The relieving force was not a moment too soon in arriving. The outer gates of the mansion had been forced open, and the a.s.sailants were applying crowbars to the door which led to the private apartments of Pomponia. This, indeed, had given way; naturally it had not been made strong enough to resist a violent a.s.sault; but the domestics within had piled up a quant.i.ty of heavy furniture which had to be removed before the besiegers could make good their entrance. This obstacle saved the house. Before it could be got rid of, the relieving party arrived, and took the a.s.sailants in the rear. The leader of the latter at once recognized that his purpose had been defeated, and desisted from his attempt without challenging a struggle with the new arrivals. His bearing, however, was curiously unlike what might have been expected from the ringleader of a lawless gang surprised by a superior force. So far from displaying any embarra.s.sment, he appeared to be perfectly at his ease, and accosted Latera.n.u.s with all the air of an equal.

"You have been beforehand with me this time, sir," he said in a quiet tone, which nevertheless was full of suppressed fury. "I shall not forget it."

Latera.n.u.s smiled.

"Neither will they for whom I act," went on the other, "and that you will find no laughing matter."

[71] "I shall always be ready to answer for myself," said Latera.n.u.s firmly. "Since when has your mistress taken it upon herself to send storming parties against the houses of innocent citizens?"

To this the man made no reply. "You will not hinder our departure," he went on after a pause. "You will find it better not to do so."

Latera.n.u.s shrugged his shoulders. "You can go," he said; "it is not my business to do the duty of the guards, but if there is any justice in Rome, you shall hear of this again."

"Justice!" cried the fellow with an insolent laugh; "we know something much better than that."

Meanwhile the cohort had been waiting with eagerness for the end of the colloquy. All had their hands on the hilt of their swords, and all were ready to use them. Profound was their disappointment when, instead of the expected order to draw, came the command to stand at ease. One by one the a.s.sailants filed out of the court, their leader being the last to leave the place.

"What ails the master?" said one of the younger men, in an angry whisper to his neighbour.

"Hush!" replied the man addressed. "Don't you see that it is Theodectes?"

"Theodectes!" said the other; "who is Theodectes?"

"The favourite freedman of Poppaea. Is not that enough for you?"

[72] Meanwhile Latera.n.u.s, leaving instructions that the cohort should remain for the present in the court, made his way to the apartment where Pomponia was awaiting him.

"Welcome!" she said, coming forward and taking his hand with a peculiarly gracious smile; "the Lord has sent you in good time."

Pomponia Gr?cina, to give the lady her full name, was a woman of singularly dignified presence. She was now not far from her seventieth year, and her abundant hair, which, contrary to the fashion of the ladies of her time, she wore with a severe plainness, was of a silvery whiteness. But her figure was erect; her complexion retained no little of the bloom of youth,-a bloom which, again in opposition to contemporary custom, owed nothing to the resources of art; and her eyes could flash, on occasion, with a fire which years had done nothing to quench. Her history was one of singular interest. She came of a house not originally n.o.ble, but distinguished by having produced many eminent citizens and soldiers. Perhaps the most famous of these had been Pomponius Atticus, the friend and correspondent of Cicero. Atticus, to speak of him by the name by which he is commonly known, had played with extraordinary skill the part of an honest man who desires to be on good terms with all parties at once. He had been so loyal to the vanquished Republicans, that Cicero, till very near the time of his death, kept up an affection- [73] ate correspondence with him; and was yet so friendly with the victorious Imperialists that his daughter married the chief friend of Augustus, and his granddaughter became the wife of Tiberius. These great alliances did not result in happiness to his descendants, for one of the last of his race, Julia, the granddaughter of Tiberius, was put to death by the Emperor Claudius, prompted by his wicked wife Messalina. Julia's death was a lasting grief to her kinswoman, the Pomponia of my story. Never afterwards could she bear to mix in the brilliant society of the Imperial Court. But there was another reason why she held herself aloof from the fashionable world of Rome. She had come, how it is impossible to say, under the influence of some early preacher of the Christian faith; and a Christian woman, when the life of the court was such as we know it to have been in the days of Claudius and Nero, had no alternative but to live in retirement. So marked was her att.i.tude that it excited suspicion; and she was actually accused-on what grounds we cannot say, possibly on the testimony of some member of her household-of being addicted to a superst.i.tion not recognized by Roman law. With a woman of ordinary rank it might have gone hard, but Pomponia had a powerful protector in her husband. He was one of the most distinguished soldiers of Rome, and was, happily for himself, too old to excite the jealous fears of the Emperor. When he made it a matter of personal [74] favour that in the case of his wife an ancient practice should be revived, and that he as her husband should be const.i.tuted her judge, his request was granted. That he himself shared her faith we can hardly suppose, but he had seen its results in the blamelessness of her life, and the trial held by a family council, over which he himself presided, ended, as was doubtless his wish, in the acquittal of the accused. Since that time she had lived unmolested, though, as we have seen, she had enemies.

