Outside, under the branches of the elm and sycamore-trees, which stretched in long avenues up the Viminal and down again on the farthest side, an ingenious intendant had devised much such an entertainment as in our days would be given under corresponding circumstances. Thousands of colored lamps hung in long festoons from tree to tree. The quaintly-clipped laurel and yew bushes, that stood between the six great avenues, were starred with semicircular lights, and the bronze and marble statues held torches and braziers of flame. The open space between the two centre avenues was screened by an immense curtain of purple stuff, which was fastened to two tall masts and waved mysteriously in the night air, casting strange reflections; to the right and left also a space was enclosed and screened from prying eyes by boards hung with tapestry.

“This promises something delightful,” said Clodianus, addressing Quintus for the first time during the evening. “She is a splendid creature, this Lycoris! Always ready to spend millions for the pleasure of her guests. Did you ever see handsomer hangings? Nero’s enormous velarium[178] was not more costly.”

“Oh! gold is all-powerful!” Quintus said absently. “Listen,” he went on, taking the officer on one side, “quite in confidence.—Is what I heard to-day at the baths of Titus[179] true?—that you had really been to Domitia?”

“As you say.”

“It is true then?”

“And why not? You know what happened in the Circus?”

“Of course; but I thought....”

“No, there was no help for it this time. I solemnly and formally offered her the hand of reconciliation in Caesar’s name.”

“And Domitia?”

“To-morrow she will return an answer to her husband’s message; but, of course, she is only too ready.”

At this moment the fair Massilian came up to them.

“Quintus, one word with you,” she begged with an engaging smile. “You will excuse him, Clodianus?”

The officer bowed.

“Listen,” said Lycoris, as she drew Quintus away, “you must tell me all you can about your provincial friend. The man is unbearable with his strictness and sobriety, and yet there is something in him—how can I explain it?—something that is wanting in every one of you others without exception; a balance of mind, a steadfast certainty—one may as well give in as soon as he opens his mouth.”

And as she spoke she laid her hand familiarly in the young man’s arm.

“Very true,” he said coldly. “Aurelius is not much like those oiled and perfumed gallants, who think themselves happy to kiss the dust on your sandals. But that boy is waiting to speak to you.”

Lycoris looked round; a young slave, who had slowly followed her, glanced at her significantly.

“Madam,” he said, “everything is ready.”

“Ah?” said the lady. “The actors are ready? Very good; then let the music begin.”

The slave bowed and vanished. Lycoris imperceptibly guided her companion into a thickly overgrown sidewalk.

“We have time to spare,” she said, “and the music sounds much better from here than up there from the terrace. What were we talking about?... oh! the Batavian.... Why did you not bring your strange specimen to my house sooner?”

“Because he has not long been in Rome.”

“In Rome....” repeated Lycoris vaguely. Her eyes were searching the shrubbery. Then, recollecting herself, she went on talking vivaciously. Thus the couple lost themselves farther and farther in the recesses of the garden; their conversation ceased, and they listened involuntarily to the Dionysiac hymn which reached them in softened tones from the distance. Out here even, in this remote alley, everything was festally illuminated; every leaf, every pebble in the path, shone in many-colored hues. And yet, how deserted, how lonely it was, in spite of the lights! there was something uncanny and ghostly in their doubtful flicker and sparkle. Suddenly Lycoris stood still.

“By the Styx!” she exclaimed. “I have lost my most valuable ring. Not two seconds since I saw it on my finger! Wait, you must have trodden on it; it cannot be twenty paces off and must be lying on the ground.” Before Quintus fairly understood what had happened, she had vanished down a side path. The young man waited. “Lycoris!” he called out presently.

No answer.

He went back to the turning—of Lycoris, not a sign.

“This is strange!” thought he. “What can it mean?”

Suddenly he stood stock-still, for in the middle of the path stood a girlish form, small, but well made and of the sweetest grace. She pressed her finger mysteriously to her rosebud lips, and then made unmistakable signs to the youth that he was to follow her.

“What do you want?” asked Quintus, going up to her.

“Above all things silence,” said the girl. “My errand is to you alone.”

