University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE LATIN VILLA.

Electra.

Through a soft lap in the wooded chain of Mount Algidus,
a bright pellucid stream, after wheeling and fretting
among the crags and ledges of the upper valleys, winds its
way gently, toward the far-famed Tiber.

Shut in, on every side, except the south, by the lower
spurs of the mountain ridge, in which it is so snugly nestled,
covered with rich groves of chesnut-trees, and sheltered
on the northward by the dark pines of the loftier
steeps, it were difficult to conceive a fairer site for a villa,
than that sweet vale.

Accordingly, on a little knoll in the jaws of the gorge,
whence issued that clear streamlet, facing the pleasant
south, yet sheltered from its excessive heats by a line of superb
plane trees, festooned with luxuriant vines, there
stood a long low building of the antique form, built of dark-colored
stone.

A villa, in the days of Cicero, was a very different thing
from the luxurious pleasure-houses which came into vogue
in the days of the later Emperors, of which Pliny has given
us descriptions so minute and glowing; yet even his
Tusculan retreat was a building of vast pretension, when
compared with this, which was in fact neither more noless
than an old Roman Farmhouse, of that innocent and
unsophisticated day, when the Consulars of the Republic
were tillers of the soil, and when heroes returned, from

the almost immortal triumph, to the management of the
spade and the ploughshare.

This villa had, it is true, been adorned somewhat, and
fitted to the temporary abode of individuals more refined
and elegant, than the rough steward and rustic slaves, who
were its usual tenants. Yet it still retained its original
form, and was adapted to its original uses.

The house itself, which was but two stories high, was in
form a hollow square, to the courts enclosed in which access
was gained by a pair of lofty wooden gates in the rear.
It had, in the first instance, presented on all sides merely a
blank wall exteriorly, all the windows looking into the court,
the centre of which was occupied by a large tank of water,
the whole interior serving the purpose of a farm yard.
The whole ground floor of the building, had formerly been
occupied by stables, root-houses, wine-presses, dairies,
cheese-rooms and the like, and by the slaves' kitchen,
which was the first apartment toward the right of the entrance.
The upper story contained the granaries and the
dormitories of the workmen; and three sides still remained unaltered.

The front, however, of the villa had been pierced with a
handsome doorway, and several windows; a colonnade of
rustic stonework had been carried along the facade, and a
beautiful garden had been laid out before it, with grassy
terraces, clipped hedges, box trees, transmuted by the
gardener's art into similitudes of Peacocks, Centaurs, Tritons,
Swans, and many other forms of fowls or fishes, unknown
alike and unnamed by Gods or mortals.

The sun was within about half an hour of his setting,
and his slant beams, falling through a gap in the western
hills, streamed down into the little valley, casting long
stripes of alternate light and shadow over the smoothly
shaven lawn, sparkling upon the ripples of the streamlet,
and gilding the embrowned or yellow foliage of the sere
hill-sides, with brighter and more vivid colors.

At this pleasant hour, notwithstanding the lateness of the
season, and looking upon this pleasant scene, a group of
females were collected, under the rustic colonnade of Italian
marble, engaged in some of those light toils, which in
feminine hands are so graceful.

The foremost of these, seated apart somewhat from the

others, were the stately and still beautiful Hortensia, and
her lovely daughter, both of them employed in twirling the
soft threads from the merrily revolving spindle, into large
osier baskets; and the elder lady, glancing at times toward
the knot of slave girls, as if to see that they performed
their light tasks; and at times, if their mirth waxed
too loud, checking it by a gesture of her elevated finger.

A little while before, Julia had been singing in her sweet
low voice, one of those favorite old ballads, which were so
much prized by the Romans, and to which Livy is probably
so much indebted for the redundant imagery of his
“pictured page,” commemorative of the deeds and virtues of the Old Houses.

But, as her lay came to its end, her eye had fallen on the
broad blood-red disc of the descending day-god, and had
followed him upon his downward path, until he was lost to
view, among the tangled coppices that fringed the brow
of the western hill.