Pomponia went on: "Here is some one else who has to thank you for your timely aid. I will present you to her."

She drew aside as she spoke the curtains that hung over an arch leading into a smaller apartment. Into this she disappeared for a moment, and then returned leading by the hand a girl who may have numbered some eighteen summers.

"Claudia," she said, "this is Plautius Latera.n.u.s, my husband's nephew, whom we are to have for our Consul next year, and who meanwhile has delivered us from a very great danger. And this," she went on, turning to Latera.n.u.s, "is Claudia, whom I venture to call my daughter, as indeed she is, though not after the flesh."

The Roman, though he had known all the beauties of the Imperial Court for more than twenty years, was fairly surprised by the loveliness of the girl, a loveliness that was all the more startling because it [75] was in some respect so different from that which he had been accustomed to admire in Italian maids and matrons. Her eyes, as far as he could see them, for they were bent downwards under their long lashes, were of a deep sapphire blue, the eyebrows exquisitely pencilled, the forehead somewhat broader and higher than agreed with the commonly accepted canons of taste, but of a n.o.ble outline, and full, it seemed, of intelligence. The nose was slightly retrousse, but this departure from the straight line of the Greek and the acquiline curve of the Roman feature seemed to give the face a peculiar piquancy; the lips were full and red; the complexion, while exquisitely clear, had none of the pallor which comes from the indoor habit of life. Claudia had never been afraid of the sun and the wind, and they had dealt kindly with her, neither freckling nor tanning her face, but giving it an exquisite hue of health. Her hair, of glossy chestnut hue, was not confined in the knot which Roman fashion had borrowed from the art of Greece, but fell in long curling locks on her shoulders. Latera.n.u.s bowed over the girl's hand, and carried it to his lips.

"I greet you, fair cousin," he said with an admiring glance, "for if my aunt, who always speaks the truth, calls you daughter, my cousin you must needs be."

Claudia muttered a few words that probably were meant for thanks. They did not catch the listener's [76] ear, though he noticed that they were spoken with the hesitation of one who was using an unfamiliar language. Then the colour which had covered the girl's cheek, as she came forward, with a brilliant flush, faded as suddenly. She cast an imploring look, as if asking for help, on the elder lady.

"Ah! my child," cried Pomponia, "you suffer. I have lived so long alone that I have grown thoughtless and selfish, or I should have known that you wanted rest after all that you have gone through. Sit you here till I can call Chloris." And she made the girl sit in the chair from which she had herself risen, while she pressed a hand-bell that stood on a table close by.

A Greek waiting-maid speedily appeared in answer to the summons.

"Have the litter brought hither," said Pomponia, "and carry the Lady Claudia to her room."

"Nay, mother," said the girl, "I should be ashamed to give so much trouble, and indeed, I do not want the litter. I will go to my room indeed, but it will be enough if Chloris will give me her arm."

"You are sure?" said the elder lady. "I have seen so little of young people of late years that I am at a loss."

"Yes, indeed, mother, quite sure," and she withdrew, supporting herself by the attendant's arm, but more in show than in reality, for indeed the faintness, quite a new sensation to Claudia's vigorous health, had quite pa.s.sed away, [77] "My dear aunt," said Latera.n.u.s, when the girl had left the room, "this is indeed a surprise. From what quarter of the world have you imported this marvellous beauty? That she is not Latin or Greek I saw at a glance, and I have been puzzling my brain ever since to find out to what nation she belongs. Is she Gaul, or perhaps German?"

"Nay," replied Pomponia; "you must go further than Gaul or even Germany."

