Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (detective books to read .TXT) đź“–
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“I ask,” continued the young freedwoman, “for I have compassion on thee
—and I have compassion on the good Pomponia and Aulus, and on their
child. It is long since I began to live in this house, and I know what
Cæsar’s anger is. No! thou art not at liberty to flee from here. One
way remains to thee: implore Vinicius to return thee to Pomponia.”
But Lygia dropped on her knees to implore some one else. Ursus knelt
down after a while, too, and both began to pray in Cæsar’s house at the
morning dawn.
Acte witnessed such a prayer for the first time, and could not take her
eyes from Lygia, who, seen by her in profile, with raised hands, and
face turned heavenward, seemed to implore rescue. The dawn, casting
light on her dark hair and white peplus, was reflected in her eyes.
Entirely in the light, she seemed herself like light. In that pale
face, in those parted lips, in those raised hands and eyes, a kind of
superhuman exaltation was evident. Acte understood then why Lygia could
not become the concubine of any man. Before the face of Nero’s former
favorite was drawn aside, as it were, a corner of that veil which hides
a world altogether different from that to which she was accustomed. She
was astonished by prayer in that abode of crime and infamy. A moment
earlier it had seemed to her that there was no rescue for Lygia; now she
began to think that something uncommon would happen, that some aid would
come,—aid so mighty that Cæsar himself would be powerless to resist
it; that some winged army would descend from the sky to help that
maiden, or that the sun would spread its rays beneath her feet and draw
her up to itself. She had heard of many miracles among Christians, and
she thought now that everything said of them was true, since Lygia was
praying.
Lygia rose at last, with a face serene with hope. Ursus rose too, and,
holding to the bench, looked at his mistress, waiting for her words.
But it grew dark in her eyes, and after a time two great tears rolled
down her checks slowly.
“May God bless Pomponia and Aulus,” said she. “It is not permitted me
to bring ruin on them; therefore I shall never see them again.”
Then turning to Ursus she said that he alone remained to her in the
world; that he must be to her as a protector and a father. They could
not seek refuge in the house of Aulus, for they would bring on it the
anger of Cæsar. But neither could she remain in the house of Cæsar or
that of Vinicius. Let Ursus take her then; let him conduct her out of
the city; let him conceal her in some place where neither Vinicius nor
his servants could find her. She would follow Ursus anywhere, even
beyond the sea, even beyond the mountains, to the barbarians, where the
Roman name was not heard, and whither the power of Cæsar did not reach.
Let him take her and save her, for he alone had remained to her.
The Lygian was ready, and in sign of obedience he bent to her feet and
embraced them. But on the face of Acte, who had been expecting a
miracle, disappointment was evident. Had the prayer effected only that
much? To flee from the house of Cæsar is to commit an offence against
majesty which must be avenged; and even if Lygia succeeded in hiding,
Cæsar would avenge himself on Aulus and Pomponia. If she wishes to
escape, let her escape from the house of Vinicius. Then Cæsar, who does
not like to occupy himself with the affairs of others, may not wish even
to aid Vinicius in the pursuit; in every case it will not be a crime
against majesty.
But Lygia’s thoughts were just the following: Aulus would not even know
where she was; Pomponia herself would not know. She would escape not
from the house of Vinicius, however, but while on the way to it. When
drunk, Vinicius had said that he would send his slaves for her in the
evening. Beyond doubt he had told the truth, which he would not have
done had he been sober. Evidently he himself, or perhaps he and
Petronius, had seen Cæsar before the feast, and won from him the promise
to give her on the following evening. And if they forgot that day, they
would send for her on the morrow. But Ursus will save her. He will
come; he will bear her out of the litter as he bore her out of the
triclinium, and they will go into the world. No one could resist Ursus,
not even that terrible athlete who wrestled at the feast yesterday. But
as Vinicius might send a great number of slaves, Ursus would go at once
to Bishop Linus for aid and counsel. The bishop will take compassion on
her, will not leave her in the hands of Vinicius; he will command
Christians to go with Ursus to rescue her. They will seize her and bear
her away; then Ursus can take her out of the city and hide her from the
power of Rome.
And her face began to flush and smile. Consolation entered her anew, as
if the hope of rescue had turned to reality. She threw herself on
Acte’s neck suddenly, and, putting her beautiful lips to Acte’s cheek,
she whispered:
“Thou wilt not betray, Acte, wilt thou?”
“By the shade of my mother,” answered the freedwoman, “I will not; but
pray to thy God that Ursus be able to bear thee away.”