Her hands dropped listlessly into her lap, releasing the
snow-white thread, which they had drawn out so daintily;
and keeping her eyes still fixed steadily on the point where
he had disappeared, she gave vent to her feelings in a long-drawn
`heigho!' in every language, and in all times, expression
of sentimental sadness.

“Wherefore so sad a sigh, my Julia?” asked Hortensia,
gazing affectionately at the saddened brow of the fair girl
—“methinks! there is nothing very melancholy here;
nothing that should call forth repining.”

“See, see Hortensia, how he sinks like a dying warrior,
amid those sanguine clouds,” cried the girl, pointing to the
great orb of the sun, just as its last limb was disappearing.

“And into a couch of bays and myrtles, like that warrior,
when his duty is done, his fame won!” exclaimed
Hortensia, throwing her arm abroad enthusiastically; and
truly the hill-side, behind which he was lost to view, was
feathered thick with the shrubs of which she spoke—“methinks!
there is nought for which to sigh in such a setting,
either of the sun, or the hero!”

“But see, how dark and gloomy he has left all behind
him!—the river which was golden but now, while he smiled
upon it, now that he is gone, is leaden.”

“But he shall rise again to-morrow, brighter and yet
more glorious; and yet more gloriously shall the stream
blaze back his rising than his setting lustre.”

“Alas! alas! Hortensia!”

“Wherefore, alas, my Julia?”

“For so will not the warrior rise, who sinks forever,
although it may be into a bed of glory! And if the setting
of the sun leave all here lustreless and dark and gloomy,
although that must arise again to-morrow, what must the
setting do of one who shall arise no more for ever; whose
light of life was to one heart, what the sunbeam was to
the streamlet, but which, unlike that sunbeam, shall never
shine on the heart any more, Hortensia.”

“My poor child,” cried the noble matron, affected almost
to tears, “you are thinking of Paullus.”

“When am I not thinking of him, mother?” said the
girl. “Remember, we have left the city, seeking these
quiet shades, in order to eschew that turmoil, that peril, in
the heat of which he is now striving for his country! Remember,
that he will plunge into all that strife, the more
desperately, because he fancies that he was too remiss before!
Remember this, Hortensia; and say, if thou canst,
that I have no cause for sad forebodings!”

“That can I not, my Julia,” she replied—“For who is
there on earth, who knoweth what the next sun shall bring
forth? The sunshine of to-day, oft breeds the storm of
to-morrow—and, again, from the tempest of the eve, how
oft is born the brightest and most happy morning. Wisest
is he, and happiest, my child, who wraps himself in his own
virtue, careless of what the day shall bring to pass, and
confident, that all the shafts of fortune must rebound, harmless
and blunted, from his sure armor of philosophy.”

“Must not the heart have bled, Hortensia, before it can
so involve itself in virtue?—must not such philosophy be
the tardy offspring of great sorrow?”

“For the most part I fear it is so, Julia,” answered the
matron, “but some souls there are so innocent and quiet,
so undisturbed by the outward world, that they have that,
almost by nature, which others only win by suffering and
tears.”

“Cold and unfeeling souls, I fancy,” replied the girl.
“For it appears to me that this philosophy which smiles on

all spite of fortune, must be akin to selfish and morose indifference.
I see not much to love, Hortensia, or to admire
in the stoic!”

“Nor much more, I imagine,” said Hortensia, not
sorry to draw her mind from the subject which occupied it
so painfully, “in the Epicurean!”

“Much less!” answered Julia, quickly, “his creed is
mere madness and impiety. To believe that the Gods care
nothing for the good or evil—ye Gods!” she interrupted
herself suddenly, almost with a shriek. “What is this? a
slave riding, as if for life, on a foaming horse, from the
cityward. Oh! my prophetic soul, Hortensia!”

And she turned pale as death, although she remained
quite firm and self-possessed.

“It may be nothing, Julia; or it may be good tidings,”
answered Hortensia, although she was in truth scarce less
alarmed, than her daughter, by the unexpected arrival.

