Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (detective books to read .TXT) 📖

whom she held involuntarily as a kind of demigod, was as

pitiful as any slave, and that palace, with columns of Numidian marble,

no better than a heap of stones. At last, however, those feelings which

she had not power to define began to torment her; she wanted to sleep,

but being tortured by alarm she could not. Thinking that Lygia,

threatened by so many perils and uncertainties, was not sleeping either,

she turned to her to speak of her flight in the evening. But Lygia was

sleeping calmly. Into the dark cubiculum, past the curtain which was

not closely drawn, came a few bright rays, in which golden dust-motes

were playing. By the light of these rays Acte saw her delicate face,

resting on her bare arm, her closed eyes, and her mouth slightly open.

She was breathing regularly, but as people breathe while asleep.

 

“She sleeps,—she is able to sleep,” thought Acte. “She is a child

yet.” Still, after a while it came to her mind that that child chose to

flee rather than remain the beloved of Vinicius; she preferred want to

shame, wandering to a lordly house, to robes, jewels, and feasts, to the

sound of lutes and citharas.

 

“Why?”

 

And she gazed at Lygia, as if to find an answer in her sleeping face.

She looked at her clear forehead, at the calm arch of her brows, at her

dark tresses, at her parted lips, at her virgin bosom moved by calm

breathing; then she thought again,—“How different from me!”

 

Lygia seemed to her a miracle, a sort of divine vision, something

beloved of the gods, a hundred times more beautiful than all the flowers

in Cæsar’s garden, than all the statues in his palace. But in the Greek

woman’s heart there was no envy. On the contrary, at thought of the

dangers which threatened the girl, great pity seized her. A certain

motherly feeling rose in the woman. Lygia seemed to her not only as

beautiful as a beautiful vision, but also very dear, and, putting her

lips to her dark hair, she kissed it.

 

But Lygia slept on calmly, as if at home, under the care of Pomponia

Græcina. And she slept rather long. Midday had passed when she opened

her blue eyes and looked around the cubiculum in astonishment.

Evidently she wondered that she was not in the house of Aulus.

 

“That is thou, Acte?” said she at last, seeing in the darkness the face

of the Greek.

 

“I, Lygia.”

 

“Is it evening?”

 

“No, child; but midday has passed.”

 

“And has Ursus not returned?”

 

“Ursus did not say that he would return; he said that he would watch in

the evening, with Christians, for the litter.”

 

“True.”

 

Then they left the cubiculum and went to the bath, where Acte bathed

Lygia; then she took her to breakfast and afterward to the gardens of

the palace, in which no dangerous meeting might be feared, since Cæsar

and his principal courtiers were sleeping yet. For the first time in her

life Lygia saw those magnificent gardens, full of pines, cypresses,

oaks, olives, and myrtles, among which appeared white here and there a

whole population of statues. The mirror of ponds gleamed quietly;

groves of roses were blooming, watered with the spray of fountains;

entrances to charming grottos were encircled with a growth of ivy or

woodbine; silver-colored swans were sailing on the water; amidst statues

and trees wandered tame gazelles from the deserts of Africa, and rich-colored birds from all known countries on earth.

 

The gardens were empty; but here and there slaves were working, spade in

hand, singing in an undertone; others, to whom was granted a moment of

rest, were sitting by ponds or in the shade of groves, in trembling

light produced by sun-rays breaking in between leaves; others were

watering roses or the pale lily-colored blossoms of the saffron. Acte

and Lygia walked rather long, looking at all the wonders of the gardens;

and though Lygia’s mind was not at rest, she was too much a child yet to

resist pleasure, curiosity, and wonder. It occurred to her, even, that

if Cæsar were good, he might be very happy in such a palace, in such

gardens.

 

But at last, tired somewhat, the two women sat down on a bench hidden

almost entirely by dense cypresses and began to talk of that which

weighed on their hearts most,—that is, of Lygia’s escape in the

evening. Acte was far less at rest than Lygia touching its success. At

times it seemed to her even a mad project, which could not succeed. She

felt a growing pity for Lygia. It seemed to her that it would be a

hundred times safer to try to act on Vinicius. After a while she

inquired of Lygia how long she had known him, and whether she did not

think that he would let himself be persuaded to return her to Pomponia.

 

But Lygia shook her dark head in sadness. “No. In Aulus’s house,

Vinicius had been different, he had been very kind, but since

yesterday’s feast she feared him, and would rather flee to the Lygians.”

 

“But in Aulus’s house,” inquired Acte, “he was dear to thee, was he

not?”

 

“He was,” answered Lygia, inclining her head.

 

“And thou wert not a slave, as I was,” said Acte, after a moment’s

thought. “Vinicius might marry thee. Thou art a hostage, and a

daughter of the Lygian king. Aulus and Pomponia love thee as their own

child; I am sure that they are ready to adopt thee. Vinicius might marry

thee, Lygia.”

 

But Lygia answered calmly, and with still greater sadness, “I would

rather flee to the Lygians.”

