Diana’s eyes swam and sparkled. She patted the brown old hand tenderly. With a husky voice she murmured that he was the very dearest grandfather anyone ever had.
‘And you are to help me plan the villa, child,' said Tiberius, warmly.
“Was that why you sent for me?’ asked Diana.
The old man pursed his wrinkled lips into a sly smile and lied benevolently with slow nods of his shaggy white head.
‘We will talk about it tomorrow,’ he promised.
‘Then I should get to bed at once,’ she decided, springing to her feet. ‘May I have breakfast with you, Grandfather?’
Tiberius chuckled amiably.
‘That’s too much to ask of you, my sweet,' he protested. You must be very tired. And I have my breakfast at dawn.’
‘I’ll be with you!’ announced Diana. She softly patted him on the head. ‘Good night, Your Majesty.’ Dropping to one knee, she bowed ceremoniously and rising retreated—still facing him—until she reached the door where she paused, puckered her smiling lips, and pantomimed a kiss.
The aged Emperor of Rome was much pleased.
***
It was high noon and the day was bright. Not for a long time had Tiberius enjoyed himself so fully. This high-spirited girl was renewing his interest in life. She had matured beyond belief since he had last seen her. He responded to her radiant vitality with an almost adolescent yearning. Had Diana hinted that she would like to have the Island of Capri, Tiberius would have handed it to her without pausing to deliberate.
After breakfast they had walked to the far east end of the enchantingly lovely mall, Diana ecstatic, the Emperor bumbling along with short steps and shorter breaths, scraping the mosaic pavement with his sandal-heels. Yes, he panted, there was plenty of room at the far end of the row for a magnificent villa. Nothing, he declared, could ever obstruct this splendid view. He stopped, clutched at Diana’s arm for steadiness, and pointed toward the northeast with a shaky cane. There would always be old Vesuvius to greet you in the morning. ‘And do you not see the sunlight glinting from the white roofs of Pompeii and Herculaneum? And across there, close at hand, is sleepy little Surrentum. You can sit at your window and see everything that is going on in Surrentum.’
Observing that the old man’s legs were getting wobbly, Diana had suggested that they turn aside here and rest in the arbor that marked the eastern boundary of the new—and still unoccupied—Villa Quirinus. The Emperor slumped heavily into a rustic chair and mopped his perspiring brow, his thin, mottled hand trembling as if palsied. For some time they sat in silence, waiting for the old man to recuperate. His lean face was contorted and his jaw chopped convulsively.
‘You have grown to be a beautiful woman, Diana!’ he remarked, in a thin treble, after blandly invoicing her charms with the privileged eyes of eighty-two. ‘You will probably be married one of these days.’
Diana’s bright smile slowly faded and her heavy lashes fell. She shook her curly, blue-black head and drew what seemed a painful little sob through locked teeth. Tiberius snorted impatiently and pounded the pavement with his cane.
‘Now what’s the trouble?’ he demanded. ‘In love with the wrong man?’
‘Yes.’ Diana’s face was sober and her reply was a mere whisper. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Grandfather,’ she went on, with overflowing eyes, ‘I’m in love with Marcellus.’
‘Well—why not? What’s the matter with Marcellus?’ The old man leaned forward to peer into her unhappy eyes. ‘It would be a most excellent alliance,’ he went on. ‘There isn’t a more honorable man in the Empire than Gallio. And you are fond of Lucia. By all means—marry Marcellus! What’s to hinder?’
‘Marcellus,’ murmured Diana, hopelessly, ‘has been sent far away—to be gone for years, perhaps. He has been put in command of the fort at Minoa.’
‘Minoa!’ yelled Tiberius, straightening his sagging spine with an indignant jerk. ‘Minoa!’ he shrilled—‘that dirty, dried-up, pestilential, old rat-liolc? Who ordered him to do that, I’d like to know?’
‘Prince Gaius,’ exploded Diana, swept with sudden anger.
‘Gaius!’ The Emperor pried himself up by his elbows, struggled to his feet, and slashed the air with his cane. His leaky old eyes were boiling. ‘Gaius!’ he shrieked. ‘The misbegotten, drunken, dangerous fool! And what made him think he could do that to the son of Marcus Lucan Gallio? To Minoa—indeed! Well!—we’ll see about that!’ He clawed at Diana’s arm. ‘Come! Let us return to the villa! Gaius will hear from his Emperor!’
