“No,” said Subrius; “he had wronged her far too deeply ever to be able to forgive.”
“Just so,” observed Lateranus; “and if he could have done it there was Popp?a, and a woman never spares a rival, especially a rival who is better than herself. Besides he dared not let his divorced wife live. You see she was the daughter of Claudius, and her husband, supposing that she had married again, would have been dangerously near the throne. And then the people loved her; that was even more against her than anything else.”
[49] “That is exactly what Epicharis thought, so she has often told me. After a few days came news that there had been great disturbances in Rome; that the people had stood up like one man in the Circus, and shouted out to the Emperor, ‘Give us back Octavia!’ and that Nero had annulled the divorce. Some of the poor woman’s attendants were in high spirits. You see they did not like Campania and a quiet country house as much as their mistress did. ‘Now,’ they said, ‘we shall get back to Rome; after all, a palace is better than a villa.’ Next day the news was more exciting than ever. There had been a great demonstration all over Rome as soon as it was known that the divorce had been cancelled, and that Octavia was Empress again. The people had crowded into the capital and returned thanks in the temples. Popp?a’s image had been thrown down, and Octavia’s covered with flowers and set up in the public places. The Empress’ women, foolish creatures that they were, were more delighted than ever. ‘Now,’ they said, ‘we shall be going back to Rome in triumph.’ But Epicharis knew better; she was quite sure that this was only the beginning of the end. And, as you know, gentlemen, she was right; before the end of another week the soldiers had come from Rome.”
“Ah!” said Subrius, “a lucky fever-fit saved me from being sent on that errand. My cohort had been detailed for the duty; the sealed orders, which I [50] was not to open till I reached the villa, had been handed to me; and then at the last moment, when I was racking my brain, thinking how I could possibly get off, there fortunately came this attack. I never had thought before that I should be positively glad to have the ague.”
“Well, sir, from what Epicharis has told me, you were spared one of the most pitiable sights that human eyes ever saw. Octavia was sitting in the garden when the Tribune came up and saluted her. She gave him her hand to kiss. ‘I suppose you have come to take me back to Rome,’ she said. ‘Well, I am sorry to leave this beautiful place; but if my husband and the people really want me, I am willing to come. Can you give me till to-morrow to get ready?’ The Tribune turned away. Epicharis says that she saw him brush his hand over his eyes.”
“Well,” interrupted the Pr?torian, “it must have been something to make that brute Severus�for he was on duty in my place, I remember�shed a tear.”
” ‘ Madam,’ said the Tribune, ‘you mistake. We have come on another business. You are not to return to Rome. We are to take you to Pandataria.’ ‘Pandataria!’ cried the poor child, roused to anger, as even the gentlest will sometimes be; ‘but that is a place for wicked people. I have done nothing wrong; else why should the Emperor have made me his wife again!’ ‘Madam,’ said the Tribune, ‘I have to obey my orders.’ After that she said nothing [51] more. After all, she was a little relieved that she was not to return to Rome, and she did not know what going to Pandataria really meant. Well, that very night she was hurried off; only one attendant was allowed her. Tigellinus, I fancy, had forgotten that Epicharis, whom he had plenty of reason to distrust and hate, was with her. Anyhow he had given no directions to the Tribune, and the Tribune was not disposed to go beyond his orders in making the poor banished woman unhappy. So Epicharis went. The island, she told me, was a wretched place; as to the house, it was almost in ruins. The shepherd who looks after the few sheep, which are almost the only creatures on the island, said that scarcely anything had been done to it since the Princess Julia (Footnote: Julia, the daughter of Augustus, was banished to the island, B.C. 2, and after spending five years there was removed to Reregium. The exact time would therefore be fifty-nine years.) left it, and that must have been nearly sixty years before. However, she seemed to reconcile herself to the place easily enough. It was her delight to wander about on the shore, picking up shells and seaweeds. Such things pleased her as they please a child, Poor creature! she had not time to get tired of it. In the course of about fourteen or fifteen days a ship came with some soldiers on board�”
“They told us in Rome,” said Subrius, “that she was killed by falling from a cliff, and possibly had thrown herself off.”
