounted to her brow.
‘We will take care of that too; thou shalt go gagged.’
‘Then may the gods help me!’ said Nydia, rising; ‘I will appeal to the magistrates.’
‘Thine oath remember!’ said a hollow voice, as for the first time Calenus joined in the dialogue.
At these words a trembling shook the frame of the unfortunate girl; she clasped her hands imploringly. ‘Wretch that I am!’ she cried, and burst violently into sobs.
Whether or not it was the sound of that vehement sorrow which brought the gentle Stratonice to the spot, her grisly form at this moment appeared in the chamber.
‘How now? what hast thou been doing with my slave, brute?’ said she, angrily, to Burbo.
‘Be quiet, wife,’ said he, in a tone half-sullen, half-timid; ‘you want new girdles and fine clothes, do you? Well then, take care of your slave, or you may want them long. Voe capiti tuo—vengeance on thy head, wretched one!’
‘What is this?’ said the hag, looking from one to the other.
Nydia started as by a sudden impulse from the wall against which she had leaned: she threw herself at the feet of Stratonice; she embraced her knees, and looking up at her with those sightless but touching eyes:
‘O my mistress!’ sobbed she, ‘you are a woman—you have had sisters—you have been young like me, feel for me—save me! I will go to those horrible feasts no more!’
‘Stuff!’ said the hag, dragging her up rudely by one of those delicate hands, fit for no harsher labor than that of weaving the flowers which made her pleasure or her trade; ‘stuff! these fine scruples are not for slaves.’
‘Hark ye,’ said Burbo, drawing forth his purse, and chinking its contents: ‘you hear this music, wife; by Pollux! if you do not break in yon colt with a tight rein, you will hear it no more.’
‘The girl is tired,’ said Stratonice, nodding to Calenus; ‘she will be more docile when you next want her.’
‘You! you! who is here?’ cried Nydia, casting her eyes round the apartment with so fearful and straining a survey, that Calenus rose in alarm from his seat.
‘She must see with those eyes!’ muttered he.
‘Who is here! Speak, in heaven’s name! Ah, if you were blind like me, you would be less cruel,’ said she; and she again burst into tears.
‘Take her away,’ said Burbo, impatiently; ‘I hate these whimperings.’
‘Come!’ said Stratonice, pushing the poor child by the shoulders. Nydia drew herself aside, with an air to which resolution gave dignity.
‘Hear me,’ she said; ‘I have served you faithfully—I who was brought up—Ah! my mother, my poor mother! didst thou dream I should come to this?’ She dashed the tear from her eyes, and proceeded: ‘Command me in aught else, and I will obey; but I tell you now, hard, stern, inexorable as you are—I tell you that I will go there no more; or, if I am forced there, that I will implore the mercy of the praetor himself—I have said it. Hear me, ye gods, I swear!’
The hag’s eyes glowed with fire; she seized the child by the hair with one hand, and raised on high the other—that formidable right hand, the least blow of which seemed capable to crush the frail and delicate form that trembled in her grasp. That thought itself appeared to strike her, for she suspended the blow, changed her purpose, and dragging Nydia to the wall, seized from a hook a rope, often, alas! applied to a similar purpose, and the next moment the shrill, the agonized shrieks of the blind girl, rang piercingly through the house.
&nb
sp; Chapter III
* * *
Glaucus Makes A Purchase That Afterwards Costs Him Dear.
‘HOLLA, my brave fellows!’ said Lepidus, stooping his head as he entered the low doorway of the house of Burbo. ‘We have come to see which of you most honors your lanista.’ The gladiators rose from the table in respect to three gallants known to be among the gayest and richest youths of Pompeii, and whose voices were therefore the dispensers of amphitheatrical reputation.
‘What fine animals!’ said Clodius to Glaucus: ‘worthy to be gladiators!’
‘It is a pity they are not warriors,’ returned Glaucus.
A singular thing it was to see the dainty and fastidious Lepidus, whom in a banquet a ray of daylight seemed to blind—whom in the bath a breeze of air seemed to blast—in whom Nature seemed twisted and perverted from every natural impulse, and curdled into one dubious thing of effeminacy and art—a singular thing was it to see this Lepidus, now all eagerness, and energy, and life, patting the vast shoulders of the gladiators with a blanched and girlish hand, feeling with a mincing gripe their great brawn and iron muscles, all lost in calculating admiration at that manhood which he had spent his life in carefully banishing from himself.
So have we seen at this day the beardless flutterers of the saloons of London thronging round the heroes of the Fives-court—so have we seen them admire, and gaze, and calculate a bet—so have we seen them meet together, in ludicrous yet in melancholy assemblage, the two extremes of civilized society—the patrons of pleasure and its slaves—vilest of all slaves—at once ferocious and mercenary; male prostitutes, who sell their strength as women their beauty; beasts in act, but baser than beasts in motive, for the last, at least, do not mangle themselves for money!
‘Ha! Niger, how will you fight?’ said Lepidus: ‘and with whom?’
‘Sporus challenges me,’ said the grim giant; ‘we shall fight to the death, I hope.’
The Last Days of Pompeii Page 11