“Speak on then.”

“Nay, not here, noble Quintus; consider a moment—with impenetrable hedges on each side of us! If any one came upon us, how could we escape?”

“And who are you?” asked Quintus with a meaning smile.

“Only a slave—named Polycharma. Will you come with me?”“Certainly, Polycharma, I follow you.”

About a hundred yards farther on a small circular clearing opened to their right; the entrance to it was decorated with gold-colored festoons. Just before reaching this spot the path became so narrow, that a stout man could hardly pass along it; the wall of yew on each side had overgrown three-quarters of its width. Polycharma drew the folds of her dress more closely round her slim limbs, while the young man pushed aside the branches to the right and left. He looked round once more to see if he could discover Lycoris, but behind him all was silent and deserted. Even the sound of the music was only heard faintly and as if in a dream. Having reached the round plot, the slave girl took a letter out of her bosom. “My lord,” she said, “I must exact a solemn oath from you....”

“What about?”

“That you will keep my errand an absolute secret, and return me this letter when you have read it.”

“Good, I swear it by Jupiter!”

Polycharma handed him the note; the mere sight of it filled him with a suspicion of its origin. He hastily broke the seal and the silk thread, and by the light of the colored lamps which lighted the place, he read as follows:

The young man was stunned; he stared speechless at the letter, which declared in such plain terms a consuming passion. And yet, in spite of the answering emotion which any love—even though it be rejected—must rouse in the recipient, he could not shake off the feeling which he had already experienced at Baiae. A dull, unutterable loathing remained paramount in his soul, and the foppish figure of Paris, the actor, rose clearly before his fancy. Had not the ear of that slave drunk in the same flattering words, as were now intended to intoxicate and ravish him? Miserable, contemptible woman—ah! how differently and how truly beat the proud heart of his Cornelia!

Cornelia!—The thought of her turned the balance finally; Quintus drew a wax tablet out of his bosom and wrote on it:

He folded the tablet in the letter, tied it up again and gave it to Polycharma, who swiftly vanished. When her steps were no longer audible, Quintus pressed his hand over his eyes and sat down on a marble bench to reflect. Oh! that sly, intriguing Lycoris! She too, then, was paid by the Empress as well as by Stephanus! Subsidized by both, and a traitoress to both—for so much at any rate was certain: Stephanus knew nothing of this nocturnal meeting. He, the real instigator of the scene in the circus, could evidently have no part in an intrigue, of which the issue would be diametrically opposed to his own efforts.

Sunk in gloomy reflections on these unpleasing details, Quintus sat staring at the ground. Suddenly he heard footsteps, and confused cries were audible in the distance, mingled with the clatter of swords and arms. The next minute two dark figures ran across the entrance to the rotunda, and up the narrow path towards the top of the hill. They were followed by two others, who came less rapidly than the first.

“Leave me, for Christ’s sake, I can go no farther!” groaned a piteous voice, which touched the young man strangely, and at the same time the light of the lamps fell on a pale and suffering face. Quintus recognized the victim he had seen at Baiae tied to the stake.

“Courage, Eurymachus,” whispered his companion, a square, thick-set man who held him stoutly up. “Hang on to my shoulders; a hundred steps farther, and you are safe.” And they disappeared among the shrubbery.

Quintus was not a little bewildered.

“What is going on here?” thought he, rising and quitting the open plot for one of the side paths. “Is this park peopled with demons?”Again he heard steps and voices, more numerous and wrathful than before. “This way, men! There, up the path between the hedges!”

“Do not let them get away. Ten thousand sesterces to the man, who brings the villains back alive!”

And shouting thus in loud confusion, a party of armed men came in sight, running in breathless haste through the narrow paths. The foremost of them was now standing in front of Quintus.

“Make way, my lord!” he exclaimed in eager hurry: “We are seeking a criminal,” and he tried to push past Quintus.

Strange! but Quintus, the proud and high-born Quintus, suddenly felt an unaccountable impulse to protect and shield the wretched and contemned slave.