“Good tidings travel not so quickly. Beside, what can
there be of good, so unexpected? But we shall know—we
shall know quickly,” and she arose, as if to descend the
steps into the garden, but she sank back again into her seat,
crying, “I am faint, I am sick, here, Hortensia,” and she
laid her hand on her heart as she spoke. “Nay! do not
tarry with me, I pray thee, see what he brings. Anything
but the torture of suspense!”

“I go, I go, my child,” cried the matron, descending the
marble steps to the lawn, on which the slave had just drawn
up his panting horse. “He has a letter in his hand, be of
good courage.”

And a moment afterward she cried out joyously, “It is
in his hand, Julia, Paullus Arvina's hand. Fear nothing.”

And with a quick light step, she returned, and gave the
little slip of vellum into the small white hand, which trembled
so much, that it scarcely could receive it.

“A snow-white dove to thee, kind Venus!” cried the
girl, raising her eyes in gratitude to heaven, before she
broke the seal.

But as she did so, and read the first lines, her face was
again overcast, and her eyes were dilated with wild terror.

“It is so—it is so—Hortensia! I knew—oh! my soul! I
knew it!” and she let fall the letter, and fell back in her
seat almost fainting.

“What?—what?” exclaimed Hortensia. “It is Arvina's
hand—he must be in life!—what is it, my own Julia?”

“Wounded almost to death!” faltered the girl, in accents
half choked with anguish. “Read! read aloud,
kind mother.”

Alarmed by her daughter's suffering and terror, Hortensia
caught the parchment from her half lifeless fingers, and
scanning its contents hastily with her eyes, read as follows.

“Paullus Arvina, to Julia and Hortensia, greeting!
Your well known constancy and courage give me the confidence
to write frankly to you, concealing nothing. Your
affection makes me sure, that you will hasten to grant my
request. Last night, in a tumult aroused by the desperate
followers of Catiline, stricken down and severely wounded,
I narrowly missed death. Great thanks are due to the
Gods, that the assassin's weapon failed to penetrate to my
vitals. Be not too much alarmed, however; Alexion, Cicero's
friend and physician, has visited me; and declares,
that, unless fever supervene, there is no danger from the
wound. Still, I am chained to my couch, wearily, and in
pain, with none but slaves about me. At such times, the
heart asks for more tender ministering—wherefore I pray
you, Julia, let not one day elapse; but come to me! Hortensia,
by the Gods! bring her to the city! Catiline hath
fled, the peril hath passed over—but lo! I am growing faint
—I can write no more, now—there is a swimming of my
brain, and a cloud over my eyes. Farewell. Come to me
quickly, that it prove not too late—come to me quickly,
if you indeed love Arvina.”

“We will go, Julia. We will go to him instantly,” said
Hortensia—“but be of good cheer, poor child. Alexion
declares, that there is no danger; and no one is so wise as
he! Be of good cheer, we will set forth this night, this
hour! Ere daybreak, we will be in Rome. Hark, Lydia,”
she continued, turning to one of the slave girls, “call
me the steward, old Davus. Let the boy Geta, take the
horse of the messenger; and bring thou the man hither.”
Then she added, addressing Julia, “I will question him
farther, while they prepare the carpentum! Ho, Davus,”
—for the old slave, who was close at hand, entered forthwith—“Have
the mules harnessed, instantly, to the carpentum,
and let the six Thracians, who accompanied us

from Rome, saddle their horses, and take arms. Ill fortune
has befallen young Arvina; we must return to town
this night—as speedily as may be.”

“Within an hour, Hortensia, all shall be in readiness, on
my head be it, else.”

“It is well—and, hark you! send hither wine and bread
—we will not wait until they make supper ready; beside,
this youth is worn out with his long ride, and needs refreshment.”

As the steward left the room, she gazed attentively at
the young slave, who had brought the despatch, and, not recognising
his features, a half feeling of suspicion crossed
her mind; so that she stooped and whispered to Julia, who
looked up hastily and answered,

“No—no—but what matters it? It is his handwriting,
and his signet.”

