On a purple couch, her right hand supporting her handsome head, while her left played mechanically with the folds of her robe, lay the Empress Domitia; Polycharma, her favorite slave, sat in silence on the floor, holding in her lap a red and blue bird, which now and then flapped its wings and gave a loud, strange cry. All else was silent, oppressed by sultry gloom and the steamy stillness of the air. In spite of its nearness, the noise of the Forum was dulled to a murmur like that of wind-rocked trees. The marble statue of Venus[281] by the door-way looked sleepily down under her drooping lids; even the little Eros with his lightly-tilted jar, seemed touched with melancholy. Outside, in the corridors and antechambers, there was scarcely a sound. The slaves glided cautiously about on tiptoe, and spoke in whispers or expressed themselves by signs. Their imperial mistress’s melancholy mood seemed to fill the very atmosphere with a subtle malaise and anxious forebodings.

A few hours since, the first meeting had taken place between the reconciled couple. They had met with dignity and a calm semblance of friendly regard on both sides; but between them lay the unspoken but bitter certainty that, after all that had passed, no real reconciliation could ever be possible. Caesar’s suspicious nature recoiled from Domitia’s superiority of intellect and vehement temper—which flashed ominously in her eyes in spite of conventional smiles and smoothness—and from the scathing irony of her proud and revengeful spirit. She, on the other hand, knew the Emperor’s hatred and implacable malice; she knew that, once aggrieved, Domitian had the tenacity of a tiger in ambush, never weary of watching for an opportunity for the fatal spring. Added to this there was the remembrance of her own humiliations—her banishment from the palace, the execution of Paris, and the emperor’s passion for his niece Julia. And now, to be forgiven by him whom she so thoroughly despised—to accept the clemency of Domitian—this was the worst and deepest humiliation of all....

So, listless and silent, she lay on her pillows, reviewing in imagination the events of the last few hours in pictures that seemed to mock her as they passed. The Apollo-like figure of the young patrician, who had fired her fancy at Baiae, seemed to smile at her contemptuously; she sighed and closed her eyes, as though to escape the vision. Till a few hours ago, she had believed that she had conquered that madness. Her spirit had found strength in resolving on revenge, and she had felt like a goddess bent on punishing the presumption of a mortal. But now—in this new mood—she was conscious of a subtle change, the desire for revenge remained, but now there was nothing lofty, no sense of superiority in the feeling—the goddess had given place to a vain, lovesick woman, full of annoyance and petty spite. This change was a result of her altered circumstances; the sight of her husband had reminded her of the fact which she had striven to the utmost to ignore; that one word from that adored youth would have sufficed to make this reconciliation an impossibility. Shame and hatred, rage and passion, seethed in her soul, and her self-tormenting fancy painted alternately the most enchanting and the most horrible pictures. As in some hideous dream, the form and features of Quintus were mixed up with those of her former lover, the executed actor. She saw herself in tears, kneeling wildly at his feet—he raised her, kissed her, her senses reeled. Then he scornfully flung her from him—she shuddered from head to foot, and stabbed him desperately with her poniard....

Then again she recalled the occasion, when Polycharma had returned to her with the little tablet that Quintus had given to the slave-girl in the park, the answer to her last passionate letter—that tablet had been her death-warrant—but no, not hers—his! "He must die!"—she seemed to see the words traced between those fatal lines.

Then everything faded from her vision like a landscape shrouded in mist. Instead of the slave-girl, it was the flute-player, who stood before her with a triumphant sparkle in her eyes, as her cheek flushed under the traitor’s touch—as she had seen her stand, the bold hussy, on the hill at Cumae—happy, no doubt, in the love that she, the Empress, pined for.

The thought was intolerable; the miserable woman writhed under the clutch of the demon of jealousy. She groaned and struggled for breath. Polycharma started to her feet.

“Lady, mistress—what is the matter?” she asked, gazing helplessly at Domitia’s distorted features. But the sound of a voice broke the spell; Domitia controlled herself. Not a soul on earth, not even this trusted slave, should ever know how low she could be brought. She would hold herself proudly and defiantly—aye, though she should suffocate in the effort. Polycharma should suppose that the adventure in the gardens of Lycoris was a mere whim, a comedy; never would she betray the anguish of her unrequited passion and deep humiliation.

