Quo Vadis - Henryk Sienkiewicz (best ereader under 100 .txt) 📗

I

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 œcus, 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 œcus,

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.