 

“Lygia, dost thou wish me to go directly to Vinicius, rouse him, if he

is sleeping, and tell him what I have told thee? Yes, my precious one,

I will go to him and say, ‘Vinicius, this is a king’s daughter, and a

dear child of the famous Aulus; if thou love her, return her to Aulus

and Pomponia, and take her as wife from their house.’”

 

But the maiden answered with a voice so low that Acte could barely hear

it,—

 

“I would rather flee to the Lygians.” And two tears were hanging on her

drooping lids.

 

Further conversation was stopped by the rustle of approaching steps, and

before Acte had time to see who was coming, Poppæa Sabina appeared in

front of the bench with a small retinue of slave women. Two of them

held over her head bunches of ostrich feathers fixed to golden wires;

with these they fanned her lightly, and at the same time protected her

from the autumn sun, which was hot yet. Before her a woman from Egypt,

black as ebony, and with bosom swollen as if from milk, bore in her arms

an infant wrapped in purple fringed with gold. Acte and Lygia rose,

thinking that Poppæa would pass the bench without turning attention to

either; but she halted before them and said,—“Acte, the bells sent by

thee for the doll were badly fastened; the child tore off one and put it

to her mouth; luckily Lilith saw it in season.”

 

“Pardon, divinity,” answered Acte, crossing her arms on her breast and

bending her head.

 

But Poppæa began to gaze at Lygia.

 

“What slave is this?” asked she, after a pause.

 

“She is not a slave, divine Augusta, but a foster child of Pomponia

Græcina, and a daughter of the Lygian king given by him as hostage to

Rome.”

 

“And has she come to visit thee?”

 

“No, Augusta. She is dwelling in the palace since the day before

yesterday.”

 

“Was she at the feast last night?”

 

“She was, Augusta.”

 

“At whose command?”

 

“At Cæsar’s command.”

 

Poppæa looked still more attentively at Lygia, who stood with bowed

head, now raising her bright eyes to her with curiosity, now covering

them with their lids. Suddenly a frown appeared between the brows of

the Augusta. Jealous of her own beauty and power, she lived in

continual alarm lest at some time a fortunate rival might ruin her, as

she had ruined Octavia. Hence every beautiful face in the palace roused

her suspicion. With the eye of a critic she took in at once every part

of Lygia’s form, estimated every detail of her face, and was frightened.

“That is simply a nymph,” thought she, “and ‘twas Venus who gave birth

to her.” On a sudden this came to her mind which had never come before

at sight of any beauty,—that she herself had grown notably older!

Wounded vanity quivered in Poppæa, alarm seized her, and various fears

shot through her head. “Perhaps Nero has not seen the girl, or, seeing

her through the emerald, has not appreciated her. But what would happen

should he meet such a marvel in the daytime, in sunlight? Moreover she

is not a slave, she is the daughter of a king,—a king of barbarians,

it is true, but a king. Immortal gods! she is as beautiful as I am, but

younger!” The wrinkle between her brows increased, and her eyes began

to shine under their golden lashes with a cold gleam.

 

“Hast thou spoken with Cæsar?”

 

“No, Augusta.”

 

“Why dost thou choose to be here rather than in the house of Aulus?”

 

“I do not choose, lady. Petronius persuaded Cæsar to take me from

Pomponia. I am here against my will.”

 

“And wouldst thou return to Pomponia?”

 

This last question Poppæa gave with a softer and milder voice; hence a

sudden hope rose in Lygia’s heart.

 

“Lady,” said she, extending her hand to her, “Cæsar promised to give me

as a slave to Vinicius, but do thou intercede and return me to

Pomponia.”

 

“Then Petronius persuaded Cæsar to take thee from Aulus, and give thee

to Vinicius?”

 

“True, lady. Vinicius is to send for me to-day, but thou art good, have

compassion on me.” When she had said this, she inclined, and, seizing

the border of Poppæa’s robe, waited for her word with beating heart.

Poppæa looked at her for a while, with a face lighted by an evil smile,

and said,—“Then I promise that thou wilt become the slave of Vinicius

this day.” And she went on, beautiful as a vision, but evil. To the

ears of Lygia and Acte came only the wail of the infant, which began to

cry, it was unknown for what reason.

 

Lygia’s eyes too were filled with tears; but after a while she took

Acte’s hand and said,—“Let us return. Help is to be looked for only

whence it can come.” And they returned to the atrium, which they did

not leave till evening.

 

When darkness had come and slaves brought in tapers with great flames,

both women were very pale. Their conversation failed every moment.

Both were listening to hear if some one were coming. Lygia repeated

again and again that, though grieved to leave Acte, she preferred that

all should take place that day, as Ursus must be waiting in the dark for

her then. But her breathing grew quicker from emotion, and louder.

Acte collected feverishly such jewels as she could, and, fastening them

in a corner of Lygia’s peplus, implored her not to reject that gift and

means of escape. At moments came a deep silence full of deceptions for

the ear. It seemed to both that they heard at one time a whisper beyond

the curtain, at another the distant weeping of a child, at another the

barking of dogs.

 

Suddenly the curtain of the entrance moved without noise, and a tall,

dark man, his face marked with small-pox, appeared like a spirit in the

atrium. In one moment Lygia