Sisenna was at hand, and, as we have seen, was fetched without delay.
“You are a true friend,” said Fannius to him, as he entered the room; “you are not afraid of coming to see a prisoner; a prisoner, too, charged with the most odious of crimes.”
“Afraid! No,” said the soldier energetically. “And as for crime, whatever they may say, I know that you are altogether incapable of it. But tell me, how can I serve you?” “I wish you,” replied Fannius, “to undertake the charge of distributing what little property I shall leave behind me. Subrius the Tribune has the charge of it. It is but a trifle, some two hundred thousand sesterces in all; but I should like some people to know that I have not forgotten them. I shall make my will by word of mouth, for there is no time now for writing. All will be left to you without the mention of any trust; but what I want you [201] to do with the money is this. Half of the money is to go to the freedwoman Epicharis, lately in the service of the Empress Octavia. She is living with her aunt, Galla by name, at the Farm of the Two Fountains near Gabii. Of the other half I wish you to keep twenty thousand sesterces for yourself; as to the remainder, I have to give you a charge which may prove to be somewhat troublesome. Inquire whether I have any kinsfolk on the mother’s side�such as I have on the father’s side, are, I know, fairly well-off�who are both deserving and in need. Divide the money among such as you may find to be so, exactly as you think fit. If there are none, then distribute it among the poor at your discretion.”
“Nay, my friend,” said the soldier; “but it is a formidable thing to be trusted in this way. How do you know that I am fit for it?”
“How do I know?” replied Fannius with a smile. “Why, just in the same way that you knew I could not commit a crime. Do not refuse. You are a soldier, and, therefore, they are less likely to dispute the will, which, as made by a prisoner, is of doubtful force.”
“Let it be, then, as you will,” said Sisenna.
“That is well,” said the sick man. “We shall need seven witnesses. There is the jailer and his wife and son; let them send for four others, for you, of course, cannot serve.”
The witnesses were easily found. The seven were [202] made up of the three inmates of the house, three soldiers belonging to Sisenna’s own company, and the temple servant, in whose house Pomponia had taken refuge. It so happened that this man was an old friend of the jailer.
The form of making the verbal or nuncupatory will, as it was called, was of the simplest and briefest kind. The testator simply said:�
“I, Caius Fannius, hereby nominate Marcus Sisenna, Centurion in the fourth Pr?torian Cohort, as heir to my undivided property.”
Immediately afterwards the will was reduced to writing and signed by the witnesses.
The whole of this business was finished about the seventh hour, or one o’clock in the afternoon. Just about sunset Epicharis arrived.
The physician had just paid his patient his evening visit, and was describing his condition to the jailer when Epicharis reached the house. She caught the sound of his voice through the door which happened to be ajar, and guessing from the first words that she heard who he was, and what was his errand in that house, stood in almost breathless suspense to listen. A rapid intuition told her that not to discover herself would be her best chance of knowing the whole truth. If he knew her relation to the sick man the physician would probably, after the fashion of his class, deceive her with some kindly meant misrepresentation of the truth.
[203] “It is as I feared,” said the old man. “The improvement of yesterday was a last flicker. They might as well strangle a man as throw him into that pit. Does he wish to see any one?”
The jailer told him that he made his will that morning, and that the woman to whom he was betrothed was coming. Would the excitement of seeing her harm him?
“Harm him!” cried the physician. “Nothing can harm him now. Let him have his will in everything. He can scarce live beyond sunrise to-morrow. I will see him again, though I can do no good. Now I have others to visit.”
As he spoke the physician opened the door, and found himself face to face with the girl outside. What she had heard had equalled, even surpassed, her worst fears. That something was wrong, she had not doubted; else why should she have been sent for. Very likely there had been a relapse; he had been doing too much in Rome, and she would take him away again to country quiet and pure air, and nurse him back to health. And the girl, in the newly waked tenderness of her heart, remembered what a happy time the first nursing had been, the danger once over, and she took herself to task for a selfish wish that she might have the same delight again. And now to hear that the man she loved was within a few hours of his death. She stood, petrified with dismay, unable to speak or move.
[204] The old physician at once guessed who she was. Assuming his set, professional smile, he said in as cheerful a tone as he could command, for, used as he was to suffering, his patient’s case had touched him, “Ah, my dear girl, you have come, I suppose, to set our friend all right. You will find him a little low, and must be careful with him.”
“Ah, sir,” cried the girl, recovering her speech, “do not seek to deceive me. I heard all that you said, as I stood here.”
The old man’s manner changed at once to a grave kindliness. “You know it, then,” he said. “You are a brave girl, I see; control yourself; you will have time for tears hereafter; now make his last hour as happy as you can. The gods comfort you!”
He pressed her hand with a friendly grasp, and hurried away, but it was long before he forgot the look of hopeless sorrow that was written on that beautiful face.
“I am Epicharis, whom you sent for,” she said to the jailer’s wife as she entered the room. “Stay,” she went on, lifting up her hand as she spoke, “I know the whole truth. And now let me sit here a while and recover myself somewhat before I see him.”
She sat down, and resolutely set herself to master the passion of grief that was struggling within for expression. A flood of tears would have been an in- [205] expressible relief; but did she once give way to them, when could she recover her calm? Time was precious, and she must not risk losing it. By degrees she controlled herself, fighting down with success the dry, tearless sobs that for a time would rise in her breast. She consented, though loathing it in her heart, to drink the cup of wine which her hostess pressed upon her, and it certainly helped her in her struggle. In about half an hour’s time she was calm enough to enter the sick man’s chamber.
Fannius had fallen into a light sleep, but awoke as she came in. For a time, as will often happen in cases of weakness, he failed to collect his thoughts. He had been dreaming of past times, days in which Epicharis had been cold and disdainful, and the girl’s real presence seemed only to carry on the visionary scene which sleep had conjured up before his eyes.
“Why does she come to torment me?” he said. “I had best forget her, if she cannot love me.”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears. It is hard to say which pained her more, the thought of the happiness which she might have had, had she been less set on her own purposes, or that of which she had had a brief glimpse, but could now see no more.
She threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and kissed the pale hand which rested on the coverlet.
The touch of her warm lips recalled the dying man [206] to himself. His eyes lightened with a smile of inexpressible tenderness.
“You are come, darling,” he said. “I knew that you would. You will stay with me now,” he whispered after a pause. “It will not be for long.”
After that he seemed content to be silent. Indeed, he was almost too weak to speak. But, to judge from the happy smile upon his face, it was bliss to feel her hand in his, and to keep his eyes fixed upon her face.