Leaning heavily on her, and wasting his waning strength on savage screams of anger, Tiberius shuffled along toward the Villa Jovis, pausing occasionally to shout long vituperations composed of such ingenious sacrileges and obscenities that Diana was more astounded than embarrassed. On several occasions she had witnessed the old man’s grumpiness when annoyed. This was the first time she had seen him in one of his celebrated rages. It was commonly believed that the Emperor, thoroughly roused, went temporarily insane. There was a rumor—probably slanderous—that he had been known to bark like a dog; and bite, too.
Deaf to Diana’s urgent enheaty that he should rest a little while before dictating the message to Gaius, the old man began howling for his chief scrivener while they were still trudging through the peristyle. A dozen dignified servants approached from all directions, making as if they would be of service, but keeping a discreet distance. Diana finally got the fuming Emperor as far as the atrium, where she dumped him onto a couch and into the solicitous hands of the Chamberlain; then scurried away to her room, where she flung herself down on her bed, with her face buried in the pillow, and laughed hysterically until she cried.
After a while, she repaired her face at the mirror; and, slipping across the corridor, tapped gently at her mother’s door. She pushed it open and peeped in. Paula Gallus stined and sleepily opened one eye.
‘Mother!’ Diana crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘What do you think?’ she whispered, dramatically. ‘He’s going to bring Marcellus home!’
‘Well,’ said Paula, from a considerable distance, ‘that’s what you had planned to make him do; wasn’t it?’
‘Yes—but isn’t it wonderful?’ insisted Diana.
‘It will be, when he has done it,’ drawled Paula. You’d better stand over him—and see that he doesn’t forget all about it.’
‘Oh—he wouldn’t forget! Not this time! Never was anyone so angry! Mother—you should have seen him! He was terrific!’
‘I know,’ yawned Paula. ‘I’ve seen him.’
‘Well—in spite of everything,’ declared Diana, ‘I think he’s an old darling!’
‘He’s an old lunatic!’ mumbled Paula.
Diana pressed her cheek against her mother’s heart.
‘Marcellus is coming back,’ she murmured ecstatically. ‘Gaius will be very angry to have his orders flouted—but he won’t be able to do a thing about it; will he?’ And when Paula did not immediately reply, Diana added, anxiously, ‘Will he, Mother?’
‘Not at present—no.’ Paula’s tone carried a hint of warning. ‘But we must keep it in mind that Tiberius is a very old man, my dear. He shouts and stamps and slobbers on himself—and forgets, in an hour or two, what it was that had upset him. Besides, he is going to die, one of these days.’
‘And then Gaius will be the Emperor?’ Diana’s voice was full of trouble.
‘Nobody knows, dear.’
‘But he hates Gaius! You should have heard him!’
‘Yes—but that’s not imperial power: that’s just an angry old man’s noise. Julia and her little clique will appoint the next Emperor. It may not be Gaius. They quarrel frequently.’
‘I’ve often wondered whether Tiberius might not appoint Father. I know he likes him.’
‘Not a chance in a thousand.’ Paula waved aside the suggestion with a languid hand.
‘But Father is a great man!’ declared Diana, loyally.
Paula nodded
and her lips curled into a grim smile.
‘Great men do not become Emperors, Diana,’ she remarked, bitterly. ‘It’s against the rules. Your father is not eligible. He has no talent for treachery. He is brave and just. And—besides—he is not epileptic.... Now—you had better run along and see that the letter gets safely started on its way.’
Diana took a few steps; and, returning slowly, sat down on the bed again. She smiled mysteriously.
‘Let’s have it,’ encouraged Paula. ‘It seems to be a secret—yes?’
‘Mother—he is going to build a great villa for me!’
Paula grinned.
‘Nonsense!’ she muttered. ‘By noon he won’t remember that he ever said such a thing. At least I sincerely hope he doesn’t. Imagine your living here!’
‘Marcellus, too,’ said Diana. ‘He wants Marcellus to live here, I think.’
‘And do what?’
‘We didn’t talk about that.’
Paula ran her fingers gently over Diana’s hand.