She raised herself on the pillows and sighed deeply again, as if to prove that the groan which had escaped her had not been involuntary.

“I am afraid,” she said in a low voice, “that I am too much accustomed to liberty, ever to make myself happy again within the bars of this golden cage. I have too long been a free and unfettered woman, to have retained any talent for being Empress. The marble walls of a palace weigh upon me like lead. Ah! Polycharma! I am longing already for my quiet retreat on the Quirinal, or for Baiae and its delicious wilderness.”

“Oh! I understand that,” exclaimed the girl. “Particularly for Baiae—is there a more heavenly spot on earth? The bench under the hedge of bay, with that lovely view over the blue sea! And when the full moon rises over the hill—it is beyond words. And do you remember the young knight from Mediolanum,[282] who recited to us the woes of Queen Dido,[283] and whom you permitted to kiss this white hand as his reward? He trembled like an aspen in the evening breeze. Ah! and Xanthios, the beautiful young Greek from Cumae! How desperately the boy was in love with me!”

Domitia tried to smile.

“Poor child,” she said sadly. “And you too will find out what it is to live at Caesar’s court.”

“Ah well!” said Polycharma airily, “by the grace of the gods, we will be able to retain some fragment of our lost freedom. Your steward is a very shrewd and clever man, and he will see what can be managed. And for your sake, Sovereign Mistress, he would be ready to burn down Rome.”

“Indeed? What makes you think so?”

“Well—of course we all have our own ideas.—Stephanus lives and toils for nothing but your Highness, and for the glory of your name. It was he, who conquered Caesar’s obstinacy and made your return possible. And confess, gracious mistress—Baiae may be lovely, and the evening hours in the park there were indeed delightful, but to share the throne of Caesar, the ruler of the world—that is yet more lovely and delightful!”“Who can tell....” said Domitia.

“Stephanus, at any rate, thought so.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Well, I mean that he has always done his best....”

“But it seems to me, that it is no more than his duty.”

“Certainly. Still, there is a way of doing one’s duty—a devotedness....”

“What are you aiming at?” asked the Empress. “First you speak as if you wanted to keep silence, and then you break off as if you wished to speak....”

“I only thought....”

“Speak out boldly, Polycharma, and have done with this mysterious behavior, which is like the incoherence of a sibyl."[284]

“By the gods! but I dare not. Besides I only guess at it; he could never be so bold....”

“You are talking in riddles. Speak out; I command you!”

“Oh!” cried the girl contritely. “How am I to say it? Stephanus is consumed by a hopeless passion. He is dying of silent love for the charms of his imperial mistress.”

Domitia’s features did not show a shade of feeling, and Polycharma glanced in terror at the expressionless face, for not the twinkle of an eyelash, not a twitch of the lips, betrayed what emotion might have been roused by this explanation.

“You are mistaken,” replied the Empress after a long pause. “My steward is a faithful servant, and his zeal and devotion are seen by your youthful fancy in a too poetical light.—Go, have done with your foolish imaginings; take your lute, and sing me one of your gayest songs.”

The girl retired a little distance, and an arch smile lighted up her shrewd little face. She fetched the cithara out of its carved case and returned, lightly tuning the strings.

“Some one is knocking,” she said pausing, and she went to the door. “What is it? You know, Strato, that our mistress does not choose to be disturbed.”

A short whispered colloquy was carried on outside the curtain, that hung before the entrance; then Polycharma came to announce that Stephanus begged an audience on a matter of great importance.

Domitia did not at once reply. Then she suddenly looked up, as if struck by some new idea.

“Desire him to come in,” she said eagerly. “Polycharma, leave us together.”

The same meaning smile again parted the girl’s lips. She quietly leaned the lute against the wall and hastened to the door, where she lifted the curtain with mock exaggeration of respect and let the steward pass in front of her. Then she slipped out, shut and fastened the door and joined two other slave-girls, who were sitting in the anteroom on red leather cushions, and carrying on a laughing flirtation with a flaxen-haired Sicambrian belonging to the praetorian guard.

