“Yes, and that path bordered by pines leads to the running-ground. It is said that in former days a statue stood in front of every tree; but Mummius carried them off, and they have left my country for yours, never to return. Will you take this path, Lucius,” continued the girl, smiling, “it leads to my father’s house.”

  “What do you think of this offer, Sporus?” said the young man, changing his dialect and speaking in Latin.

  “That Fortune has not given you the right to doubt her constancy.”

  “Well! then let us trust her this time again, for never has she presented herself in a more alluring and enchanting guise.” Then, returning to the Ionic dialect, which he spoke with the greatest purity, “Guide us, maiden,” said Lucius, “for we are ready to follow you; and do you, Sporus, bid Libycus keep guard over Phœbé?”

  Acté led the way, while the youth climbed to the deck of the vessel to carry out his master’s order. On reaching the running-ground she paused: “See,” she observed to Lucius, “here is the course. It is all sanded in readiness, for the games begin the day after to-morrow and they commence with the wrestling. On the right, beyond the stream, at the end of this avenue of pines, you see the hippodrome; the second day, as you know, will be devoted to the chariot-races. Then lastly half-way from the hill in the direction of the citadel is the theatre, where the contest for the singing-prize will take place. For which of the three crowns does Lucius intend to compete?”

  “For all three, Acté.”

  “You are ambitious, sir.”

  “The number three is pleasing to the gods,” said Sporus, who had just rejoined his companion, and the travellers, guided by their fair hostess, continued their road.

  When they arrived near the town, Lucius stopped. “What is this fountain,” said he, “and these broken bas-reliefs? they seem to me to belong to the best period of Greek art.”

  “This is Pyrené’s fountain,” said Acté; “her daughter was slain by Diana at this very spot, and the goddess, seeing the mother’s grief, changed her into a fountain over the very body of the child whom she was lamenting. As for the bas-reliefs, they are the work of Lysippus, a pupil of Phidias.”

  “Just look, Sporus,” cried the young man with the lyre enthusiastically; “look, what modelling! what expression! It is the combat of Ulysses with Penelopé’s suitors, is it not? See how forcibly the death of that wounded man is depicted, how he writhes in his agony; the arrow has struck him below the heart. A shade higher, and there would have been no pain; the sculptor was a clever man, who understood his art. I will have this marble transported to Rome or Naples, I should like to have it in my hall. I have never seen a man die with a more agonised expression.”

  “It is one of the relics of our ancient splendour,” said Acté. “The town is jealous and proud of them, and, like a mother who has lost her handsomest children, she clings to those that are left to her. I question, Lucius, whether you are wealthy enough to buy this fragment.”

  “Buy it!” answered Lucius with an indescribable expression of disdain; “what is the good of buying it, when I can take it? If I desire this marble, I will have it, though the whole city of Corinth say me nay.” Sporus pressed his master’s hand — “Unless, however,” he continued, “the fair Acté should say that she wishes the marble to remain in her country.”

  “I understand your power as little as I do my own, Lucius, but I thank you none the less. Leave us our poor relics, Roman, and do not complete the work of your fathers. They came as conquerors; you come as a friend. What was barbarism on their part, would be sacrilege on yours.”

  “Make your mind easy, maiden,” said Lucius; “for I begin to realise that there are in Corinth things to be carried off more precious than the bas-relief of Lysippus, which, after all, is but marble. When Paris came to Lacedaemon, it was not the statue of Minerva or Diana that he took away, but Helen, the fairest of the Spartans.”

  Acté lowered her eyes beneath the ardent gaze of Lucius, and, continuing her road, entered the town, followed by the two Romans.

  Corinth had resumed the activity of her ancient days. The announcement of the games to be celebrated there had brought together competitors, not only from all parts of Greece, but likewise from Sicily, from Egypt, and from Asia. Each house had its guest, and the new arrivals would have had great difficulty in finding a lodging, had not Mercury, the patron deity of travellers, brought this hospitable maiden across their path. Still under her guidance, they crossed the marketplace, where were displayed, in haphazard confusion, papyrus and flax from Egypt, ivory from Libya, skins from Cyrené, frankincense and myrrh from Syria, carpets from Carthage, dates from Phoenicia, purple-dye from Tyre, slaves from Phrygia, horses from Selinus, swords from Spain, coral and carbuncle from Gaul. Then, continuiug their road, they crossed the square, where formerly stood a statue of Minerva, a masterpiece of Phidias, which, out of veneration for the old master, had never been replaced; they took one of the streets leading from it, and, a few yards farther on, stopped in front of an old man who was standing at the threshold of his house.