‘Well—be sure you don’t introduce the subject. Let him talk. Promise him anything. He’ll forget. You don’t want a villa on Capri. You don’t want Marcellus living here in this hateful atmosphere. Hot-headed as he is, you would be a widow in a week! Go, now, child! Make him write that letter!’
***
Lucia’s intuition told her that Marcellus was on board this galley. For an hour—ever since its black prow had nosed around the bend, and the three banks of long oars had pushed the heavy hull into full view—she had been standing here alone in the pergola, leaning against the balustrade, intently watching.
If The Vestris had experienced no delays, she could have arrived in Ostia as early as the day before yesterday. Father had cautioned them to be patient. Watched pots were slow to boil. It was a long voyage from Joppa, and The Vestris had several ports to make on the way home. But even Father, in spite of his sensible advice, was restless as a caged fox; you could tell from the way he invented time-killing errands for himself.
The whole villa was on edge with impatience to have Marcellus safely home. Tertia was in a flutter of excitement for two good reasons: she was eager for the return of Marcellus, of course; and she was beside herself with anxiety to see Demetrius. It was a pity, thought Lucia, that Demetrius had been so casual in his attitude toward Tertia. Marcipor drifted about from room to room, making sure that everything was in first-class order. Mother had ordered gay new draperies for Marcellus’ suite. The only self-possessed person in the household was Mother. She had wept happily when Diana came to tell them what had happened; but was content to wait calmly.
As for Lucia, she had abandoned all pretence of patience. All yesterday afternoon, and again today, she had waited in the pergola, watching the river. Sometimes she would leave her post and try to stroll in the rose arbors—now in their full June glory—but in a few minutes her feet would turn back, of their own accord, to the observation point at the east end of the pergola.
As the galley crept up the river, veering toward the docks, Lucia’s excitement increased. She knew now that her brother was one of the passengers, probably fidgeting to be off. If her guess were correct, it would not be long now until they would see him. He would hire a carriage at the wharf and come fast. Wouldn’t Father be surprised? He wasn’t expecting Marcellus today; had gone over beyond the Aventine to look at a new riding horse: it was to be a homecoming present. Maybe Marcellus would be here when Father returned.
It was going to be a great pity that Diana would not be at home to welcome him. Tiresome old Tiberius had sent for her again, and there was nothing she could do but obey him.
‘Will he keep on pestering her like that?’ Lucia had wondered.
‘She must not offend him,’ Father had said, seriously. ‘The old man is malicious enough to hand Marcellus over to the Prince, if Diana fails to humor him.’ After a moment of bitter reflection, he had muttered, ‘I am afraid the child is in an awkward—if not dangerous—position. And while we are not directly responsible for it, her predicament worries me.’
‘But—the Emperor wouldn’t harm Diana!’ she had exclaimed. That old man?’
Father had growled deep in his throat.
‘A Caesar,’ he had snarled, contemptuously, ‘is capable of great wickedness—up to and including his last gasp—though he should live a thousand years!’
‘I don’t believe you like the Emperor,’ she had said, impishly, to cool him off, as she made for the door. He had grunted crossly—and grinned.
You could just see the hinder part of the galley now, as it slipped into its berth. Lucia had been on this tension for so long that she was ready to fly into bits. She couldn’t wait here another instantl The servants might think it strange if she went alone to the entrance gate. But this was a special occasion. Returning to the house, she ran on through to the imposing portico, down the marble steps, and set off briskly on the long, shaded driveway that wound through the acacias and acanthuses and masses of flowering shrubbery. A few slaves, ending their day’s work in the formal gardens, raised their eyes inquisitively. At a little distance from the ornate bronze gates, Lucia, flushed and nervous, sat down on a stone bench, resolved to hold herself together until the great moment.
After what seemed a very long time, a battered old public chariot, drawn by two well-lathered horses, turned in from the busy avenue. Beside the driver stood Demetrius, tall, tanned, and lean. He sighted her instantly, clutched the driver’s arm, handed him a coin and dismissed him. Stepping down, he walked quickly toward her, and Lucia ran to meet him. His face, she observed, was grave, though his eyes had lighted as she impulsively gave him her hands.
‘Demetrius!’ she cried. ‘Is anything wrong? Where is Marcellus?’
‘There was no carriage at the wharf,’ he explained. ‘I came for a better conveyance.’