"Ah!" said Latera.n.u.s after reflecting for a minute or two. "By all the G.o.ds!-pardon me, aunt," he went on, seeing a shadow pa.s.s over his aunt's gentle face,-"I had forgotten. Verily, I have it! She must be British!"

"Now you are right."

"And how long has she been with you? I heard nothing of her when I was last here."

"A month only. Her coming, indeed, was quite unexpected, and to be quite candid, at first unwelcome. You know my way of life. I had grown so accustomed to being alone that I almost dreaded the sight of a new face."

"Well," said Latera.n.u.s, "a face like that need hardly frighten you."

"Ah, you think her beautiful?" cried Pomponia, her face lighted up with one of her rare smiles. "And don't you see just a little likeness to my dearest Julia?"

"Yes; there is certainly a likeness, especially about the eyes."

[78] "As soon as I saw that, I began to love her; and indeed I soon found that she is worth loving for her own sake. And there is another reason, too, which I fear, my dear nephew, you will not understand."

"Ah! I see; she is of the same sect, I suppose. It has reached to Britain itself then. Wonderful!"

"Wonderful indeed, and more than wonderful if it were what you call it, a sect. Oh, dear Aulus, (Footnote: We do not know the pr?nomen or first name of Plautius Latera.n.u.s, but there is a certain presumption that it was Aulus. The Roman first names were very few in number (only seventeen in all), and particular families were in the habit of restricting themselves to a few of these. (All the Scipios, for instance, known to history, bore one of the three first names, Lucius, Publius, or Cn?us.) We know that the uncle of Latera.n.u.s, the famous General, was an Aulus. I have therefore ventured to give it him, putting it here into Pomponia's mouth in making this appeal as having a more affectionate sound.) if you would but listen!"

"All in good time, dear aunt, perhaps when my Consulship is over. It would certainly be awkward if you made a proselyte of me before."

"In good time, dear Aulus! Nay, there is no time so good as this. Who knows what may happen before your Consulship is over?"

"Nay, nay, dear aunt; good words, good words! But tell me, who is this lovely Claudia?"

"You have heard your uncle speak of King Cogidumnus?"

"Yes, I remember the name. He lived somewhere, if I remember right, on the edge of the great south- [79] ern forest, of which my uncle used to tell such wonders."

"Just so; he was the King of the Regni. Indeed, he is living still. Well, the King took our side. Claudius made him a Roman citizen, and allowed him to a.s.sume his own names, so that he is a Tiberius Claudius; and also enlarged his kingdom with some of the country which your uncle conquered."

"Yes, I remember now hearing about it from my friend Pudens. He was wrecked on the coast in one of those terrible storms that they have out there, and made his way to the chief town of the Regni. (Footnote: Now Chichester.) He found it, he told me, quite a little Rome, with a Senate, and a Forum, and baths, and a library, and I know not what besides. The King himself was quite a polished gentleman, spoke Latin admirably and even could quote Virgil and Horace. No one, to look at him, would have thought, so my friend Pudens used to say, that ten years before he had been running wild in the woods with very little on besides a few stripes of blue paint."

"Well," resumed Pomponia, "Claudia is his daughter."

"You astonish me more and more," cried Latera.n.u.s. "And pray, what brings her to Rome?"

"A prince who pays tribute to Rome in Britain can hardly feel quite safe. His countrymen are sure to hate him, and I am afraid that we who are his [80] allies do not always treat him as we should. Claudia's father had a terrible fright three years ago, when Boadicea and the Iceni rebelled. His city would have been the next to be attacked after London, if Paulinus had not come up in time to stop them. London, you must know, is scarcely more than seventy miles off, and the Britons don't take much time over seventy miles. The King had everything ready to embark,-you see he has the advantage of being near the sea,-his wife, who is since dead, and Claudia, who is his only child, were actually on board a galley with the best part of his treasure. If the news had been bad instead of good, they would have sailed at once. Lately, it seems, he has been getting anxious again, and though he loves his daughter dearly,-the poor girl cannot speak of him without tears,-he felt that he should be much happier if she were safe. Then the death of the mother, who was an admirable woman, decided him. His nearest kinswomen are not people into whose charge he would like to put his daughter. So he sent her here, appealing to me on the score of his old friendship with my husband. I could not refuse, though I must confess that the idea was very distasteful to me. What should I do, I thought, with a young barbarian in my house? It was a wicked idea, even if it had been true, which it certainly is not. Who am I," she added in a low voice which she did not mean to reach her nephew's ears, "Who am I, that I should [81] call aught that He has made common or unclean? In Him there is 'neither barbarian, Scythian, bond, nor free.' "

"You interest me greatly in your Claudia. But, my dear aunt, we have to consider the future, both for you and her. You know, of course, who is at the bottom of this business."