“I do not know,” said Hortensia, doubtfully—“I think
he would have sent one of the older men; one whom we
knew; I think he would have sent Medon”—Then she
said to the boy, “I have never seen thy face before, I believe,
good youth. How long hast thou served Arvina?”

“Since the Ides of October, Hortensia. He purchased
me of Marcus Crassus.”

“Purchased thee, Ha?” said Hortensia, yet more doubtfully
than before—“that is strange. His household was
large enough already. How came he then to purchase
thee?”

“I was hired out by Crassus, as is his wont to do, to
Crispus the sword-smith, in the Sacred Way—a cruel tyrant
and oppressor, whom, when he was barbarously scourging
me for a small error, noble Arvina saw; and then,
finding his intercession fruitless, purchased me, as he said,
that thereafter I should be entreated as a man, not as a
beast of burthen.”

“It is true! by the Gods!” exclaimed the girl, clasping
her hands enthusiastically, and a bright blush coming up
into her pale face. “Had I been told the action, without
the actor's name, I should have known therein Arvina.”

“Thou shouldst be grateful, therefore, to this good Arvina”—said
Hortensia, gazing at him with a fixed eye, she
knew not wherefore, yet with a sort of dubious presentiment
of coming evil.

“Grateful!” cried the youth, clasping his hands fervently
together—“ye Gods! grateful! Hortensia, by your
head! I worship him—I would die for him.”

“How came he to send thee on this mission? Why
sent he not Medon, or Euphranor, or one of his elder freedmen?”

“Medon, he could not send, nor Euphranor. It went
ill with them both, in that affray, wherein my lord was
wounded. The older slaves keep watch around this bed;
the strongest and most trusty, are under arms in the Atrium.”

“And wert thou with him, in that same affray?”

“I was with him, Hortensia.”

“When fell it out, and for what cause?”

“Hast thou not heard, Hortensia?—has he not told you?
by the Gods! I thought, the world had known it. How before
Catiline, may it be ill with him and his, went forth
from the city, he and his friends and followers attacked the
Consuls, on the Palatine, with armed violence. It was
fought through the streets doubtfully, for near three hours;
and the fortunes of the Republic were at stake, and well
nigh despaired of, if not lost. Cicero was down on the
pavement, and Catiline's sword flashing over him, when,
with his slaves and freedmen, my master cut his way
through the ranks of the conspiracy, and bore off the great
magistrate unharmed. But, as he turned, a villain buried
his sica in his back, and though he saved the state, he
well nigh lost his life, to win everlasting fame, and the love
of all good citizens!”

“Hast seen him since he was wounded?” exclaimed
Julia, who had devoured every word he uttered, with insatiable
longing and avidity.

“Surely,” replied the boy. “I received that scroll from
his own hands—my orders from his own lips—`spare not
an instant,' he said, `Jason; tarry not, though you kill your
steed. If you would have me live, let Julia see this letter
before midnight.' It lacks as yet, four hours of midnight.
Doth it not, noble Julia?”

“Five, I think. But how looked, how spoke he? Is
he in great pain, Jason? how seemed he, when you left
him?”

“He was very pale, Julia—very wan, and his lips ashy

white. His voice faltered very much, moreover, and when
he had made an end of speaking, he swooned away. I
heard that he was better somewhat, ere I set out to come
hither; but the physician speaks of fever to be apprehended,
on any irritation or excitement. Should you delay
long in visiting him, I fear the consequences might be perilous
indeed.”

“Do you hear? do you hear that, Hortensia? By the
Gods! Let us go at once! we need no preparation!”

“We will go, Julia. Old Davus' hour hath nearly passed
already. We will be in the city before day-break!
Fear not, my sweet one, all shall go well with our beloved
Paullus.”

“The Gods grant it!”

“Here is wine, Jason,” said Hortensia. “Drink, boy,
you must needs be weary after so hard a gallop. You
have done well, and shall repose here this night. To-morrow,
when well rested and refreshed, you shall follow us
to Rome.”

“Pardon me, lady,” said the youth. “I am not weary;
love for Arvina hath prevailed over all weariness! Furnish
me, I beseech you, with a fresh horse; and let me go
with you.”

