Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (detective books to read .TXT) đź“–
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have not the right to kill thee and our child, who may live to happier
times. I will go to Cæsar this day, and implore him to change his
command. Whether he will hear me, I know not. Meanwhile, farewell,
Lygia, and know that I and Pomponia ever bless the day in which thou
didst take thy seat at our hearth.”
Thus speaking, he placed his hand on her head; but though he strove to
preserve his calmness, when Lygia turned to him eyes filled with tears,
and seizing his hand pressed it to her lips, his voice was filled with
deep fatherly sorrow.
“Farewell, our joy, and the light of our eyes,” said he.
And he went to the atrium quickly, so as not to let himself be conquered
by emotion unworthy of a Roman and a general.
Meanwhile Pomponia, when she had conducted Lygia to the cubiculum, began
to comfort, console, and encourage her, uttering words meanwhile which
sounded strangely in that house, where near them in an adjoining chamber
the lararium remained yet, and where the hearth was on which Aulus
Plautius, faithful to ancient usage, made offerings to the household
divinities. Now the hour of trial had come. On a time Virginius had
pierced the bosom of his own daughter to save her from the hands of
Appius; still earlier Lucretia had redeemed her shame with her life.
The house of Cæsar is a den of infamy, of evil, of crime. But we,
Lygia, know why we have not the right to raise hands on ourselves! Yes!
The law under which we both live is another, a greater, a holier, but it
gives permission to defend oneself from evil and shame even should it
happen to pay for that defence with life and torment. Whoso goes forth
pure from the dwelling of corruption has the greater merit thereby. The
earth is that dwelling; but fortunately life is one twinkle of the eye,
and resurrection is only from the grave; beyond that not Nero, but Mercy
bears rule, and there instead of pain is delight, there instead of tears
is rejoicing.
Next she began to speak of herself. Yes! she was calm; but in her
breast there was no lack of painful wounds. For example, Aulus was a
cataract on her eye; the fountain of light had not flowed to him yet.
Neither was it permitted her to rear her son in Truth. When she thought,
therefore, that it might be thus to the end of her life, and that for
them a moment of separation might come which would be a hundred times
more grievous and terrible than that temporary one over which they were
both suffering then, she could not so much as understand how she might
be happy even in heaven without them. And she had wept many nights
through already, she had passed many nights in prayer, imploring grace
and mercy. But she offered her suffering to God, and waited and
trusted. And now, when a new blow struck her, when the tyrant’s command
took from her a dear one,—the one whom Aulus had called the light of
their eyes,—she trusted yet, believing that there was a power greater
than Nero’s and a mercy mightier than his anger.
And she pressed the maiden’s head to her bosom still more firmly. Lygia
dropped to her knees after a while, and, covering her eyes in the folds
of Pomponia’s peplus, she remained thus a long time in silence; but when
she stood up again, some calmness was evident on her face.
“I grieve for thee, mother, and for father and for my brother; but I
know that resistance is useless, and would destroy all of us. I promise
thee that in the house of Cæsar I will never forget thy words.”
Once more she threw her arms around Pomponia’s neck; then both went out
to the Âścus, and she took farewell of little Aulus, of the old Greek
their teacher, of the dressing-maid who had been her nurse, and of all
the slaves. One of these, a tall and broad-shouldered Lygian, called
Ursus in the house, who with other servants had in his time gone with
Lygia’s mother and her to the camp of the Romans, fell now at her feet,
and then bent down to the knees of Pomponia, saying,—“O domina! permit
me to go with my lady, to serve her and watch over her in the house of
Cæsar.”
“Thou art not our servant, but Lygia’s,” answered Pomponia; “but if they
admit thee through Cæsar’s doors, in what way wilt thou be able to watch
over her?”
“I know not, domina; I know only that iron breaks in my hands just as
wood does.”
When Aulus, who came up at that moment, had heard what the question was,
not only did he not oppose the wishes of Ursus, but he declared that he
had not even the right to detain him. They were sending away Lygia as a
hostage whom Cæsar had claimed, and they were obliged in the same way to
send her retinue, which passed with her to the control of Cæsar. Here
he whispered to Pomponia that under the form of an escort she could add
as many slaves as she thought proper, for the centurion could not refuse
to receive them.
There was a certain comfort for Lygia in this. Pomponia also was glad
that she could surround her with servants of her own choice. Therefore,
besides Ursus, she appointed to her the old tire-woman, two maidens from
Cyprus well skilled in hairdressing, and two German maidens for the
bath. Her choice fell exclusively on adherents of the new faith; Ursus,
too, had professed it for a number of years. Pomponia could count on
the faithfulness of those servants, and at the same time consoled
herself with the thought that soon grains of truth would be in Cæsar’s
house.