“Insolent knave!” he exclaimed in well-feigned indignation: “Would you dare to touch Quintus Claudius?” And seizing the astonished man by the wrist he flung him violently from him. Meanwhile the others had come up. Quintus still barred the way simply by standing there. The band of men looked doubtfully now at the young nobleman, and then at their comrade, who got up, grumbling, from the stones. Thus a precious moment was gained. At last Quintus thought it as well to understand the situation.

“Idiots!” he exclaimed. “Why did you not explain at once what you wanted?—instead of that, you storm and rave like madmen....” And he stood aside.

The pursuers rushed by him in breathless fury.

“On with you!” he said to himself, as he looked after the armed men. “But unless I have reckoned very badly, the game has this time escaped the hunters.”

Quintus found the company in the greatest excitement; they were standing in agitated knots vehemently discussing something; uncertainty, alarm, and consternation were visible in all. The only man who appeared altogether calm and indifferent was Stephanus, haggard and diplomatically reserved. He was sitting apart, not far from the spot where the avenue by which Quintus returned, opened on to the terrace. A man of athletic build was lying on the ground, bleeding from numerous wounds; in his right hand he held the hilt of a broken sword and his left was pressed in speechless anguish to his breast, where the enemy’s blade had pierced him. Five or six slaves, who had carried him hither, were standing round him with expressive gestures, while Stephanus was making a pitiable abortive attempt to cross-examine the dying man. At about forty paces farther away four slaves, fearfully injured, were lying in their blood. One had had his skull cleft to the neck, and the others were covered with hideous and gaping wounds. All four were dead.

On the spot too, where just now the curtain of gold-tissue had waved, there was the greatest confusion. The curtain[180] had been lowered—the fanciful decorations of one side had been overthrown and nearly half-burnt, while hammers, nails, ropes, fragments of dresses, and rubbish of every kind strewed the stage. In the midst of this hideous disorder a tall cross[181] stood upright.

It was some time before Quintus could get any connected account of what had happened; at first ten voices were raised at once to their highest pitch of explanation. Lycoris was sulky and peevish, because the best effect of her whole programme had been spoilt. Her friend Leaina, on the contrary, swore by Hercules that Quintus had lost the finest sight in the world. His wily acquaintance Clodianus, who took every opportunity of assuming airs of frank bluntness, railed in threatening bass tones at the audacity of the rascals, and others wandered off into questions, so that Quintus at last lost patience. He went to the captain of the Praetorian guard, took him by the arm, and asked almost angrily:

“Norbanus, will you tell me in plain words? I was absent, in the remotest part of the wood, and on my return I find a perfect chaos. What does it all mean?”

“It means one more sign of the times. Rome is become a perfect Vesuvius; there are rumblings and mutterings on every side and in every corner. What do you think? We were sitting here very contentedly on the garden seats, enjoying the pleasures of digestion. Well, I was just wondering to myself what this Massilian bay mare could still have in reserve, and somewhat excited with curiosity, when the curtain was lowered. A grand burst of music! and a fellow dressed in scarlet came to the front and informed us in well-turned trimeters,[182] that a devilish funny piece was about to be performed, the capital punishment of a criminal slave[183] named Eurymachus....”“What?” cried Quintus horrified.

“As I tell you—the execution of the slave Eurymachus, who had sinned gravely against his illustrious master Stephanus, and so had forfeited his life.”

“An execution as a garden comedy? This is something new, by Jupiter!”

“New indeed! hardly heard of since the days of the divine Nero.”

“Well, and what next?”

“The speaker announced that Lycoris had obtained leave from Parthenius, the head chamberlain, to have the execution carried out in the semblance of a jest before the eyes of her illustrious and noble guests; he begged our indulgence for the performers, bowed, and the entertainment began.—You know me, Quintus, and that I am no lover of such horrible buffoonery. I fought for many years against the Daci[184] and Germanii, and the gods know that the sight of death turns me cold. Merely to see an unarmed wretch butchered—do you know, Quintus, it always reminds me of slaughtering swine. When I sit there at my ease, looking on, a lump rises in my throat, even in the amphitheatre. It may be outrageously simple and quite out of fashion, but for the life of me I cannot help it.”