Stephanus stood just within the door and bowed low. It was difficult to recognize in him the cool and unblenching man, never at a loss in his perfect knowledge of court manners and gossip, and accomplished in the arts of intrigue. In Domitia’s presence the freedman was a slave again; all his presence of mind, all the easy demeanor he had acquired in the school of life, he had left outside that door. The man, who went forward in obedience to a nod from the Empress, was a servile, creeping slave, a pitiable wretch, who tried in vain to find utterance.

“What ails you?” asked the Empress with a fascinating smile. “You look as pale as if you had lain awake all night. I fear your zeal prompts you to work too hard.”

“Gracious mistress,” replied Stephanus, “I am distressed indeed if I intrude....”

“I am always ready to listen to the faithful servant, who toils for me so devotedly. What brings you here, Stephanus?”

The freedman was startled; if he had read aright Polycharma’s cunning glance, this reception promised him such happiness, that the mere thought of it turned him giddy.

“You hesitate,” the Empress went on. “I understand—you fear lest there should be listeners in the anteroom. Your errand is serious and important.”

She rose and led the way to a side chamber. Stephanus followed. The fairy-like fittings of the beautiful room had exercised an intoxicating charm over the senses even of a spoilt courtier like Stephanus. The whole boudoir was like a luxurious bouquet—walls, floor, ceiling were all hung and covered with diaphanous rose-colored stuff, on which sparkling stones were sprinkled like dew-drops. A tender twilight and the heady scent of roses completed the irresistible witchery of the scene.

The beautiful creature, who stood in the midst of all this dazzling splendor, with her white arms faintly tinged with the rosy reflection, and her flowing drapery clinging closely to the grand forms of her limbs, might, without any great effort of fancy, have been taken for Aphrodite, the goddess of love, incarnate in this adorable person.

Stephanus breathed hard; the empress sank on to a rose-colored couch, and beckoned him to approach.

“Now,” she said graciously, “we are alone, proceed.”

“Sovereign lady,” said Stephanus, hardly possessed of all his senses, “my duty.... An hour ago your humble servant was with Lycoris. She ... I know not how ... but lately we have met with some obstacle ... it was only with the greatest difficulty that I succeeded.... The chamberlain is this evening to be her guest.... She promised me ... but she made conditions....”

“It matters not,” said Domitia. “You will strain every nerve to engage Parthenius on our side, I know, and that is enough for me. The details I trust to your acumen. If you do not succeed the first time, you will try again. A failure, even a blunder, needs no excuses. You have my unlimited confidence.”

“I am overwhelmed by the greatness of your favors.”

He bowed to the ground and humbly kissed the hem of her robe, which fell in ample folds, leaving a small part of her sandal and snowy foot bare. A strange mixture of pain and triumph lurked in her eyes, as the thought flashed through her mind: Ah, why, hapless, adoring wretch, are you not Quintus? But then a terrible satisfaction gained the upperhand; her lips moved as she swore to herself an unspoken vow—she clenched her fist as though she held a dagger—a dagger for hatred and revenge. Stephanus could not know, that at that moment she had formed a sinister resolve.

“Nay—not that!” she whispered insinuatingly, as Stephanus rose again. “That is service to the gods. Among friends a frank and honest hand-shake....”

As she spoke she offered the astonished steward the tips of her fingers. He looked into her eyes like one dazed. What a change! This unapproachable woman, this divinity—till this hour so cold and repellent, was now all melting softness, dreamy and tender graciousness.

“Adored lady!” he groaned, pressing her hand to his pale lips. “Kill me, but I can no longer conceal it! Death would be bliss as compared with the torment of silence. Glorious Domitia—more beautiful than Cypria herself—I love you!”

He fell at the feet of the haughty sovereign, as though stunned by his own audacity, and leaned his forehead on her footstool. His brow by chance touched her foot, which she hastily withdrew with an involuntary gesture of aversion. But again a gleam of triumphant delight passed over her features.

