Domitia

“Flavius Clemens! of what family?”

Domitian bit his lip. The Flavians were of no ancestry; money-lenders, tax-collectors, jobbers in various ways, with no connections save through the mother of Vespasian, and that middle-class only.

“I say that a man who will not serve his country should be pitched out of it.”

“About that I have no opinion.”

“Clemens was cast to the lions by Nero, but some witchcraft charmed them, and they would not touch him.”

Domitia said nothing to this. She was desirous of being rid of her self-imposed escort.

“You must wish me success,” said the young prince. “I am off to Germany. There has been revolt there, and I go to subdue it.”

“By all means carry with you a pair of shears.”

“What mean you?”

“To obtain a crop of golden hair from the German women, wherewith to grace your triumph.”

Domitian knitted his brows.

“You have a sharp tongue.”

“I need one. It is a woman’s sole defence.”

“Come, if a cousin, as your mother asserts, – though by the Gods! I know not where the kinship comes in, – wish me well. Such words as yours are of ill-omen.”

“I wish confusion and destruction to the worst enemies of Rome,” answered Domitia.

“That suffices. I will offer the spoils to you.”

“Thank you, I do not yet wear wigs.”

He turned away with an expression of irritation.

“You are either silent, or stick pins into me,” he muttered.

Domitia continued her course, but as she entered the “Island” in which was the home of Paris, she observed the young Cæsar still in the street, at a corner watching her.

Much annoyed, and with her temper ruffled by this meeting, she ascended the steps to the first story and at once turned towards the apartments of Paris and Glyceria, but had to thread her way among poor people, women weaving and spinning, and children romping and running races.

She was welcomed with pleasure, Glyceria would have raised herself, had she been able; as it was, she could show her respect only by a salutation with the hand, and her pleasure by a smile and a word.

The chamber was fragrant with violets.

Domitia looked round and saw a small marble table on which stood a statuette of a shepherd with panpipes, and a lamb across his shoulders. Violets in a basin stood before the figure.

“Ah! Hermes,” said Domitia, and plucking a little bunch of the purple flowers from her bosom she laid it in the bowl with the rest.

“Nay, dear Lady, not Hermes,” said Glyceria, “though indeed it was sculptured to represent him – but to me that figure has another meaning. And I hold your offering of the violets as made to Him who to me is the Good Shepherd.”[4 - The statuette of the Good Shepherd, of beautiful art, 2d century, in the Lateran Museum. It is an error to suppose in early Christians a complete emancipation from old usages and modes of thought.]

“Whom mean you? Atys?”

“Not Atys.”

Domitia was not particularly interested in the matter. She presumed that some foreign cult was followed by Glyceria, and foreign cults at this time swarmed in Rome.

“Do you believe me, Glyceria,” said Domitia, “as I came hither, the Cæsar Domitian accompanied me, and said that I must be a Christian to care for the sick and suffering. What are these Christians?”

“I am one,” answered the paralyzed woman.

“What! and Paris?”

“Nay, he hovers between two opinions. His business holds him and he will not give that up, he thinks that, were he to do so, he and I might starve. But with the mind I think he is one.”

“And what are these Christians?”

“Those who believe in Christ.”

“And he? – is that his image?” pointing to the Good Shepherd.

“Oh Lady! it is only so much His image as the words Good Shepherd written in characters are such, they call up a notion and so does that figure. But in our worship we have no images, no sacrifices.”

“What is Christianity?”

“That is long to answer, but I may say in two words what it is to me.”

“Say on.”

“The Daylight of the soul.”

“How mean you?”

“I once was in darkness. I knew not why I was set in the world, whither I was going, what I ought to worship, what were my duties, where was right and what was wrong. I had no light, no road, no law. Now I have all.”

“So every votary of every new religion says. Where is your guarantee that you are not in delusion?”

“Madam, when the sun rises and there is day, you do not suppose the light, the splendor, the confidence inspired by it is a delusion. You know that you see, and see that you may walk, and act with purpose and direction. The soul has eyes as well as the body. These eyes behold the light and cannot doubt it, by internal conscience that distinguishes between the truth and falsehood. By that internal conscience I am assured that the light is as real as that seen by eyes of flesh.”

“I cannot understand you,” said Domitia. “Now for other matters – I have made Eboracus bring you some dainties for yourself and presents for the children who are so kind to you. Where is your husband?”

“He is rehearsing. Better times have arrived, and he is now occupied.”

“And you see less of him.”

“Yes – but we must live. When away from me, I know that in heart he is with me.”

“You are sure of that?”