Domitia. Baring-Gould Sabine
and where is Eboracus. They are always together. He spoils the child, and she pays him too much consideration. Where are they?”
The slaves, male and female, looked perplexedly in every direction.
“Perhaps,” said Plancus, “she has gone to the altar of Poseidon to offer there thanks for the return of her father.”
“Poseidon, nonsense! That is not her way. She has been in a fever ever since the vessel has been sighted, her cheeks flaming and in a fidget as if covered with flying ants. Find the girl. If any harm shall have come to her through your neglect, I will have you all flayed – and hang the cost!”
She plucked a bodkin from her dress, and ran it into the shoulder of the slave-woman, Favonia, who stood near her, and made her cry out with pain.
“You are a parcel of idle, empty-headed fools,” exclaimed the alarmed and irritated mother, “I will have the child found, and that instantly. You girls, you have been gaping, watching the sailors, and have not had an eye on your young mistress, and no concern for my feelings. There is no more putting anything into your heads than of filling the sieves of the Danaides.”
“Madam,” said Plancus, for once without a smile on his unctuous face, “you may rest satisfied that no harm has befallen the young lady. So long as Eboracus is with her, she is safe. That Briton worships her. He would suffer himself to be torn limb from limb rather than allow the least ill to come to her.”
“Well, well,” said the lady impatiently, “we expect all that sort of thing of our slaves.”
“Madam, but do we always get it?”
“We! The Gods save me! How you talk. We! We, indeed. Pray what are you to expect anything?”
“The other day, lady,” hastily continued the steward eager to allay the ebullition he had provoked. “The other day, Eboracus nigh on killed a man who looked with an insolent leer at his young mistress. He is like a faithful Molossus.”
“I do not ask what he is like,” retorted the still ruffled lady, “I ask where she is.”
Then one of the porters of the palanquin came forward respectfully and said to the steward: – “If it may please you, sir, will you graciously report to my Lady that I observed the young mistress draw Eboracus aside, and whisper to him, as though urging somewhat, and he seemed to demur, but he finally appeared to yield to her persuasions, and they strolled together along the mole.”
Longa Duilia overheard this. It was not the etiquette for an underling to address his master or mistress directly unless spoken to.
She said sharply: – “Why did not the fellow mention this before? Give him thirty lashes. Where did they go, did he say?”
“Along the mole.”
“Which mole?”
“Madam, Carpentarius is afraid of extending his communication lest he increase the number of his lashes.”
“Well, well!” exclaimed the mistress, “We may remit the lashes – let him answer.”
“Carpentarius,” said the steward, “Her ladyship, out of the superabundance of her compassion, will let you off the thirty lashes, if you say where be Eboracus and the young lady, your mistress Domitia Longina.”
“Sir,” answered the porter, “that I cannot answer positively; but – unless my eyes deceive me, I see a small boat on the water, within it a rower and a young girl.”
“By the Immortal Brothers! he is right,” exclaimed Plancus. “See, lady, yonder is a cockle boat, that has been unmoored from the mole, and there be in it a rower, burly, broadbacked, who is certainly the Briton, and in the bow is as it were a silver dove – and that can be none other than your daughter.”
“As the Gods love me,” gasped Duilia, throwing herself back in the litter; “what indelicacy! It is even so, the child is besotted. She dotes on her father, whom she has not seen since we left Antioch. And she has actually gone to meet him. O Venus Kalypyge! What are we coming to, when children act in this independent, indecent manner. O Times! O Morals!”
CHAPTER II.
AN ILL-OMEN
It was even so.
The young girl had coaxed the big Briton to take her in a boat to the galley, so as to meet and embrace her father, before he came on shore.
She was a peculiarly affectionate child, and jealous to boot. She knew that, so soon as he landed, his whole attention would be engrossed by her very exacting mother, who moreover would keep her in the background, and would chide should the father divert his notice from herself to his child.
She was therefore determined to be the first to salute him, and to receive his endearments, and to lavish on him her affection, unchecked by her mother.
As for the slave, he knew that he would get into trouble if he complied with the girl’s request, but he was unable to resist her blandishments.
And now Domitia reached the side of the galley, and a rope was cast to the boat, caught by Eboracus, who shipped his oars, and the little skiff was made fast to the side of the vessel.
The eyes of the father had already recognized his child. Domitia stood in the bows and extended her arms, poised on tiptoe, as if, like a bird about to leap into the air and fly to his embrace.
And now he caught her hand, looked into her dancing, twinkling eyes, as drops of the very Ægean itself, set in her sweet face, and in another moment she was clinging round his neck, and sobbing as though her heart would break, yet not with sorrow, but through excess of otherwise inexpressible joy.
For an hour she had him to herself – all to herself – the dear father whom she had not seen for half a year, to tell him how she loved him, to hear about himself, to pour into his ear her story of pleasures and pains, great pleasures and trifling pains.
And yet – no, not wholly uninterrupted was the meeting and sweet converse, for the father said:
“My darling, hast thou no word for Lucius?”
“Lamia! He is here?”
The father, Cnæus Domitius Corbulo, with a smile turned and beckoned.
Then a young man, with pleasant, frank face, came up. He had remained at a distance, when father and daughter met, but had been unable to withdraw his eyes from the happy group.
“Domitia, you have not forgotten your old playmate, have you?”
With a light blush like the tint on the petal of the rose of June, the girl extended her hand.
“Nay, nay!” said Corbulo. “A gentler, kinder greeting, after so long a separation.”
Then she held up her modest cheek, and the young man lightly touched it with his lips.
She drew herself away and said:
“You will not be angry if I give all my thoughts and words and looks to my father now. When we come on shore, he will be swallowed up by others.”
Lamia stepped back.
“Do not be offended,” she said with a smile, and the loveliest, most bewitching dimples came into her cheeks. “I have not indeed been without thought of you, Lucius, but have spun and spun and weaved too, enough to make you a tunic, all with my own hands, and a purple clavus– it nigh ruined me, the dyed Tyrian wool cost1– I will not say; but I wove little crossed L’s into the texture.”
“What,” said Corbulo. “For Lucius and Longina?”
The girl became crimson.
Lamia came to her succor. “That could not be,” said he, “for Longina and Lucius are never across, but alack! Lucius is often so with Lamia, when he has done some stupid thing and he sees a frown on his all but father’s face, but hears no word of reproach.”
“My boy,” said Corbulo, “when a man
Double-dyed Tyrian wool cost over £40 in English money per lb.