‘Is my brother not well?’ Still holding his hands, Lucia searched his eyes anxiously. He flinched a little from this inquisition, and his reply was evasive.
‘No—my master is not—my master did not have a pleasant voyage.’
‘Oh—that!’ She smiled her relief. ‘I thought my brother was a better sailor. Was he sick all the way?’
Demetrius nodded non-committally. It was plain to see he was holding something back. Lucia’s eyes were troubled.
‘Tell me, Demetrius!’ she pleaded, huskily. ‘What ails my brother?’ There was a disturbingly long silence.
‘The Tribune had a very unhappy experience, the day before we sailed.’ Demetrius was speaking slowly, measuring his words. ‘It is too long a story to tell you now, for my master is at the wharf awaiting me. He has been deeply depressed and is not yet fully recovered. He did not sleep well on the ship.’
‘Stormy weather?’ suggested Lucia.
‘A smooth sea,’ went on Demetrius, evenly. ‘But my master did not sleep well; and he ate but little.’
‘Was the food palatable?’
‘No worse than food is on ships, but my master did not eat; and therefore he suffers of weakness.... May I go quickly now—and get the large carriage for him?’
‘Demetrius—you are trying to spare me, I think.’ Lucia challenged his eyes with a demand for the whole truth.
‘Your brother,’ said Demetrius, deliberately, ‘is moody. He prefers not to talk much, but does not like to be left alone.’
‘But he did want to come home; didn’t he?’ asked Lucia, wistfully.
‘Your brother,’ replied Demetrius, gloomily, ‘does not want anything.’ He glanced up the driveway, restlessly. ‘Shall I go now?’
Lucia nodded, and Demetrius, saluting with his spear, turned to go. She moved forward and fell into step with him. He lagged to walk behind her. She slowed her pace. He stopped.
‘Please precede me,’ he suggested, gently. ‘It is not well that a slave should walk beside his master’s sister.’
‘It is a stupid rule!’ flashed Lucia.
‘But—a rule!’ Demetrius’ impati
ence had sharpened his tone. Instantly he saw that he had offended her. Her cheeks were aflame and her eyes were swimming. ‘I am sorry,’ he murmured, contritely. ‘I did not mean to hurt you.’
‘It was my fault,’ she admitted. Turning abruptly, she led the way with long, determined steps. After they had proceeded for a little way in silence, Lucia—her eyes straight ahead—declared bitterly, ‘I hate this whole business of slavery!’
‘I don’t care much for it myself,’ rejoined Demetrius, dryly.
It was the first time he had been amused for nearly two months. Halfturning suddenly, Lucia caught him wearing a broad grin. Her lips curved into a fleeting, reluctant smile. Squaring her shapely shoulders, she quickened her swinging stride and marched on, Demetrius lengthening his steps as he followed, stirred by the rhythm of her graceful carriage.
She paused where the driveway divided to serve the great house and the stables. Demetrius stood at attention.
‘Tell me truly,’ she begged, in a tone that disposed of his slavery, ‘is Marcellus’ mind affected?’
Demetrius accepted his temporary freedom and spoke without constraint.
‘Marcellus has had a severe shock. Perhaps he will improve, now that he is back home. He will make an effort to show his interest, I think. He has promised me that much. But you must not be startled if he stops talking—in the middle of a remark—and seems to forget what you were talking about. And then—after a long wait—he will suddenly ask you a question—always the same question—' Demetrius averted his eyes, and seemed unwilling to proceed further.
‘What is the question?’ insisted Lucia.
‘He will say, “Were you out there?”’
‘Out where?’ she asked, frowning mystifiedly.
Demetrius shook his head and winced.
‘I shall not try to explain that,’ he said. ‘But when he asks you if you were out there, you are to say, “No!” Don’t ask him, “Where?” Just say, “No!” And then he will recover quickly, and seem relieved. At least, that was the way the conversation went when we were on The Vestris. Sometimes he would talk quite freely with the Captain—almost as if nothing was the matter. Then he would suddenly lose interest and retreat inside himself. Then he would inquire, “Were you out there?” And Captain Fulvius would say, “No.” Then Marcellus would be pleased, and say, “Of course—you weren’t there. That is good. You should be glad.”’