"Yes, I know-Poppaea."

"But tell me, for I confess it puzzles me, why does Poppaea hate you? That she will spare no one who stands in the way of her pleasure or her ambition I understand; but you, how do you interfere with her?"

"Listen, Aulus. Poppaea has another thing that she cares for besides pleasure and power, and that is what she calls her religion."

"But I thought-pardon me for mentioning such a creature in the same breath with you-I thought that you and she were of somewhat the same way of thinking in this matter."

"It was natural that you should. Most people who know anything at all about such things have the same notion. But it is not so. Briefly, the truth is this. The religion to which Poppaea inclines is the religion of the Jews; the faith to which, by G.o.d's mercy, I have been brought, rose up among the same nation. A Jew first gave it to men; Jews have preached it since. But those who still walk in the old ways hate them that follow the new, hate them worse than they hate the heathen. Poppaea, poor creature, knows [82] nothing about such matters, but the men to whom she goes for counsel, the men who she hopes will find a way for her to go on sinning and yet escape the punishment of sin, the men who take her gifts for themselves and their temple, and pay for them with smooth words, they know well enough the difference between themselves and us; it is they who stir her up; it is they who have told her to make a first victim of me."

"I understand, at least in part, but what you say only makes me feel more anxious. What will you do? She has been baffled this time; but she won't take her defeat. If I am not mistaken, there is going to be a dreadful time in Rome when the law will be powerless; and I may not be able to protect you."

As he finished speaking, a slave knocked at the door of the apartment. Bidden to enter, he ushered in Subrius the Praetorian and a friend.

FLIGHT.

[83] "LET me present to you my friend Subrius, a Tribune of the Praetorians," said Latera.n.u.s, addressing Pomponia. "I sent for him as soon as your message reached me."

"You are very good in coming so readily to help a stranger," said Pomponia with a gracious smile.

"I do not think of the Lady Pomponia as a stranger," replied the Tribune. "I had the honour of serving my first campaign under her husband. Allow me, in my turn, to present to you my friend and kinsman, Marcus Annius Pudens. He has just returned on furlough from the Euphrates, and is staying with me in camp."

"I thank you, too, sir," said Pomponia. "It is very pleasant to find that one has so many friends."

"Well," said Latera.n.u.s, "you are come in time. Just now we don't want your swords, but we certainly want your counsel. Have I your permission," he went on, addressing himself to Pomponia, "to put the whole state of the case before these gentlemen?"

Pomponia signified her a.s.sent.

"Matters then stand thus. For reasons which it [84] is needless at present to explain, the Lady Pomponia has incurred the enmity of Poppaea. I recognized the Empress' most trusted freedman as the leader of the attack which I had the good fortune to be able to repulse. If I know anything of her and him they won't accept defeat. The question is, what is to be done? What say you, Subrius?"

The Tribune considered awhile. "It is quite clear that Poppaea and her agent are taking advantage of an exceptional time. Commonly, even she would not have ventured so far. Men have not forgotten what Aulus Plautius did for Rome, and his widow could not have been murdered with impunity. But the city is now in an extraordinary state. Law is absolutely suspended. The Watch seems to have received instructions to do nothing, or even worse than nothing. I am convinced that this fire is not an accident; or, if it was so in the beginning, it is not in the extent to which it has reached. I am positive that this morning, as I was making my way to the camp, I saw a scoundrel throw a lighted torch through the window of a house. I seized the fellow; but his companions rescued him, and when I called for help to a squad of the Watch that happened to be close by, they stood still and did nothing."

"A big fire," remarked Pudens, "gives a fine opportunity for thieves, and they naturally make the best of it."

"True," replied the Tribune; "but why do the [85] Watch behave as if they were in league with them? Did not the same thing strike you last night, Latera.n.u.s?"

