Quo Vadis: A Narrative of the Time of Nero
arch of the entrance, over which the splendid quadrigæ of Lysias seemed
to bear Apollo and Diana into space. Lygia’s eyes were struck by that
magnificence, of which the modest house of Aulus could not have given
her the slightest idea. It was sunset; the last rays were falling on the
yellow Numidian marble of the columns, which shone like gold in those
gleams and changed into rose color also. Among the columns, at the
side of white statues of the Danaides and others, representing gods or
heroes, crowds of people flowed past,--men and women; resembling statues
also, for they were draped in togas, pepluses, and robes, falling with
grace and beauty toward the earth in soft folds, on which the rays of
the setting sun were expiring. A gigantic Hercules, with head in the
light yet, from the breast down sunk in shadow cast by the columns,
looked from above on that throng. Acte showed Lygia senators in
wide-bordered togas, in colored tunics, in sandals with crescents on
them, and knights, and famed artists; she showed her Roman ladies, in
Roman, in Grecian, in fantastic Oriental costume, with hair dressed in
towers or pyramids, or dressed like that of the statues of goddesses,
low on the head, and adorned with flowers. Many men and women did Acte
call by name, adding to their names histories, brief and sometimes
terrible, which pierced Lygia with fear, amazement, and wonder. For her
this was a strange world, whose beauty intoxicated her eyes, but whose
contrasts her girlish understanding could not grasp. In those twilights
of the sky, in those rows of motionless columns vanishing in the
distance, and in those statuesque people, there was a certain lofty
repose. It seemed that in the midst of those marbles of simple lines
demigods might live free of care, at peace and in happiness. Meanwhile
the low voice of Acte disclosed, time after time, a new and dreadful
secret of that palace and those people. See, there at a distance is the
covered portico on whose columns and floor are still visible red stains
from the blood with which Caligula sprinkled the white marble when he
fell beneath the knife of Cassius Chærea; there his wife was slain;
there his child was dashed against a stone; under that wing is the
dungeon in which the younger Drusus gnawed his hands from hunger; there
the elder Drusus was poisoned; there Gemellus quivered in terror, and
Claudius in convulsions; there Germanicus suffered,--everywhere those
walls had heard the groans and death-rattle of the dying; and those
people hurrying now to the feast in togas, in colored tunics, in
flowers, and in jewels, may be the condemned of to-morrow; on more than
one face, perhaps, a smile conceals terror, alarm, the uncertainty of
the next day; perhaps feverishness, greed, envy are gnawing at this
moment into the hearts of those crowned demigods, who in appearance
are free of care. Lygia’s frightened thoughts could not keep pace with
Acte’s words; and when that wonderful world attracted her eyes with
increasing force, her heart contracted within her from fear, and in
her soul she struggled with an immense, inexpressible yearning for the
beloved Pomponia Græcina, and the calm house of Aulus, in which love,
and not crime, was the ruling power.
Meanwhile new waves of guests were flowing in from the Vicus Apollinis.
From beyond the gates came the uproar and shouts of clients, escorting
their patrons. The courtyard and the colonnades were swarming with the
multitude of Cæsar’s slaves, of both sexes, small boys, and pretorian
soldiers, who kept guard in the palace. Here and there among dark or
swarthy visages was the black face of a Numidian, in a feathered helmet,
and with large gold rings in his ears. Some were bearing lutes and
citharas, hand lamps of gold, silver, and bronze, and bunches of
flowers, reared artificially despite the late autumn season. Louder and
louder the sound of conversation was mingled with the splashing of the
fountain, the rosy streams of which fell from above on the marble and
were broken, as if in sobs.
Acte had stopped her narration; but Lygia gazed at the throng, as if
searching for some one. All at once her face was covered with a blush,
and from among the columns came forth Vinicius with Petronius. They
went to the great triclinium, beautiful, calm, like white gods, in their
togas. It seemed to Lygia, when she saw those two known and friendly
faces among strange people, and especially when she saw Vinicius, that
a great weight had fallen from her heart. She felt less alone. That
measureless yearning for Pomponia and the house of Aulus, which had
broken out in her a little while before, ceased at once to be painful.
The desire to see Vinicius and to talk with him drowned in her other
voices. In vain did she remember all the evil which she had heard of the
house of Cæsar, the words of Acte, the warnings of Pomponia; in spite of
those words and warnings, she felt all at once that not only must she be
at that feast, but that she wished to be there. At the thought that soon
she would hear that dear and pleasant voice, which had spoken of love to
her and of happiness worthy of the gods, and which was sounding like a
song in her ears yet, delight seized her straightway.
But the next moment she feared that delight. It seemed to her that she
would be false to the pure teaching in which she had been reared, false
to Pomponia, and false to herself. It is one thing to go by constraint,
and another to delight in such a necessity. She felt guilty, unworthy,
and ruined.