  “Father,” said Acté, “here is a guest sent to us by Jupiter; I met him at the moment of his landing on our shores, and offered him hospitality.”

  “You are welcome, young man with the golden beard,” answered Amycles; and, pushing open with one hand the door of the house, he extended the other to Lucius.

  CHAPTER II

  THE day following that on which the door of Amycles had been opened to admit Lucius, the young Roman, Acté, and her father, having assembled in the triclinium round a table made ready for the meal, were preparing to throw dice to determine who should preside over the banquet. Amycles and his daughter had wished to award this dignity to the stranger; but their guest, either from superstition or respect, had declined the garland; consequently the dice were brought and the box was handed to Amycles, who threw the “Hercules.” It was now the turn of Acté to throw, and the combination produced the “Chariot”; she then passed the box to the young Roman, who took it with visible anxiety, shook it for a long time, turned it tremblingly upon the table, and uttered a cry of joy as he looked at the result; he had thrown the “Venus,” which is superior to all the other combinations.

  “Look, Sporus,” he cried in Latin. “The gods are certainly on our side, and Jupiter does not forget that he is the head of my race; the throw of ‘Hercules,’ the ‘Chariot,’ and the ‘Venus,’ could there be a more lucky combination for a man who comes to contest the prizes for wrestling, driving, and singing, and does not the last clearly promise me a double triumph?”

  “You were born under a lucky star,” answered the youth, “and the sun touched you before you touched the earth; on this occasion, as always, you will triumph over all competitors.”

  “Alas! there was a time,” answered the old man with a sigh, adopting the tongue which the stranger spoke, “when Greece would have afforded adversaries worthy to contend with you for victory; but we are no longer in the days when Milo of Crotona was crowned six times at the Pythian games, or when Alcibiades the Athenian sent seven chariots to the Olympian games and bore away four prizes. Greece has lost, together with her freedom, her arts and her strength, and Rome, according to Cicero, has sent us her children to carry away all our palms. May Jupiter, from whom you boast to be descended, protect you then, young man; for, next to the honour of seeing victory gained by one of my fellow-citizens, the greatest pleasure that I could experience would be to see fortune favour my guest. Go then, my daughter, and bring us garlands of flowers, to serve until we receive our crowns of laurel.”

  Acté went out and returned almost immediately with a wreath of myrtle and saffron for Lucius, one of parsley and ivy for her father, and one of lilies and roses for herself; in addition to these a young slave brought in several larger wreaths, which the guests placed round their necks. Acté then reclined on the right-hand couch, Lucius occupied the consular seat, and the old man, standing between his daughter and his guest, poured a libation of wine and offered a prayer to the gods, after which he, too, reclined, saying to the young Roman: “You see, my son, we fulfil the prescribed conditions, since the number of those who feast, if we are to believe one of our poets, should not be less than the number of the Graces, and should not exceed that of the Muses. Slaves, serve the first course.”

  A well-furnished tray was brought in, the servants held themselves in readiness to obey the first sign.

  Sporus reclined at his master’s feet, offering him his long hair on which to wipe his hands, and the carver began his duties.

  At the beginning of the second course, and when the appetite of the banqueters began to be appeased, the old man fixed his gaze upon his guest, and after looking for some time, with the benevolent expression of age, at the handsome face of Lucius, whose fair hair and golden beard gave him an unusual and striking appearance, he asked:

  “You come from Rome?”

  “Yes, father,” answered the young man. “Have you come direct?”

  “I embarked at the port of Ostia.”

  “The gods continue to protect the divine Emperor and his mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was Caesar preparing for any military expedition?”

