“Just at this moment the nurse who had been attending on my mistress came into the room carrying two babies, one on each arm. Her face was wreathed in smiles, and she was so full of her own importanceas such women, I have observed, are wont to bethat she did not see what a state my master was in. ‘Thank the gods, sir,’ she said, ‘who have given you two most beautiful daughters.’‘Curse them!’ he began. By chance one of the children began to cry at the very moment, and the woman did not hear what he said. By the time she had quieted the baby he had recovered himself. He kissed the children, and went up to see his wife as soon as he was allowed to do so.
[164] “Some days afterwards my mistress became very ill. Fever showed itself, and she became delirious. The children had to be taken from her, and brought up by a nurse. I think my master was getting reconciled to his disappointment, when, as bad luck would have it, he heard of another loss. This time it was his wife’s brother had failed. He farmed some of the taxes of the province, and my master had become security for him. I heard him say to himself when he had read the letter that told him about it, ‘This family will be my ruin.’
“That night, after I had been asleep about an hour, he woke me up. He looked very wild. I think his losses had half-crazed him. He was carrying a cradle, and the two babies were in it, lying head to feet, and sound asleep. ‘Geta,’ he said, ‘these children will be my ruin. If they were boys, nowbut how can a beggar like me keep two girls? You must put them out on the hill.’‘O master!’ I said, ‘not these beautiful babies!’‘It is better than strangling them,’ he said.
“Well, I had scarcely a moment to think what was to be done. He looked as if he might do the poor things a mischief, so I made up my mind. ‘Very well, master,’ I said, ‘it shall be done.’‘Their mother,’ he said, ‘knows nothing; per- [165] haps never will know. Take them, and do it at once.’ I got up and went out with the children. It was a stormy night, and raining in torrents. I was at my wits’ end. Then a thought occurred to me. I had a sister, a nurse, living in the town; perhaps she might help me. I took the babies to her house, and told her the whole story.
” ‘You have come in time,’ she said; ‘I know of a home for the dear little beauties. It is with one of the best couples in the world, but the gods have not given them any children.’‘So be it,’ I said; ‘but you must swear that you will never tell where they came from.’ So she took an oath, and I left them there. But I did not dare to go back to my master. I ran away, leaving my hat and shoes on the river-side, to make people think that I had been drowned. I made my way to a village in Phrygia, and took up a shepherd’s business, in which I had had some experience when I was young. There I was when this young lawyer found me.”
“And now tell us your master’s name,” said the Governor.
The whole audience listened in breathless silence for his answer.
“My master’s name was Lucilius.”
A LETTER FROM TRAJAN
[166] “IS this man Lucilius in court?” asked the Governor of one of the officials.
“I saw him this morning, my lord,” said the person addressed.
“Crier, call Lucilius.”
The crier called the name, but there was no answer. The wretched man had listened to the evidence of the slave with growing apprehension, which was soon changed into dismay. At first, indeed, he had wholly failed to recognise the man. The lapse of twenty years and more had of course made a great change in Geta’s appearance. The old shepherd, tanned to an almost African hue by exposure to wind and sun, with his grizzled beard and moustache, and long, unkempt locks falling over his shoulders, and his roughly made garments of skin, was as different a figure as possible from the neat, well-dressed, confidential servant [167] whom Lucilius had known in time past. Still, some vague indication of the voice, as soon as the man began to speak, had troubled him; and of course little room had been left to him for doubt as soon as the man began to tell his story.
Lucilius was not so heartless but that he had often thought with regret of the two beautiful girl babies whom he had put out to die. The crime was indeed far too common in the ancient world to rouse the horror which it now excites. Indeed, it was a recognised practice. The fate of a new-born child was not considered to be fixed till the father by taking it up in his arms had signified his wish that it should be reared.
Still, the remembrance of that night’s deed had troubled him. Prosperous days had soon come, and the losses which had infuriated him had been repaired. Then the grief of his wife, whom he loved with all the affection of which his nature was capable, had much troubled him. As a mere matter of domestic peace, her mourning for her lost darlingsthough, as we shall see, she did not know of their actual fatehad destroyed all the comfort of his home. And for some years his home was childless. When, after an interval, a son was born, and the mother forgot something of her grief in the care which she lavished upon him, the father was stricken by a new fearwhat if [168] this child should be taken from him by way of retribution for the hard-heartedness with which he had treated his first-born? Every ailment of infancy and childhood had made him terribly anxious ; and he watched over the boy who was to carry out his ambitions with an apprehension which conscience never allowed him to set free.
As the lad grew up these fears had fallen into the background. But we have seen how they had of late been revived, and, it seemed, justified. The shepherd’s story made them more intense than ever, while it added a new horror. It was a hideous thought that he should have helped to doom his own daughters to torture and death; and he saw what would be the end when his son should know of it. The wretched man waited in court till he had heard enough to banish all doubt from his mind, and then hurried home, half expecting as he came near the house to hear the lamentations for the newly dead.
As a matter of fact, no change had taken place in the condition of the invalid. He had woke two or three times since the departure of Cleone, but never so thoroughly as to become aware of her absence. He had taken mechanically from his mother’s hand the nourishment offered him, and had almost instantly fallen asleep. The physician had just paid his morning visit, and [169] was more hopeful. For the present at least the lad was doing well. But when the explanation had to be made, that was another matter altogether.
Lucilius entered the sick boy’s chamber with a silent step. His wife took no notice of his coming; but when he stood fronting her on the opposite side of the bed, and she could not help seeing his face, her woman’s heart was touched by its inexpressible misery. She went round to his side, and laid her hand with a caressing gesture on his arm.
“What ails you, my husband?” she said. “Our darling, I hope, is doing well. The good Dioscorides speaks well of him.”
He made no answer, but, falling on his knees beside the bed, buried his face in the coverlet. She could see his body shaken with silent and tearless sobs. At last he managed to articulate: “Call Manto”Manto was an old and trustworthy servant who had been long a member of the household“and let her watch for a while. I have something to tell you.”
When Manto had obeyed the summons, Lucilius, who seemed to have become almost helpless, was led by his wife into an adjoining chamber.
Then, in a voice broken by sobs and tears, he told the miserable story.
[170] He had scarcely finished when an official arrived from the Governor’s court, bringing a summons for his attendance.
The wretched man rose from his seat as if to obey. But the limit of his strength and endurance had been reached, and he fell swooning upon the floor. Before long he was restored to partial consciousness; but it was evident that his attendance at the court was out of the question. In fact, he was suffering from a slight shock of paralysis.