Despair swept her away, and she wanted to weep. Had she been alone, she
would have knelt down and beaten her breast, saying, “Mea culpa! mea
culpa!” Acte, taking her hand at that moment, led her through the
interior apartments to the grand triclinium, where the feast was to
be. Darkness was in her eyes, and a roaring in her ears from internal
emotion; the beating of her heart stopped her breath. As in a dream, she
saw thousands of lamps gleaming on the tables and on the walls; as in
a dream, she heard the shout with which the guests greeted Cæsar; as
through a mist, she saw Cæsar himself. The shout deafened her, the
glitter dazzled, the odors intoxicated; and, losing the remnant of her
consciousness, she was barely able to recognize Acte, who seated her at
the table and took a place at her side.
But after a while a low and known voice was heard at the other side,--“A
greeting, most beautiful of maidens on earth and of stars in heaven. A
greeting to thee, divine Callina!”
Lygia, having recovered somewhat, looked up; at her side was Vinicius.
He was without a toga, for convenience and custom had enjoined to cast
aside the toga at feasts. His body was covered with only a sleeveless
scarlet tunic embroidered in silver palms. His bare arms were ornamented
in Eastern fashion with two broad golden bands fastened above the elbow;
below they were carefully stripped of hair. They were smooth, but too
muscular,--real arms of a soldier, they were made for the sword and the
shield. On his head was a garland of roses. With brows joining above the
nose, with splendid eyes and a dark complexion, he was the impersonation
of youth and strength, as it were. To Lygia he seemed so beautiful
that though her first amazement had passed, she was barely able to
answer,--“A greeting, Marcus.”
“Happy,” said he, “are my eyes, which see thee; happy my ears, which
hear thy voice, dearer to me than the sound of lutes or citharas. Were
it commanded me to choose who was to rest here by my side at this feast,
thou, Lygia, or Venus, I would choose thee, divine one!”
And he looked at the maiden as if he wished to sate himself with the
sight of her, to burn her eyes with his eyes. His glance slipped from
her face to her neck and bare arms, fondled her shapely outlines,
admired her, embraced her, devoured her; but besides desire, there was
gleaming in him happiness, admiration, and ecstasy beyond limit.
“I knew that I should see thee in Cæsar’s house,” continued he; “but
still, when I saw thee, such delight shook my whole soul, as if a
happiness entirely unexpected had met me.”
Lygia, having recovered herself and feeling that in that throng and in
that house he was the only being who was near to her, began to converse
with him, and ask about everything which she did not understand and
which filled her with fear. Whence did he know that he would find her in
Cæsar’s house? Why is she there? Why did Cæsar take her from Pomponia?
She is full of fear where she is, and wishes to return to Pomponia. She
would die from alarm and grief were it not for the hope that Petronius
and he will intercede for her before Cæsar.
Vinicius explained that he learned from Aulus himself that she had been
taken. Why she is there, he knows not. Cæsar gives account to no one of
his orders and commands. But let her not fear. He, Vinicius, is near her
and will stay near her. He would rather lose his eyes than not see her;
he would rather lose his life than desert her. She is his soul, and
hence he will guard her as his soul. In his house he will build to her,
as to a divinity, an altar on which he will offer myrrh and aloes,
and in spring saffron and apple-blossoms; and since she has a dread of
Cæsar’s house, he promises that she shall not stay in it.
And though he spoke evasively and at times invented, truth was to
be felt in his voice, because his feelings were real. Genuine pity
possessed him, too, and her words went to his soul so thoroughly that
when she began to thank him and assure him that Pomponia would love him
for his goodness, and that she herself would be grateful to him all
her life, he could not master his emotion, and it seemed to him that
he would never be able in life to resist her prayer. The heart began to
melt in him. Her beauty intoxicated his senses, and he desired her;
but at the same time he felt that she was very dear to him, and that
in truth he might do homage to her, as to a divinity; he felt also
irresistible need of speaking of her beauty and of his own homage. As
the noise at the feast increased, he drew nearer to her, whispered kind,
sweet words flowing from the depth of his soul, words as resonant as
music and intoxicating as wine.
And he intoxicated her. Amid those strange people he seemed to her ever
nearer, ever dearer, altogether true, and devoted with his whole soul.
He pacified her; he promised to rescue her from the house of Cæsar; he
promised not to desert her, and said that he would serve her. Besides,
he had spoken before at Aulus’s only in general about love and the
happiness which it can give; but now he said directly that he loved her,
and that she was dear and most precious to him. Lygia heard such words
from a man’s lips for the first time; and as she heard them it seemed
to her that something was wakening in her as from a sleep, that some
species of happiness was embracing her in which immense delight was
mingled with immense alarm. Her cheeks began to burn, her heart to beat,
her mouth opened as in wonder. She was seized with fear because she was
listening to such things, still she did not wish for any cause on earth
to lose one word. At moments she dropped her eyes; then again she raised
her clear glance to Vinicius, timid and also inquiring, as if she wished
to say to him, “Speak on!” The sound of the music, the odor of flowers
and of Arabian perfumes, began to daze her. In Rome it was the custom to
recline at banquets, but at home Lygia occupied a place between Pomponia
and little Aulus. Now Vinicius was reclining near her, youthful,
immense, in love, burning; and she, feeling the heat that issued from
him, felt both delight and shame. A kind of sweet weakness, a kind of
faintness and forgetfulness seized her; it was as if drowsiness tortured
her.