“It shall be as you wish,” said Hortensia, “but your
frame seems too slender, to endure much labor.”

“The Gods have given me a willing heart, Hortensia—
and the strong will makes strong the feeble body.”

“Well spoken, youth. Your devotion shall lose you
nothing, believe me. Come, Julia, let us go and array us
for the journey. The nights are cold now, in December,
and the passes of the Algidus are bleak and gusty.”

The ladies left the room; and, before the hour, which
Davus had required, was spent, they were seated together
in the rich carpentum, well wrapped in the soft many-colored
woollen fabrics, which supplied the place of furs
among the Romans—it being considered a relic of barbarism,
to wear the skins of beasts, until the love for this decoration
again returned in the last centuries of the Empire.

Old Davus grasped the reins; two Thracian slaves, well
mounted, and armed with the small circular targets and
lances of their native land, gallopped before the carriage,

accompanied by the slave who had brought the message,
while four more similarly equipped brought up the rear;
and thus, before the moon had arisen, travelling at a rapid
pace, they cleared the cultivated country, and were involved
in the wild passes of Mount Algidus.

Scarcely, however, had they wound out of sight, when
gallopping at mad and reckless speed, down a wild wood-road
on the northern side of the villa, there came a horseman
bestriding a white courser, of rare symmetry and action,
now almost black with sweat, and envelopped with
foam-flakes.

The rider was the same singular-looking dark-complexioned
boy, who had overheard the exclamation of Aulus
Fulvius, concerning young Arvina, uttered at the head of
the street Argiletum.

His body was bent over the rude saddle-bow with weariness,
and he reeled to and fro, as if he would have fallen
from his horse, when he pulled up at the door of the villa.

“I would speak,” he said in a faint and faltering voice,
“presently, with Hortensia—matters of life and death depend
on it.”

“The Gods avert the omen!” cried the woman, to whom
he had addressed himself, “Hortensia hath gone but now
to Rome, with young Julia, on the arrival of a message
from Arvina.”

“Too late! too late!”—cried the boy, beating his breast
with both hands. “They are betrayed to death or dishonor!”

“How? what is this? what say you?” cried the chief
slave of the farm, a person of some trust and importance,
who had just come up.

“It was a tall slight fair-haired slave who bore the message—he
called himself Jason—he rode a bay horse, did
he not?” asked the new comer.

“He was! He did! A bay horse, with one white foot
before, and a white star on his forehead. A rare beast
from Numidia, or Cyrenaica,” replied the steward, who
was quite at home in the article of horse-flesh.

“He brought tidings that Arvina is sorely wounded?”

“He brought tidings! Therefore it was that they set
forth at so short notice! He left the horse here, and was
mounted on a black horse of the farm.”

“Arvina is not wounded! That bay horse is Cethegus',
the conspirator's! Arvina hath sent no message! They
are betrayed, I tell you, man. Aulus Fulvius awaits them
with a gang of desperadoes in the deep cleft of the hills,
where the cross-road comes in by which you reach the Flaminian
from the Labican way. Arm yourselves speedily and
follow, else will they carry Julia to Catiline's camp in the
Appenines, beside Fiesole! What there will befall her,
Catiline's character best may inform you! Come—to
arms—men! to horse, and follow!”

But ignorant of the person of the messenger, lacking
an authorized head, fearful of taking the responsibility,
and incurring the reproach, perhaps the punishment, of
credulity, they loitered and hesitated; and, though they
did at length get to horse and set out in pursuit, it was not
till Hortensia's cavalcade had been gone above an hour.

Meanwhile, unconscious of what had occurred behind
them, and eager only to arrive at Rome as speedily as possible,
the ladies journeyed onward, with full hearts, in silence,
and in sorrow.

There is a deep dark gorge in the mountain chain,
through which this road lay, nearly a mile in length; with
a fierce torrent on one hand, and a sheer face of craggy
rocks towering above it on the other. Beyond the torrent,
the chesnut woods hung black and gloomy along the precipitous
slopes, with their ragged tree-tops distinctly marked
against the clear obscure of the nocturnal sky.

