“Tarrar,” said Lucius, “find Thrasyllus for me and tell him that I await him.”
The little Libyan slave, looking like a monkey in his scanty, many-coloured coat, made a drolly serious movement of reverence, crept backwards and disappeared. It was not long before he lifted the hanging and Thrasyllus stepped into the presence of his young master, Publius Lucius Sabinus.
The pedagogue, or tutor, was an elderly freedman, tall, lean, serious, grey-haired and grey-bearded. His eyes were kindly; his mouth wore a fatherly smile.
Lucius, without rising, stretched out his hand to him:
“Thrasyllus,” he said, “forgive me if I have been unkind.”
This was all that he said. His voice sounded deep, manly and earnest. The old tutor had taken a seat on a footstool beside his master’s couch. And, holding the other’s hand for a moment in his own, he said:
“Lucius, I thank you for that word. But I have nothing to forgive, dear young master. You are the master, I am your slave, your slave still, even though you have given me my freedom. I am your servant, but one who has fatherly feelings for you. I feel a father’s love towards you; and you have never forbidden it. It is well; and I am content. I serve you and I love you. But I thank you for that generous word. That is what you are: generous, just. You are far above all pride. You know how to admit when you are wrong. And I, on my side, if you think that you need it, gladly grant you my forgiveness, though the word is unsuited to my mouth. You were bitter and you were suffering: your sorrow drove you mad. Your nature is violent in all things: in your love, in your sorrow, in your hatred, in all your passions and angers....”
“I was not generous and not just, Thrasyllus, and I raised my hand against you. Forgive me.”
The old tutor shrugged his shoulders:
“I forgive you, I forgive you. Your blood flows hotly and the red cloud sometimes blinds you. Certainly you must control and master yourself. But I, I am your slave, though I feel for you like a father; and that you raised your hand against me: what of it? It was a movement of anger. You are as mettlesome as a young colt. And sorrow drove you mad.”
“It does so still. Sometimes, sometimes it is as though I felt a fury of frenzy here, inside me, in my breast! Then I must have her, have her back, have her here, beside me, in my arms, at my breast, at my lips! O ye gods, ye gods, ye gods!”
He drew a deep breath, moaned and sobbed.
“Be still, dear young master,” said the tutor. “Try to forget and try to be resigned. She is gone. She is not to be found. We have searched everywhere. You have vainly squandered treasures to find her. Ilia is gone. It is three months now since she disappeared. She was probably kidnapped by pirates while bathing. She used often to bathe in the sea, among the rocks....”
“Is the villa at Baiæ sold? I won’t go back to it!... Since she is no longer there, since she has disappeared, disappeared! She has disappeared! She has disappeared without a trace! Just one sandal on the shore. It was a calm sea. She cannot have been drowned!... In my house she was queen! My Ilia: she was the queen of my house, though she was a slave! Everything for her and because of her! She was my slave, but she had slaves herself, male and female: she had the jewels of an empress, she had the raiment of a goddess! I worshipped her as I would Venus herself! And she has disappeared, she has disappeared without a trace, without a trace! Not a thing of hers has been found save a sandal, a sandal! Where can she be? Is she dead, is she alive? Did she run away, was she kidnapped, has she been murdered? Shall I never, never see her again? Here, here”—he rose suddenly—“here, in my boiling breast, I feel it welling up now, the fury of frenzy! I want her, I will have her! Ilia, Ilia, Ilia!”
And he uttered a despairing cry, a scream of anguish, and burst into sobs.
His cry, his scream was heard in the night, throughout the ship.
And suddenly, because of his grief, all the music fell silent: the melancholy chant of the rowers, the joy-song of the sailors and the hymn to the goddess, sung to the twanging Lesbian harp.
Only the oars continued to beat the waves. For the rest, silence, silence, silence ... over all the ship, under the starry dome....
Then the boatswain’s voice made itself heard. The rowers’ melodious phrase rose in a mournful swell, always the same. And the high voice of the sailor who led the singing set the time. The seamen took up the chant. And bright, golden beads from the four-stringed harp fell like clear drops through the night; and the Greek hymn of the songstress pined away with love and tenderness, to ring out suddenly, imploringly:
“Aphrodite!... Aphrodite!...”
Chapter II
Lucius lay on his cushions sobbing like a child. Beside him sat old Thrasyllus, with his hand on his master’s heaving shoulder:
“Lucius, pray control yourself,” he said. “Master yourself and yield piously to Fate. Ilia is gone, she is gone. She is probably gone for ever. She has disappeared. Pirates must have kidnapped her while she was bathing.... Do not think of her any more. Life is rich in promise. Fortune has favoured you not only with untold treasures, but also with genius and soul. You love beauty and study, every art and every science. You did well to follow my advice at last and not to go on languishing with grief in the villa at Baiæ. Yes, it is sold. We shall never go back there. The villa is sold to Cæsar. For almost nothing. Tiberius can look upon it as a gift! What does it matter? Forget the villa and ... forget Ilia.... We are now sailing towards Egypt, the birthplace of all wisdom, the cradle of humanity. You did well to follow my advice: you needed distraction, my dear young master; and this distraction will bring healing to your sick soul. To-morrow we shall reach Alexandria. The voyage is auspicious and will probably be completed without storms. Try to sleep now; and, once again, thank you for your kind word. You are generous. I had nothing to forgive, but I am grateful that you love me better than you would a simple slave. Good-night. Good-night, Lucius.”
The tutor left the pavilion:
“Draw the curtains close, Tarrar,” he said to the Libyan boy. “Noiselessly.”
“Yes, Thrasyllus,” said the child.
The tutor walked to the end of the long deck. The sailors’ song was hushed, the hymn was hushed; only the rowers’ melancholy phrase sounded very softly, muffled in undertone.
The old man stopped. On a pile of cushions lay Catullus, Lucius’ penniless uncle, pot-bellied as Silenus and with a bald and shining pate; and on a low chair sat Cora, the Greek slave from Cos. Her harp stood like a rounded bow by her side; and she leant her head against it.
“Well, Thrasyllus,” mumbled Catullus, sleepily, “how goes it with my nephew?”
“He has spoken a kind word to me,” replied the tutor, joyfully.
“A kind word?” cried Catullus, raising himself, with his hands still behind the grey fringe of his cranium. “I shall become jealous! I have not had a kind word since that wench bolted....”
“Ssh! Be silent, worthy Catullus,” said Thrasyllus. “He believes that she has been kidnapped. Leave him in that belief.”
“And every one knows—the steersman told me so himself—that she ran away with Carus the Cypriote, the sailor! Every one knows it, all the sailors and rowers....”
“Ssh!” Thrasyllus repeated. “Never tell him! He worshipped the woman and she was not worth it! She reigned as queen in his house ... and she ran away with Carus the Cypriote! She left a master like Lucius for a scoundrel like Carus!”
“And Lucius still believes that Venus watches over him!”
“Why