“Go on, go on!” cried Quintus in growing excitement.

“Well then; the performance began. They dragged the man in, half-naked and crowned with roses. I cannot say he looked to me like a dangerous character; quite the contrary—even at that moment, when his life was at stake, he was quite quiet; only his paleness betrayed that the proceedings were not altogether pleasant to him. Then all sorts of mocking and games began at his expense; men scourged him or kicked him—all with consummate grace—and half-naked girls danced and leaped round him like mad things, nipped and pinched him, boxed his ears, and played all kinds of stupid tricks. This went on for about ten minutes. Then the executioners set a ladder by the cross there, flung a rope round him under the arms, hauled him up, and the first blow of the hammer was on the point of hitting the nail in, when a part of the side scene fell in with a tremendous crash. Four men, with their faces blackened with soot, rushed in like a thunder-storm, seized Eurymachus—who was as pale as death—by the arms, and were gone before the pack of slaves had recovered their senses. The spectators thought at first that this was part of the entertainment, till they were enlightened by the angry shouts of Stephanus and Lycoris. Then it occurred to the half-stunned executioners, that they might pursue the men. But then they perceived, that in the breach made by the fallen scenery a tall giant of a man was standing. He received the pursuers with a perfect storm of sword-strokes. Rhodius, the gardener’s son, fell without a cry, and the second man fared no better; the uproar was general, and the scenery broke out in flames. The whole gang of them fell back before the one with a howl, like dogs before a wolf at bay. The tall fellow, however, retired through fire and smoke till he was safe outside it all, and then he planted himself up above at the entrance of the avenue of elms, sword in hand. Eight men rushed upon him at once, but for fully five minutes not one could get at him. Three of the assailants bit the dust, before a well-aimed thrust pierced the Hercules through the breast. He started, once more gathered himself together, and a fourth man fell in front of him, cleft through the skull. That was the last of it.”

“A noble ending truly to a friendly festival!” said Quintus glancing at Lycoris, who still was fuming over the disaster. “And the rash defender is dead?”

“Not yet,” said Clodianus joining them. “Stephanus is questioning him. But as the fellow refuses to give any information, they propose to torture him to make him speak.”

“Impossible!” cried Quintus furious. “His wound is mortal, he fought like a hero. At any rate leave him to die in peace!” Clodianus shrugged his shoulders.

“Settle that with Stephanus! If the villain will not confess, it is certainly permissible to egg on his loquacity.”

Quintus frowned. After a few minutes of reflection he went up to Stephanus, at the very instant when two slaves came on to the terrace with a steaming cauldron of water.

“A very painful incident!” said Claudius coolly.

“Most painful!” replied Stephanus in the same tone. “I mean to try, whether the error may not be remedied.” And as he spoke he gave a highly-significant nod to the slaves, who had set the cauldron down on the ground close to him. Quintus involuntarily stepped forward and put out his hand in remonstrance.

“I hope, my good friend,” he said, still perfectly coolly, “that you only intended to frighten this villain—good taste alone must prohibit....”

Stephanus changed color slightly, and the slaves looked terrified into his face. The tension of the situation was interrupted by the return of the armed men, who had been sent after the fugitives and now came back breathless and streaming with sweat.

“My lord,” the foremost began, “we return as jaded as a pack of hounds, but with empty hands.”

“So I see,” said Stephanus in chill tones. “And what tavern did you stop at, and what wenches did you stop to kiss.”

“Forgive us, my lord!” groaned another sinking on to his knees, partly from exhaustion, and partly from terror. “We rushed up the hill like blood-hounds,[185] but they had too much the start of us.”

Stephanus looked down.

“Was the gate on to the Patrician Way[186] locked?” he asked frowning.“Fast locked.”

“It is well. I will speak to your mistress. Woe to you, if you are in fault!”

“My lord,” the first speaker began again. “Grant me to say one word of explanation. In spite of the start the fugitives had gained, we might have caught them if an accident....”

He broke off and glanced at Quintus, who smiled and told him to go on. “Speak fearlessly,” he said kindly. “Accuse me, if you think well to do so—in fact, you have every right.”