[52] “Epicharis tells a very different story. When the Empress saw the soldiers, she said in a very cheerful voice�you see she had not the least idea that her life was in danger, and Epicharis had never had the heart to tell her,�‘Well, gentlemen, what is you business this time? Where are you going to take me now? I must confess that I liked Misenum better than this.’ ‘Madam,’ said the Centurion in command ‘with your permission I will explain my business when I get to the house, if you will be pleased to return thither.’ He said this, you see, to gain time. On the way back he contrived to whisper into Epicharis’ ear what his errand really was. She knew it already well enough, you may be sure. ‘You must break it to her,’ he said. That was an awful thing for the poor girl to do. She is not of the tearful sort,�you know; but she sobbed and wept as if her heart would break, when she told me the story. The Empress went up to her bed-chamber to make some little change in her dress. As she was sitting before the glass, Epicharis came and put her arms round her neck. The Empress turned round a little surprised. You see she would often kiss and embrace her foster-sister, but it was always she that began the caress and the other that returned it. ‘What ails you, darling?’ she said, for Epicharis’ eyes were full of tears. ‘O dearest lady, I cannot help crying when I think that we shall have to part!’ ‘Surely,’ said the Empress, ‘they are not going to be so cruel as to take you [53] away from me. I will write to the Emperor about it; he can’t refuse me this little favour.’ ‘O lady,’ said Epicharis, who was in despair what to say,�how could one break a thing of this sort?�he will grant you nothing, not even another day.’ ‘What do you mean?’ said Octavia, for she did not yet understand. ‘O lady,’ she cried, ‘these soldiers are come�’ and she put into her look the meaning that she could not put into words. ‘What!’ cried the poor woman, her voice rising into a shrill scream, ‘do you mean that they are come to kill me?’ and she started up from her chair. Epicharis has told me that the sight of her face, ghastly pale, with the eyes wide open with fear, haunts her night and day. ‘Oh, I cannot die! I cannot die!’ she cried out. ‘I am so young. Can’t you hide me somewhere?’ ‘O dearest lady!’ said Epicharis, ‘I would die to save you. But there is no way. Only we can die together.’ Then she took out of her robe two poniards, which she always carried about in case they should be wanted in this way. ‘Let me show you. Strike just as you see me strike. After all it hurts very little, and it will all be over in a moment.’ ‘No, no, no!’ screamed the unhappy lady, ‘take the dreadful things away. I cannot bear to look at them. I will go and beg the soldiers to have mercy.’ And she flew out of the room to where the Centurion was standing with his men in the hall. She threw herself at the man’s feet�it was a most pitiable thing to see, Epicharis said when she told me [54] the story�and begged for mercy. Poor thing, she clung to life, though the gods know she had had very little to make her love it. The Centurion was unmoved,�as for some of the common soldiers, they were half disposed to rebel,�and said nothing but, ‘Madam, I have my orders.’ ‘But the Emperor must have forgotten,’ she cried out; ‘I am not Empress now, I am only a poor widow, and almost his sister.’ Then again, ‘Oh, why does Agrippina let him do it?’ seeming to forget in her terror that Agrippina was dead. After this had gone on for some time, the officer said to one of his men, ‘Bind her, and put a gag in her mouth.’ Epicharis saw one or two of the men put their hands to their swords when they heard the order given. But it was useless to think of resisting or disobeying. They bound her hand and foot, and gagged her, and then carried her into the house. They had brought a slave with them who knew some thing about surgery. This man opened the great artery in each arm, but somehow the blood did not flow. ‘It is fairly frozen with fear,’ Epicharis heard him say to the Centurion. Then the two whispered together, and after a while the men carried the poor woman into the bath-room. Epicharis was not allowed to go with her; but she heard that she was suffocated with the hot steam, and that, as far as any one knew, she never came to herself again. That, anyhow, is something to be thankful for.”