She wrote a few words also, committing care over Lygia to Nero’s
freedwoman, Acte. Pomponia had not seen her, it is true, at meetings of
confessors of the new faith; but she had heard from them that Acte had
never refused them a service, and that she read the letters of Paul of
Tarsus eagerly. It was known to her also that the young freedwoman
lived in melancholy, that she was a person different from all other
women of Nero’s house, and that in general she was the good spirit of
the palace.
Hasta engaged to deliver the letter himself to Acte. Considering it
natural that the daughter of a king should have a retinue of her own
servants, he did not raise the least difficulty in taking them to the
palace, but wondered rather that there should be so few. He begged
haste, however, fearing lest he might be suspected of want of zeal in
carrying out orders.
The moment of parting came. The eyes of Pomponia and Lygia were filled
with fresh tears; Aulus placed his hand on her head again, and after a
while the soldiers, followed by the cry of little Aulus, who in defence
of his sister threatened the centurion with his small fists, conducted
Lygia to Cæsar’s house.
The old general gave command to prepare his litter at once; meanwhile,
shutting himself up with Pomponia in the pinacotheca adjoining the Âścus,
he said to her,—“Listen to me, Pomponia. I will go to Cæsar, though I
judge that my visit will be useless; and though Seneca’s word means
nothing with Nero now, I will go also to Seneca. To-day Sophonius,
Tigellinus, Petronius, or Vatinius have more influence. As to Cæsar,
perhaps he has never even heard of the Lygian people; and if he has
demanded the delivery of Lygia, the hostage, he has done so because some
one persuaded him to it,—it is easy to guess who could do that.”
She raised her eyes to him quickly.
“Is it Petronius?”
“It is.”
A moment of silence followed; then the general continued,—“See what it
is to admit over the threshold any of those people without conscience or
honor. Cursed be the moment in which Vinicius entered our house, for he
brought Petronius. Woe to Lygia, since those men are not seeking a
hostage, but a concubine.”
And his speech became more hissing than usual, because of helpless rage
and of sorrow for his adopted daughter. He struggled with himself some
time, and only his clenched fists showed how severe was the struggle
within him.
“I have revered the gods so far,” said he; “but at this moment I think
that not they are over the world, but one mad, malicious monster named
Nero.”
“Aulus,” said Pomponia. “Nero is only a handful of rotten dust before
God.”
But Aulus began to walk with long steps over the mosaic of the
pinacotheca. In his life there had been great deeds, but no great
misfortunes; hence he was unused to them. The old soldier had grown
more attached to Lygia than he himself had been aware of, and now he
could not be reconciled to the thought that he had lost her. Besides,
he felt humiliated. A hand was weighing on him which he despised, and
at the same time he felt that before its power his power was as nothing.
But when at last he stifled in himself the anger which disturbed his
thoughts, he said,—“I judge that Petronius has not taken her from us
for Cæsar, since he would not offend Poppæa. Therefore he took her
either for himself or Vinicius. Today I will discover this.”
And after a while the litter bore him in the direction of the Palatine.
Pomponia, when left alone, went to little Aulus, who did not cease
crying for his sister, or threatening Cæsar.
AULUS had judged rightly that he would not be admitted to Nero’s
presence. They told him that Cæsar was occupied in singing with the
lute-player, Terpnos, and that in general he did not receive those whom
he himself had not summoned. In other words, that Aulus must not
attempt in future to see him.
Seneca, though ill with a fever, received the old general with due
honor; but when he had heard what the question was, he laughed bitterly,
and said,—“I can render thee only one service, noble Plautius, not to
show Cæsar at any time that my heart feels thy pain, or that I should
like to aid thee; for should Cæsar have the least suspicion on this
head, know that he would not give thee back Lygia, though for no other
reason than to spite me.”
He did not advise him, either, to go to Tigellinus or Vatinius or
Vitelius. It might be possible to do something with them through money;
perhaps, also, they would like to do evil to Petronius, whose influence
they were trying to undermine, but most likely they would disclose
before Nero how dear Lygia was to Plautius, and then Nero would all the
more resolve not to yield her to him. Here the old sage began to speak
with a biting irony, which he turned against himself: “Thou hast been
silent, Plautius, thou hast been silent for whole years, and Cæsar does
not like those who are silent. How couldst thou help being carried away
by his beauty, his virtue, his singing, his declamation, his chariot-driving, and his verses? Why didst thou not glorify the death of
Britannicus, and repeat panegyrics in honor of the mother-slayer, and
not offer congratulations after the stifling of Octavia? Thou art
lacking in foresight, Aulus, which we who live happily at the court
possess in proper measure.”
Thus speaking, he raised a goblet which he carried at his belt, took
water from a fountain at the impluvium, freshened his burning
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