  “No tribe is in revolt at this moment. Caesar, master of the world, has given it the peace and repose during which the arts may flourish. He has closed the temple of Janus, and has now taken up his lyre to render thanks to the gods.”

  “And has he no fear that, while he sings, others perchance should reign?”

  “Ah!” said Lucius with a frown, “then in Greece also they say that Caesar is a child?”

  “No; but they fear that he delays too long in becoming a man.”

  “I thought that he had assumed the toga virilis at the funeral of Britannicus?”

  “Britannicus had been long ago condemned to die by Agrippina.”

  “Yes, but it was Caesar who killed him, you may take my word for it; was it not, Sporus?”

  The youth raised his head and smiled.

  “He murdered his brother!” cried Acté.

  “He put the son to the death that the mother desired to inflict on himself. If you do not know, maiden, then ask your father, who appears to be well informed on questions of this sort, and he will tell you that Messalina sent a soldier to kill Nero in his cradle, and that the soldier was about to strike, when two serpents issued from the child’s bed and put the centurion to flight? — No, no, father, be assured that Nero is not an imbecile like Claudius, a fool like Caligula, a coward like Tiberius, nor an actor like Augustus.”

  “My son,” said the old man in alarm, “you should remember that you axe insulting deities.”

  “Fine deities, by Hercules !” cried Lucius; “a fine god was Octavius, who was afraid of cold, of heat, of thunder; who came from Apollonia and presented himself before Caesar’s old legions limping like Vulcan; a fine god, whose hand was so feeble that sometimes it could not support the weight of his pen; who lived without once daring to be Emperor, and died asking if he had played his part well! A fine god was Tiberius, with his Olympus at Capreœ, from which he durst not stir, where he lived like a pirate on a ship at anchor, with Thrasyllus at his right hand governing his mind, and at his left Charicles ruling his body; who, though he owned the world, over which he might stretch his wings like an eagle, withdrew into the hollow of a rock like an owl! A fine god, too, Caligula, whose head had been turned by drink, and who thought himself as great as Xerxes because he had thrown a bridge from Puteoli to Baiae, and as powerful as Jove because he imitated the noise of thunder by rolling an iron chariot over a bridge of brass; who styled himself the lover of the moon, and whom Chaerea and Sabinus despatched with twenty sword-thrusts to consummate his marriage in the sky! A fine god Claudius, who was found skulking behind a curtain when they sought him on the throne, the slave and puppet of his four wives! who signed the contract of marriage between his wife Messalina and his freedman Silius! A fine god he, whose knees gave way at every step, whose mouth slobbered at every word, who stammered and rolled his head idiotically from side to side; who lived despised without knowing how to make himself feared, and who died of eating mushrooms cooked by Halotus, cleaned by Agrippina, and seasoned by Locusta! Ah! a fine set of gods, I repeat, and what a noble figure they must cut in Olympus beside Hercules, the club-bearer, beside Castor, the chariot-driver, and Apollo, the prince of the lyre!”

  Some moments of silence succeeded this startling and sacrilegious outburst. Amycles and Acté looked at their guest with amazement, and the interrupted conversation had not yet resumed its course when a slave entered, announcing a messenger from Cnaeus Lentulus, the Proconsul. The old man inquired if the messenger came to speak to himself or to his guest. The slave answered that he did not know; the lictor was brought in. His business was with the stranger; the Proconsul had been informed of the arrival of a vessel in the harbour, he knew that the owner of this vessel intended to compete for the prizes, and he ordered him to come and enter his name at the Prefectorial Palace and declare to which of the three crowns he aspired. The old man and Acté rose to receive the commands of the Proconsul; Lucius listened to them still reclining.

  When the lictor had finished, Lucius drew from his breast a set of ivory tablets coated with wax, wrote some lines with a stilus on one of the leaves, impressed the signet of his ring below them, and handed the answer to the lictor, bidding him carry it to Lentulus. The lictor hesitated in astonishment; Lucius made an imperative gesture; the soldier bowed and retired. Then Lucius snapped his fingers to call his slave, held out his goblet, which the cup-bearer filled with wine, drank off part of it to the health of his host and his daughter, and gave the remainder to Sporus.

