Domitia

“There is nothing unlucky. Everything falls out as God wills; and whatever comes, if we bow under His hand, He will give sweetness and grace.”

“You say this! You who have lost everything!”

“Oh, no! lady,” then the cripple touched the cornelian fish. “This remains.”

“It is a charm that has brought no luck.”

“It is no charm. It is a symbol – and to you dark. To me full of light and joy in believing.”

“I cannot understand.”

“No – that I know full well. But to one who does, there is comfort in every sorrow, a rainbow in every cloud, roses to every thorn.”

“Glyceria,” said Domitia, and she reared herself upon her knees, and took hold of both the poor woman’s hands; so that the two, with tear-stained cheeks, looked each other full in the face. “My Glyceria! wilt thou grant me one favor?”

“I will give thee, lady, anything that thou canst ask. I should be ungrateful to deny thee ought.”

“It is a great matter, a sharp wrench I ask of thee,” said the daughter of Corbulo.

“I will do all that I can,” replied the widow.

“Then come with me to the palace. Here you have none to care for you, none to earn a livelihood for you, – I want you there.”

Glyceria hesitated.

“Do you fear?”

“I fear nothing for myself.”

“Nor I,” said Domitia. “Oh, Glyceria, I am the most miserable woman on earth. I thought I could not be more unhappy than I was – then come – I will not speak of it, – thy loss – caused unwillingly by me, because I came here – and that has broken my heart. I have done the cruellest hurt to the one I loved best. I am most miserable – most miserable.” She covered her face, sank on the bed and wept.

The widow of the player endeavored to soothe her with soft words and caresses.

Then again Domitia spoke. “I have no one, I have nothing to look to, I am as one dead, and the only life in me is hate, that bites and writhes as a serpent.”

“And that thou must lay hold of and strangle as did Hercules.”

“I cannot, and I will not.”

“That will bring thee only greater suffering.”

“I cannot suffer more.”

“It is against the will of God.”

“But how know we His will?”

“It has been revealed.”

Again Domitia threw her arms about the sick woman, she pressed her wet cheek to her tear-moistened face, and said: —

“Come with me, and tell me all thou knowest – and about the Fish. Come with me, and give me a little happiness, that I may think of thee, comfort thee, read to thee, talk with thee – I care for no other woman. And Euphrosyne, thy sister, she is with me, and I will keep thee as the apple of mine eye.”

“Oh, lady! this is too great!”

“What? anon thou wouldst deny me naught, and now refusest me this.”

“In God’s name so be it,” said Glyceria. “But when?”

“Now. I will have no delay, see – ” she went to the door and spoke with her slaves. “They shall bear thee in my litter, at once. Euphrosyne shall tarry here and collect thy little trifles, and the good Eboracus, he shall bear them to thy new home. O Glyceria! For once I see a sunbeam.”

Never could the dwellers in the Insula have dreamt of beholding that which this day they saw. The actor’s crippled widow lifted by imperial slaves and placed in the litter of the Empress, the Augusta, to whom divine honors had been accorded. And, further, they saw the cripple borne away, down the lane of the Suburra in which was their block of lodgings, and the Empress walked by the side, holding the hand of the patient who lay within.

They did not shout, they uttered no sound indicative of approval, no applause. They held their breaths, they laid their hands on their mouths, they looked each other in the eyes – and wondered what this marvel might portend. A waft of a new life had entered into the evil world, whence it came, they knew not, what it would effect, that also they could not conceive – whom it would touch, how transform, all was hid from their eyes.

CHAPTER X.

THE ACCURSED FIELD

No notice was taken by Domitian of the presence in the palace of the murdered actor’s widow. It concerned him in no way, and he allowed the unfortunate woman to remain there, under the care of his wife, and without making any protest.

Domitia found an interest and a delight in the society of the paralyzed woman, so simple in mind, gentle in thought, always cheerful, ever serene, who lived in an atmosphere of love and harbored no resentments.

She marvelled at what she saw, but it was to her an unattainable condition. Her own affections were seared, and a gnawing hate against the man who had blighted her life, and to whom she was tied, ever consumed her.

She was like a dead plant in the midst of spring vegetation. It looks down on the beautiful life about its feet, but itself puts forth no buds, shows no signs of mounting sap.

Every now and then Glyceria approached the topic of the Fish, and the mysteries involved in the symbol, but would not disclose them, for she saw that Domitia, however miserable she felt, however hopeless, was not in a frame of mind to receive and welcome the interpretation. For in her, the one dominating passion was hate – a desire to have her wrongs revenged, and a chafing at her powerlessness to do anything to revenge them.

Her treatment by Domitian was capricious. At one time he neglected her; then he went sometimes out of his way to offer her a slight; at others he made real efforts to heal the breach between them, and to show her that he loved her still.

But he met with not merely a frosty but a contemptuous reception, that sent him away, his vanity hurt, and his blood in a ferment.

In her indifference to life, she was able to brave him without fear, and he knew that if he ordered her to execution she would hail death as a welcome means of escape from association with himself.

His blundering and brutal tyranny was no match for her keen wit cutting into him, and maddening him. He revenged himself by a coarse insult or by a side blow at her friends. She was without ambition. Many a woman would have endured his treatment without repining, for the sake of the splendor with which she could surround herself, and the towering position which she occupied. But neither had any attraction for Domitia. The one thing she did desire, to be left alone in retirement, in the country, that he could not, he would not accord her.

Usually, when he was in his splendid villa at Albanum, she elected to remain in Rome, and when he came to the palace on the Palatine, if permitted, she escaped to Albanum; but he would not always suffer this.

Thus a wretched life was dragged on, and the heart of Domitia became harder every day. It would have become as adamant but for the presence of Glyceria, whom the Empress sincerely loved, and who exercised a subtle, softening and purifying influence on the princess.

Glyceria saw how the Empress suffered, and she pitied her, saw how hopeless the conditions were for improvement; she saw also what was hidden to other eyes, that circumstances were closing round and drawing towards a crisis.

Beyond a certain point Glyceria could effect nothing, once only did she dare to suggest that the Augusta should assume a gentler demeanor towards the sovereign of the world, but she was at once cut back with the words: —

“There, Glyceria, I allow no interference. He has wronged me past endurance. I can never forgive. I have but one hope, I make but one prayer – and that for revenge.”

When Domitian was at Albanum, the Empress enjoyed greater freedom. She was not compelled when she went out, to journey in state; and she could make excursions into the country as she pleased. The absence of gardens on the Palatine and the throng of servants and officers made it an almost intolerable residence to her, beautiful as the situation was, and splendid as were the edifices on it. Nor was this all. Domitian had not rested content with the palaces already erected and crowding the summit of the rock, – those of Augustus, of Tiberius, and of Caligula, he must build one himself, and to find material, he tore down the golden house of Nero.