The blue, childlike eyes of the giant were gleaming with happiness. He
had not been able to frame any plan, though he had been breaking his
poor head; but a thing like this he could do,—and whether in the day or
in the night it was all one to him! He would go to the bishop, for the
bishop can read in the sky what is needed and what is not. Besides, he
could assemble Christians himself. Are his acquaintances few among
slaves, gladiators, and free people, both in the Subura and beyond the
bridges? He can collect a couple of thousand of them. He will rescue
his lady, and take her outside the city, and he can go with her. They
will go to the end of the world, even to that place from which they had
come, where no one has heard of Rome.
Here he began to look forward, as if to see things in the future and
very distant.
“To the forest? Ai, what a forest, what a forest!”
But after a while he shook himself out of his visions. Well, he will go
to the bishop at once, and in the evening will wait with something like
a hundred men for the litter. And let not slaves, but even pretorians,
take her from him! Better for any man not to come under his fist, even
though in iron armor,—for is iron so strong? When he strikes iron
earnestly, the head underneath will not survive.
But Lygia raised her finger with great and also childlike seriousness.
“Ursus, do not kill,” said she.
Ursus put his fist, which was like a maul, to the back of his head, and,
rubbing his neck with great seriousness, began to mutter. But he must
rescue “his light.” She herself had said that his turn had come. He
will try all he can. But if something happens in spite of him? In
every case he must save her. But should anything happen, he will
repent, and so entreat the Innocent Lamb that the Crucified Lamb will
have mercy on him, poor fellow. He has no wish to offend the Lamb; but
then his hands are so heavy.
Great tenderness was expressed on his face; but wishing to hide it, he
bowed and said,—“Now I will go to the holy bishop.”
Acte put her arms around Lygia’s neck, and began to weep. Once more the
freedwoman understood that there was a world in which greater happiness
existed, even in suffering, than in all the excesses and luxury of
Cæsar’s house. Once more a kind of door to the light was opened a
little before her, but she felt at once that she was unworthy to pass
through it.
LYGIA was grieved to lose Pomponia Græcina, whom she loved with her
whole soul, and she grieved for the household of Aulus; still her
despair passed away. She felt a certain delight even in the thought
that she was sacrificing plenty and comfort for her Truth, and was
entering on an unknown and wandering existence. Perhaps there was in
this a little also of childish curiosity as to what that life would be,
off somewhere in remote regions, among wild beasts and barbarians. But
there was still more a deep and trusting faith, that by acting thus she
was doing as the Divine Master had commanded, and that henceforth He
Himself would watch over her, as over an obedient and faithful child.
In such a case what harm could meet her? If sufferings come, she will
endure them in His name. If sudden death comes, He will take her; and
some time, when Pomponia dies, they will be together for all eternity.
More than once when she was in the house of Aulus, she tortured her
childish head because she, a Christian, could do nothing for that
Crucified, of whom Ursus spoke with such tenderness. But now the moment
had come. Lygia felt almost happy, and began to speak of her happiness
to Acte, who could not understand her, however. To leave everything,—
to leave house, wealth, the city, gardens, temples, porticos, everything
that is beautiful; leave a sunny land and people near to one—and for
what purpose? To hide from the love of a young and stately knight. In
Acte’s head these things could not find place. At times she felt that
Lygia’s action was right, that there must be some immense mysterious
happiness in it; but she could not give a clear account to herself of
the matter, especially since an adventure was before Lygia which might
have an evil ending,—an adventure in which she might lose her life
simply. Acte was timid by nature, and she thought with dread of what
the coming evening might bring. But she was loath to mention her fears
to Lygia; meanwhile, as the day was clear and the sun looked into the
atrium, she began to persuade her to take the rest needed after a night
without sleep. Lygia did not refuse; and both went to the cubiculum,
which was spacious and furnished with luxury because of Acte’s former
relations with Cæsar. There they lay down side by side, but in spite of
her weariness Acte could not sleep. For a long time she had been sad
and unhappy, but now she was seized by a certain uneasiness which she
had never felt before. So far life had seemed to her simply grievous
and deprived of a morrow; now all at once it seemed to her dishonorable.
Increasing chaos rose in her head. Again the door to light began to
open and close. But in the moment when it opened, that light so dazzled
her that she could see nothing distinctly. She divined, merely, that in
that light there was happiness of some kind, happiness beyond measure,
in presence of which every other was nothing, to such a degree that if
Cæsar, for example, were to set aside Poppæa, and love her, Acte, again,
it would be vanity. Suddenly the thought came to her that that Cæsar
whom she loved,
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