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High on the Palatine Hill, within the cool courts of his palace,
Stretched on the tawny skin of a beast from the African jungles,
Lay Maxentius Cæsar, the scourge of the angry Immortals.
Huge was his frame and seamed with the scars of manifold battles;
Rough-hewn his face and uncouth. A savage, barbarian cunning
Lurked in his keen black eyes 'neath the bulging wall of his forehead,
Furrowed across with a blood-red streak from the rim of the helmet.
Bearded, burly, and fierce, like the men from Teutonian forest:
Such was Maxentius Cæsar. In Diocletian's absence,
Held he the sceptre of Mars and ruled the realm of the Romans.
Close to the Emperor's couch, where the whispering spray of the fountains
Fell with its cooling breath from the tortuous horns of the Tritons,
Stood, in posture of greeting, Ausonius Mycon, the prætor;
Tall and noble his growth, and his face was clear as Apollo's.
“Wroth are the gods,” quoth Cæsar. “Great Jove from the high-vaulted heavens
Thunders in cloudless space, but sends no rain to refresh us.
Parched is the land, and the fruits of the earth are sapless and withered.
Have I not harkened unto the voice of the priests and the augurs
Spying dark omens and signs amid the firmament's arches—
Bulls with flaming horns that dashed through the glittering star-world,
Black-winged birds that filled with their screams the heavens at midnight?
And in the steaming entrails of sacrificial cattle
Ill-boding signs have appeared. The maids of the virginal Vesta,
Late at their shuddering watch by the sacred fire of the goddess,
Thrice have swooned with dread, and terrible visions affright them.
Wroth are the gods; for they brook not the impious worship of Jesus
Risen (they say) from the dead,—a Galilean impostor,—
Brook not the presence of men who sleepless walk in the darkness,
Plotting disaster and death to the city of Mars and the Cæsars—
Who, in the stillness of night, with horrid rites of the Orient
Stain the fair face of the earth. The gods in their vengeance have wakened,
And, at the games which to-morrow will gather the flower of the Romans
Densely about the arena, the foes of the lofty Immortals
Shall with the reeking dust of the earth which their feet have polluted
Mingle their blood; and Death's keen tooth shall sting through their entrails.”

Thus in wrath spoke Cæsar; Ausonius Mycon, the prætor,
Lifted his mournful eye, but tamed his tongue, for he dared not
Free the tumultuous thoughts which wrestled with might in his bosom.
And as he wavering stood he beheld, 'mid the blooming acacias
Which close-clustering grew at the brimming marge of the fountains,
Shyly a maiden approaching—a child of delicate stature.
Summers twelve had she told; like a bud-imprisoned blossom
Struggled her virginal grace through the tender beauty of childhood.
Pure was her brow, and her pallid cheek was wasted with weeping;
And in her eyes, where the gathering tears hung mute and appealing,
Lay something strange and remote, like the glow of a deep inspiration.
Wrapped was her slender form in a snowy garment that rippled
Down to her sandaled feet, and shone with glittering brooches
Artfully wrought into nodding doves that gleamed on her shoulders.
Warily trod she with timorous step on the glittering pavement,
Paused in fear at the shafts of the jasper and porphyry columns,
Then more boldly advanced through the perfumed twilight that lingered
Under the marble arcades where reposed Maxentius Cæsar.
Wondering sore in his mind, Ausonius Mycon, the prætor,
Gazed at the lily-white maid, and saw her tremble and shiver
Like as a charméd bird that feels the eye of the serpent,
Saw how her bosom shook with smothered sobs, as she prostrate
Flung herself at the Emperor's feet. Then her voice she uplifted—
Cried with a wild, sharp cry, as if wrung from a soul in despairing:
“Cæsar Maxentius, hear me! Oh, hear me, Maxentius Cæsar!
Give me death at thy hand! Oh, let me die, I implore thee!
Why has thou spared a life so worthless, so weak and unfaithful,
When thou throw'st to the beasts my father, my mother—forgive me,
Christ! and restore me my strength—my mother, my mother,
To be thrown to the beasts in the sight of the blood-thirsty people!
I was weak. I denied my Lord; but now I am stronger.
Now I have strength to avow Him; for hath He not said to the faithful:
‘He that loseth his life for My sake’—yes, Lord, I will follow—
Walk through the terrible portal of Death to Thy glory eternal—
Walk with unflinching feet, though my flesh be weak and unwilling!
Take me, O Cæsar, now; for now I am brave and intrepid!
Take me ere I grow weak and my heart within me unsteady!”

Thus she cried and wept, and the voice of her weeping resounded
Wide through the marble halls; while the whispering waters descended
Cool in showers of spray from the Naiad's cup, and the Satyrs,
Poised on tiptoe in heedless delight 'mid the blooming acacias,
Scarcely felt the restraint of the stone which their joy made immortal.

Silently listened Cæsar; then knit his brow in displeasure;—
Laughed a menacing laugh which boded ill for the maiden.
“Death thou demandest,” quoth he, “and sav'st us the cost of the hunting;
Foolish bird, that fliest unsought to the claws of the eagle!
Sooth, ere to-morrow's noon thou wilt flutter in vain in his talons.
Take her, Ausonius Mycon, and see that her prayer be denied not.”
Thus he spoke, and the prætor, Ausonius Mycon, made answer:
“Master,” said he, “thy servant I am, and my law is thy bidding.
Yet, if ever I merited praise for aught I have done thee,
Give me this maid as my slave; for choked are the prisons already
With the disciples of Christ that will bleed in the Flavian arena
For the delight of the people. The gods are compassionate, Cæsar,—
Are not athirst for the blood of a pale and shy little maiden,
Who, by affection beguiled and natural love of her kindred,
Trod unthinking their path. My two Egyptian dancers,
Graceful, endowed with a skill that passes all understanding,
These will I give thee if thou wilt deign to accept from thy servant
What is already thine own.” But, with a snort of impatience,
Shouted Maxentius: “Take her, and send thy Egyptian dancers,
Even to-day—dost thou hear?—for languor oppresses me sorely.”
Stooping, the prætor uplifted the swooning form of the maiden
From the hard touch of the stone, and bore her out of the palace,
Through the exterior court, where brawled the dissolute guardsmen,
Playing at dice and tossing the clinking sesterce of silver
On the mosaic floor, and sentries erect in the shadow
Moveless stood 'neath the vaulted arcades, half-absently tracing
Upward the arabesques gay whose bright and delicate tendrils,
Like fleet voices of joy for a moment caught and arrested,
Climbed in fanciful flight. But all unheeding the prætor
Sped through the desolate streets and the resonant void of the Forum,
While the faint rhythm of the maiden's heart that beat 'gainst his bosom
Filled his soul with an unknown peace and with tender compassion.
On the Quirinal Hill, not far from the Gardens of Sallust,
Loudly he knocked at the gate and entered a high-ceiléd dwelling;
Placed the maid on a couch, and thus he gently addressed her:
“Child, I see by thy garb that thou art free-born and gentle,
Sprung of patrician race, perchance, for thy bearing is noble.
Far be the thought from my heart to make thee a slave in my household.
Rather my child shalt thou be, and my daughters will comfort and soothe thee,
Till thy young soul shall rebound from its dark and morbid deflection
Back to its natural poise of healthful enjoyment and gladness.
But, till thy wound be healed, I ask no importunate question
Touching thy birth and thy name, but bide my time till thou comest
Like mine own child to my knee, and reposest confidence in me.”