"Yes," said Latera.n.u.s. "At first I thought that they were simply dazed by the magnitude of the disaster; afterwards I could not help seeing that they were deliberately increasing it."

"Well, then," resumed Subrius, "to come to the point that immediately concerns us. We have to reckon with an exceptional state of things. For the present, as I said, law is suspended. We can't reckon on the guardians of the peace; nor, so occupied is every one with saving themselves or their property, on the help of the public. And supposing that this house catches fire, what then? Just now it is not in danger; but who can tell what may happen? The wind may change, and then the flames might be down upon it in an hour. Or it may be deliberately set on fire. That, if I can trust my own eyes, is being done elsewhere. What would happen then? Depend upon it, Poppaea and the villains that do her bidding will be watching their opportunity, and what a terrible chance they would have of working their will amidst all the confusion of a burning house. That is my view of the situation."

"What, then, would you advise?" asked Pomponia in a tone that betrayed no agitation or alarm.

"I should say-seek some safer place," replied Subrius.

[86] "For myself," said Pomponia after a pause, "I should be disposed to stay where I am."

"But, dearest aunt," cried Latera.n.u.s, "if what Subrius says is true, and I do not doubt for an instant that it is, that means certain death."

"And if it does, dear Aulus," replied Pomponia, "that does not seem so dreadful to me."

"But there are others," said Latera.n.u.s.

"You are right," Pomponia answered after a few minutes' reflection; "there are others. I should like, if it will not offend you, gentlemen, to ask for the counsel of one whom I greatly trust."

She pressed her hand-bell, and when the attendant appeared, said to him, "I would speak with Phlegon, if he is at leisure."

In the course of a short time, Phlegon, a Greek freedman, who was the superintendent of Pomponia's household, made his appearance. He was a man of singularly venerable appearance, nearly eighty years of age, but hale and vigorous.

"Phlegon," said Pomponia, "these gentlemen are agreed that if we stay here our lives are not safe, and they counsel us to flee. What say you? My feeling is for staying. Are we not ready? Have we not been living for twenty years past as if this might come any day? And does not the holy Paul say in that letter of which Clemens of Philippi (Footnote: Phil. I: 23. The Epistle to the Philippians is supposed to have been written from Rome in the early part of the preceding year (A. D. 63).) sent us a [87] copy the other day, 'I have a desire to depart and be with Christ'?"

"True, lady," said Phlegon; "but he goes on, if I remember right, 'But to abide in the flesh is more needful for you.' And you have others to think of, as he had. And did not the Master Himself say, 'When they persecute you in one city, flee ye to another'?"

"You are right, as usual, Phlegon," said Pomponia. "I will go; but whither? As you know, nephew," she went on, turning to Aulus, "I have sold all my country houses, as my husband's will directed me, except, indeed, the one at Antium."

"Well," said Latera.n.u.s, "it would hardly do for you to have Poppaea for a neighbour. But all my villas are at your disposal. There is one at Tibur; indeed, two at Tibur; only the second is but a poor place; one at Bai?, another at Misenum, three at the Lake of Comum, one on Benacus, and-"

"Ah," said Subrius, laughing, "you never are able to go through the list of your country houses without stumbling. But I have an idea of my own for which I venture to think something may be said. There is a place belonging to me near Gabii. It can hardly be called a country house, it is so small, but it has, for the present purpose, some advantages. In the first place, it is very much out of the way; and in the second, it is very strong. In fact, it is an old fortress, dating back, I have been told by people who are [88] learned in these matters, from the time of the Kings. It has a deep moat all round it, crossed only by a single bridge which can be removed at pleasure, and the walls are high and strong. In short, it is a place that would stand a siege, if need be. Anyhow, it is safe against a surprise. If the Lady Pomponia can put up with a very poor place and mean accommodation, the house, such as it is, is entirely at her service."

"An admirable plan!" cried Latera.n.u.s. "What say you, my dear aunt? I know that you do not set much store on outward things."

"No, indeed, I do not," replied Pomponia. "The offer of the Tribune Subrius I most gladly accept, but how to thank him sufficiently I do not know."

"There is no need of thanks, lady," said Subrius. "I owe everything to Aulus Plautius, who made a soldier of me when I might have been-I am not ashamed to own it-a poltroon. Do what I may, I shall never repay the debt."

"And when shall we start?" asked Pomponia.