The slave went on to relate how Quintus had delayed him and his comrades in the narrow hedge-grown passage. At each word Stephanus grew paler, and Quintus became more and more scornful in air and demeanor.

“Are this man’s assertions founded on fact?” asked Stephanus as the slave ceased speaking.

“How am I to interpret such a question?”

“Exactly as I ask it. I am interested to know whether a son of the noble Claudia gens can so far—condescend, as to abet the flight of a criminal?”

“That I did not say!” cried the slave, shocked.

“Never mind!” said Quintus reassuringly, to the excited narrator. “You have spoken the truth, and I will vouch for it at any moment. When I was loitering in the gardens of our fair hostess, how should I guess that certain persons, who came upon me quite suddenly, were chasing a runaway slave? And even if I had guessed it, what is there to compel me to step among the thorns and briars, in order to make way for your thief-catchers?”

“Politeness and a due regard for the interests of the commonwealth,” replied Stephanus drily. “However, what is done cannot be undone. It is all the more necessary to act promptly, in what yet remains to be done.”

As he spoke he went close up to the blood-stained Hun, who, with his last remaining strength, lifted himself up and cast a wild glance round him.

“You hardened hound,” he said in a rough, hoarse voice, “I will soften you! Do you see that cauldron? I ask you once more: Who are you? Who are your fellow-conspirators?” The gasping man’s breast heaved more rapidly.

“Will you speak?” repeated Stephanus furiously. And now, for the first time the victim spoke; till now he had not uttered a sound.

“No!” he cried with his last remnant of strength, and he sank back groaning.

“Very well; then abide by your destiny.” At this moment Quintus Claudius stepped up to the slaves who held the cauldron, his arms crossed on his breast.

“Enough of this horse-play!” he said curtly and vehemently. “Begone indoors, you parcel of idiots! I, Quintus Claudius, command you to go.”

“And I, Stephanus, command you in the name of your mistress: remain and obey! Rufus, Daedalus, lay hold!”

“We will solve this dilemma, as Alexander did in Gordium,” said Quintus scornfully, and with these words he pushed the slaves aside and gave the cauldron a mighty kick, so that the contents poured steaming out all over the terrace.

“This is violence!"[187] exclaimed Stephanus, involuntarily raising his hands.“The violence of reason against bad taste and coarse feeling!” said Quintus with a scowling look. “I should advise you, freedman,[188] to keep your hand hidden away in the folds of your robe, or in the depths of your coffers and money-boxes, or Quintus Claudius might happen to squeeze that hand rather more tightly than you would like!”

At the word “freedman” Stephanus had turned as pale as a corpse. He closed his eyes and staggered. His lean fingers trembled and twitched, as if he were feeling for a dagger. Then, mastering his agitation with an almost superhuman effort, he said faintly:

“I do not altogether understand what it is that you mean, so I will not trouble myself to answer ... you. Meanwhile you have only given the slaves some unnecessary extra labor.—To work, men!—refill the cauldron.”

“Too late,” said Quintus. “Your victim has escaped you.”

“He is dead!” cried the slaves.

Stephanus muttered something unintelligible between his teeth; then he ordered that the body should be removed.

“Antinous,” said he to one of the slaves, a remarkably beautiful young fellow: “I look to you to report all that has happened here, fully and exactly to the authorities. If Eurymachus is delivered up to me alive, I promise you a hundred thousand sesterces.—Here comes Lycoris with the soldiers of the town-watch.[189] Speak to them; tell them all you know, and offer them gold; that will inspire the most dilatory.”

“I hear and obey, my lord.”

“I am tired and shall withdraw. In ten minutes I shall expect to see you.”

“I shall be with you in five.”

The file of men at arms—a division of a military body, who performed the duties of a town-watch, combining the functions of our modern firemen and police—came up just at the right moment to verify the death of the unknown victim, to take the statements of the assistants and spend an hour very comfortably in the atrium. The guests of the fair Lycoris had soon recovered from the unpleasant impression produced by the untoward incident. Amusements and sports of every kind effaced the last traces of its remembrance, and for a long time after the tones of luxurious music sounded through the starry night.