Midway this gorge, a narrow broken path comes down
a cleft in the rocky wall on the right hand side, as you go
toward Rome, by which through a wild and broken country
the Flaminian way can be reached, and by it the district
of Etruria and the famous Val d'Arno.

They had just reached this point, and were congratulating
themselves, on having thus accomplished the most difficult
part of their journey, when the messenger, who rode
in front, uttered a long clear whistle.

The twang of a dozen bowstrings followed, from some
large blocks of stone which embarrassed the pass at the
junction of the two roads, and both the Thracians who preceded
the carriage, went down, one of them killed outright,
the other, with his horse shot dead under him.

“Ho! Traitor!” shouted the latter, extricating himself

from the dead charger, and hurling his javelin with fatal
accuracy at the false slave, “thou at least shalt not boast of
thy villainy! Treachery! treachery! Turn back, Hortensia!
Fly, avus! to me! to me, comrades!”

But with a loud shout, down came young Aulus Fulvius,
from the pass, armed, head to foot, as a Roman legionary
soldier—down came the gigantic smith Caius Crispus, and
fifteen men, at least, with blade and buckler, at his back.

The slaves fought desperately for their mistress' liberty
or life; but the odds were too great, both in numbers and
equipment; and not five minutes passed, before they were
all cut down, and stretched out, dead or dying, on the
rocky floor of the dark defile.

The strife ended, Aulus Fulvius strode quickly to the
carpentum, which had been overturned in the affray, and
which his lawless followers were already ransacking.

One of these wretches, his own namesake Aulus, the
sword-smith's foreman, had already caught Julia in his licentious
grasp, and was about to press his foul lips to her
cheek, when the young patrician snatched her from his
arms, and pushed him violently backward.

“Ho! fool and villain!” he exclaimed, “Darest thou to
think such dainties are for thee? She is sacred to Catiline
and vengeance!”

“This one, at least, then!” shouted the ruffian, making
at Hortensia.

“Nor that one either!” cried the smith interposing; but
as Aulus, the foreman, still struggled to lay hold of the Patrician
lady, he very coolly struck him across the bare brow
with the edge of his heavy cutting sword, cleaving him
down to the teeth—“Nay! then take that, thou fool.”—
Then turning to Fulvius, he added; “He was a brawler
always, and would have kept no discipline, now or ever.”

“Well done, smith!” replied Aulus Fulvius. “The
same fate to all who disobey orders! We have no time
for dalliance now; it will be day ere long, and we must be
miles hence ere it dawns! Bind me Hortensia, firmly, to
yon chesnut tree, stout smith; but do not harm her. We
too have mothers!” he added with a singular revulsion of
feeling at such a moment. “For you, my beauty, we will
have you consoled by a warmer lover than that most shallow-pated
fool and sophist, Arvina. Come! I say come!

no one shall harm you!” and without farther words, despite
all her struggles and remonstrances, he bound a
handkerchief tightly under her chin to prevent her cries,
wrapped her in a thick crimson pallium, and springing upon
his charger, with the assistance of the smith, placed her
before him on the saddle-cloth, and set off a furious pace,
through the steep by-path, leaving the defile tenanted only
by the dying and the dead, with the exception of Hortensia,
who rent the deaf air in vain with frantic cries of anguish,
until at last she fainted, nature being to weak for the
endurance of such prolonged agony.

About an hour afterward, she was released and carried
to her Roman mansion, alive and unharmed in body, but
almost frantic with despair, by the party of slaves who had
come up, too late to save her Julia, under the guidance of
the young unknown.

He, when he perceived that his efforts had been useless,
and when he learned how Julia had been carried off by
the conspirators, leaving the party to escort Hortensia,
and bear their slaughtered comrades homeward, rode
slowly and thoughtfully away, into the recesses of the wild
country whither Aulus had borne his captive, exclaiming in
a low silent voice with a clinched hand, and eyes turned
heavenward, “I will die, ere dishonor reach her! Aid me!
aid me, thou Nemesis—aid me to save, and avenge!”