"At once, to-night, I would suggest," answered Subrius. "The moon is nearly full, and you will barely reach my house before it sets."

Arrangements were made accordingly for a start that evening. Subrius would not be able to accompany them, for he had to be on duty in the camp, and thought it as well not to ask for leave of absence. His place was to be taken by his friend Pudens, an [89] arrangement which would have its advantages, as the person of Pudens would not be known. For the same reason Latera.n.u.s, one of the best known, as he was one of the most popular men in Rome, determined to absent himself. But he furnished the two litters with their bearers, which were to convey Pomponia and Claudia, each with a single female attendant, and he also sent, by way of guard, the same detachment of his cohort which he had brought to the relief of the house in the morning. Pomponia's establishment, it should be said, was on the smallest scale, not because she was either poor or parsimonious, but because her great wealth was devoted to the benevolence which her faith was already beginning to make a new factor in human life.

Punctually at sunset the party started. The route chosen was naturally that which took them by the shortest way out of the city. But, small as was the s.p.a.ce which they traversed, the sights which they encountered were harrowing in the extreme. The fire itself, in its active force, had pa.s.sed elsewhere, but it had left behind it a hideous scene of desolation. Some of the larger buildings were still burning, sending up huge volumes of smoke, out of which a tongue of flame would now and then shoot forth. In some places the blackened walls stood erect, with a ghastly semblance of the human habitation which they had once contained; in others everything had fallen prostrate in undistinguishable confusion on the [90] ground. Here and there an arch or portico tottered to its fall in a way that threatened the pa.s.ser-by with instant destruction. Sometimes the traveller could see the pathetic remnant of a ruined home which by some strange chance the flames had spared, a hearth with the chairs still standing about it, a table spread with the remnants of a meal, a picture on a wall, a draught-board left just as the players had started up from it in their alarm, a harp, a baby's cradle. Now and then they came across the corpse of some unhappy inmate who had been struck by a falling stone, or half buried under some huge beam. There had not been time to remove these ghastly remains, or the calamity was so overpowering that men had lost their respect for the remains of the dead,-always one of the worst signs of a general despair. In many places poor creatures who had lost their all were groping among the yet smoking ruins for any possession of a more durable kind that might have survived or escaped the ravages of the flames. Elsewhere, sufferers too broken by their loss to make any effort, sat by the smouldering remains of what had once been a happy home, in a mute and tearless despair. Outside the walls, the scene, though deplorable enough, was yet diversified with a more cheerful element. Groups of people, surrounded many of them by a strange and incongruous medley of possessions which they had contrived to rescue from the flames, were camping out round fires which they had [91] lighted. Many were cooking their evening meal; some were staring motionless into the flames; not a few, with the irrepressible gayety of a southern nature, were singing merry songs or joining in some uproarious chorus.

The sight of all this distress so affected the compa.s.sionate heart of Pomponia that she could scarcely be induced to pa.s.s on. It was not, indeed, till she had exhausted all the stock of money that she had brought with her, in relieving what seemed the most urgent cases of need, that she could be persuaded to continue her journey. It was, perhaps, well for her comfort that Phlegon, who was more prudent, though not less kindly than his mistress, made a point of keeping a secret store, which he produced when everything seemed exhausted. On this occasion, when banking, in common with all other business was suspended, this resource was found particularly useful.

The party had left Rome and its environs some way behind them, when a turn of the road brought them into a full view of the quarter where the conflagration was then raging most furiously. The twilight had now pa.s.sed, and the moon was low in the heavens, so that the darkness brought the awful spectacle into more prominent relief.

"Oh, mother!" cried Claudia, who had begun to use this endearing name to the elder lady, "do you think that this is the end of the world that is come?"

[92] "Nay, my daughter; there is much to happen before that can be."

"But is Rome, think you, to be destroyed? Did not the holy Clement say something to this purpose the other day? Did he not speak-you know that I know very little of these things-of cities that had been destroyed for their wickedness? Is not Rome very wicked?"

"Truly, my daughter; yet the Lord hath much people there, and will have more before the end shall come."

Both felt it to be a relief when another turn of the road hid again the terrible spectacle. Both turned their eyes southward, where the stars were beginning to come out in the dark purple depths of the summer night. Another half-hour's journey brought them without further adventure to their journey's end.