“Stand up,” she said, dissimulating her excitement. “Your confession has taken away my breath. I hardly know whether I should be angry, or whether this heart—too tender, alas!—should forgive your boldness. You love me! It sounds sweetly simple, like the greeting of a friend—but think out the whole meaning of that short and simple word, and tell me then, if you do not tremble like a pine tree before the gale. Love craves for a return—answer me, Stephanus, do you esteem yourself so favored by the gods, as to dare to hope for Domitia’s favors?”The freedman had slowly risen to his feet. His thin hair, artificially darkened, hung loosely over his throbbing temples; his eyes were fixed and glazed.

“I know,” he said in hollow tones, “that I am unworthy of your grace. But the gods themselves choose blindly, without any regard for merit and worth. Their mercies are dispensed blindfold—not only Ares the slayer, but the humble Anchises[285]....”

“Enough!” said Domitia, who fancied she could still feel the hot, bald forehead against her foot. “If the gods have chosen, you need entreat no more. Listen to me, Stephanus. I too will be gracious—Call it a whim or sympathetic tenderness, as you please;—it is all the same.—You shall clasp the Empress in your arms and be happy, Stephanus—on one single condition you shall realize your dream. But it will require the utmost exertion of your talents....”

Stephanus heard no more; overpowered by this dazzling vision of happiness, he had fallen back on one of the rose-colored seats. His head thrown back, his eyes closed, he lay a pitiable image of human passion and weakness. The haze of unconsciousness veiled the strange and erratic brain, that was so unceasingly tossed and torn by cruelty, ambition, avarice, and sensual greed. The corpse-like figure, in its long Tarentine toga, was an object of unutterable horror in the beauty-loving eyes of Domitia—the sharp chin, the eagle nose, the hard, fleshless brow, now no longer vivified by the sparkle of the fiery eyes, all filled her excited senses with the horror, that blooming and joyous youth feels for the bony hand of a skeleton. She almost repented of her decision. Still, the recollection of Quintus, gave her strength to deny herself the craving of her inmost nature, and to persist in the road she had set out on. Perhaps, too, she had a lurking hope that she might cheat the tool of her vengeance, of the promised reward.

The steward did not remain unconscious more than a minute; when he opened his eyes, Domitia was mistress of herself and the situation. With her right hand she commanded silence.

“You need rest,” she said kindly. “And what I have to say can be said in a very few words. Quintus Claudius, the son of the Flamen, has insulted me mortally. How, where, and when, must remain my secret. Help me to triumph over this hated and unpardonable foe, and Domitia shall be yours. Throw your toils round him, watch him wherever he goes, miss no opportunity of ruining him.—How you will be able to accomplish this I cannot even guess, but you, I know, can do anything. Will you fulfil this commission?”

“I will, sovereign mistress!” cried Stephanus in a choking voice. “Your hatred is one with mine, for I too loathe this man as if he were plague-stricken. He shall die under the dagger of my meanest slave, and when he lies gasping in the dust, I will cry to him: Remember Domitia!”

The Empress started to her feet, and put out her hands with a gesture of horror.

“No, oh no!” she cried vehemently. “Death by the hand of an assassin, the mean fate of a merchant waylaid and flung from his cart by robbers near the Three Taverns—that would be a satisfaction too mean for this aching heart! I must feast my soul on his misery, set my feet upon his neck. A dagger-thrust—what is that to him? Do you know the man and his proud contempt of life? Look but once in his face, and ask yourself whether I am to be avenged by a stab. He would die, as another man would get up and take his leave at a banquet; he would die, and then it would be no worse for him, than if he had never breathed. No, Stephanus; go and devise some better plan than that! wound him, crush him in that which he loves best; overwhelm him with disgrace; break his towering pride—then you will have done all I can ask of your skill and devotion!”

“I will try. As yet I have not the faintest idea of the way to do it, but I have no doubt I can find it And when I have fulfilled the task you have set me....”

“In conquering my enemy, you will conquer my heart,” said Domitia smiling graciously.

“I will conquer or perish.”

He flung his toga over his shoulder with an air, and went to the door. The Empress watched him with a fixed, almost a vacant stare. No sooner had the curtain fallen and the door closed upon him, than she dropped into the nearest seat, sobbing convulsively, and set her teeth deep into the cushion in which she hid her face, while a torrent of scalding tears rushed from her half-closed eyelids.