  “Young man,” said Amycles, breaking the silence, “you say you are a Roman, and yet I can hardly believe it. If you had lived in the Imperial City, you would have learned to pay better obedience to the orders of Caesar’s representatives; the Proconsul is absolute master here and reverenced as much as Claudius Nero is at Rome.”

  “Have you forgotten that at the commencement of the meal the gods made me for the time being the Emperor’s equal by choosing me King of the feast? and when did you see a King leave his throne to obey the orders of a Proconsul?”

  “You have refused to obey them?” said Acté in alarm.

  “No, but I have written to Lentulus that, if he is anxious to learn my name and my object in coming to Corinth, he has only to come and ask me himself.”

  “And you think he will come?” cried the old man.

  “I am sure of it,” answered Lucius.

  “Here, to my house?”

  “Listen,” said Lucius.

  “What is it?”

  “He is knocking at the door; I recognise the sound of the lictors’ rods. Tell them to open the door, my father, and leave us alone together.”

  The old man and his daughter rose in astonishment and went themselves to the door; Lucius remained in a reclining posture.

  He had not been mistaken; it was Lentuius himself. His brow was wet with perspiration, indicating with what promptitude he had complied with the stranger’s invitation. He asked in quick and eager tones where the noble Lucius was; and, when the room was pointed out to him, he put on his toga and entered the dining-hall, the door of which closed behind him and was promptly guarded by the lictors.

  What passed at this interview no one knew; but after a quarter of an hour the Proconsul came out, while Lucius went and rejoined Amycles and Acté beneath the peristyle where they were walking. His face was calm and smiling.

  “My father,” said he, “it is a beautiful evening; will you not accompany your guest as far as the citadel, from which I am told there is a magnificent view? Besides, I am curious to know if they have carried out the order of Caesar, who, when he heard that games were to be held at Corinth, sent back the ancient statue of Venus, that it might be propitious to the Romans who came to contend for your crowns.”

  “Alas! my son,” replied Amycles, “I am now too old to act as a guide up the mountain; but Acté here, who is light-footed as a nymph, will accompany you.”

  “Thank you, my father. I had not asked this favour through fear lest Venus should be jealous and avenge herself on me for your daughter’s beauty; but, since you offer her to me, I will have the courage to accept.”

  Acté smiled and blushed, and, at a signal from her father, ran to fetch a veil and returned draped as modestly as a Roman matron.

  “Has my sister taken some vow,” said Lucius, “or is she, without my knowing it, a priestess of Minerva, Diana, or Vesta?”

  “No, my son,” said the old man, taking the Roman by the arm and drawing him aside; “but Corinth is the city of courtesans, as you know; in memory of their intercession having saved the city from the invasion of Xerxes we have had them painted in a picture, as the Athenians had the portraits of their generals painted after the battle of Marathon. Since then, so loath have we been to want them, that we purchase them at Byzantium, in the islands of the Archipelago, and in Sicily. You may know them by their faces and uncovered bosoms. Make your mind easy; Acté is no priestess of Minerva, nor Diana, nor Vesta, but she fears being taken for a worshipper of Venus.” Then, raising his voice, “Come, my children,” continued the old man, “go, my daughter, and from the height of the hill recall to our guest all the ancient memories of Greece, pointing out to him the localities which preserve them. The only property that remains to the slave and which his masters cannot take from him is the memory of the days when he was free.”

  Lucius and Acté started, and in a few minutes had reached the north gate and taken the road which leads to the citadel. Although it appeared scarcely five hundred yards from the town as the crow flies, yet the windings of the road were so numerous that it took them nearly an hour to reach the summit.

  Twice Acté stopped on the way; the first time, to point out to Lucius the tomb of Medea’s children; the second, to make him notice the spot where Bellerophon received the magic steed Pegasus from the hands of Minerva. At last they reached the citadel, and, at the entrance to a temple adjoining it, Lucius recognised the statue of Venus covered with shining armour, having on its right the statue of Love, and on its left that of the Sun, the first deity that was worshipped at Corinth. Lucius prostrated himself and prayed.

 

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