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From A Roman Reporter, by Arthur Aikin Brodribb, London: The Society for The Promotion of Christian Knowledge, New York: E. & J. B. Young & Co.; [c. 1893], pp. 59-74.

A ROMAN REPORTER

by A. A. Brodribb.

CHAPTER  IV.

AUDENTIUS was greatly alarmed when he heard that Florus had accompanied Cassianus to Ravenna, and his fears were only intensified when a letter reached Priscilla in which he spoke of Florus as his friend and counsellor. Remembering Florus’s threats and evident ill-will towards his tutor, Gaudentius was sure that in one way or another Florus meant mischief, though it was hard to conjecture the injury that he might be able to do. Ever since Priscilla’s arrival Gaudentius had been longing to escape from her sweet presence, for what could be more distressing to a young man of honour than untold and necessarily unrequited love? It was now clear that duty called him to 60 Ravenna, and he determined to start at once, alleging that Cassianus would probably want his professional assistance. His mother Fausta, the only one of the family who guessed his real motives, was ready enough to encourage his departure, so that twenty very good reasons for it were speedily forthcoming. The mules that had served Cassianus the week before were again requisitioned; Priscilla tearfully entrusted to the young man two letters, one to her father, and one to her lover; and at Ursula’s suggestion he took with him a cage containing half a dozen carrier pigeons, untried birds, but expected to return faithfully to their home at the farm. Every few hours the pigeon house was to be visited, and Ursula was to look for the little scroll of parchment that would be found rolled up in a quill and tied under the wing of the returned wanderer. Their only regret was that the little postmen could travel only in the direction of their home.

While Gaudentius is on his journey, and the mules are discreetly picking their way along the rough by-roads, we may peep into the mail-bags, 61 and, ignoring Priscilla’s letter to her father, which was a somewhat commonplace expression of maidenly hopes and fear, we may see what she had written to her centurion.

“I am grieved, my Marcellinus, by the thought that while I am safe and free among my friends, you are in prison, perhaps even in bonds, among enemies. You know that there is no trial that I would not gladly endure if any sufferings of mine could release you. But I am perplexed, and know not what to do or what to advise. I hope and pray for you, not forgetting that, even as the Lord has ever been present in spirit with those who call upon him in time of trouble, so will he be your help and guide and counsel. And with what offence are you charged? If it be against the army, would not submission procure your release, so that, when the end of your service comes, that happy day may set you free for ever? But if it be against their gods, then I know well that Marcellinus will play the man before his accusers, deeming their anger of no account in comparison with heavenly things. And your Priscilla will wait, wait patiently, till, 62 in God’s own time, her true love is restored to her. I hope, I fear, I tremble for the event, and long to know the worst. May the Lord be with you in this, as in former dangers. Gaudentius, my father’s pupil, brings this letter, and may be trusted in all matters. Farewell.”

Such was Priscilla’s letter to her lover, written amidst prayers and tears and doubts, but with as much self-control and reticence as she could summon up. She was, herself, too proud to bid him humble himself, and indeed she knew that such advice, even for her sake, would be ineffectual. Had she known that his very life was at stake, her agony of mind would have been unendurable; but her father, though not clever at dissimulation, had carefully given her no hint of the actual peril.

“Gaudentius!” exclaimed Cassianus, as the young man entered his friend’s lodgings, “what brings you here? What news of the farm, and how is she?”

“She is well,” returned Gaudentius, for whom, as well as for Cassianus, there was but one woman in existence. “She is well, and sends 63 these letters; and several things have brought me here as to which I must speak with you in private.”

“Does she know ——”

“Not a word of the real danger, else she would indeed be miserable. But before I speak, read your letter.”

“Pooh,” said Cassianus, breaking the silk thread that fastened the scroll and glancing at Priscilla’s note; “there is nothing very exciting here. She hopes I am well — um — hopes Marcellinus will escape from his troubles — um — and that the Judge will be just — um — I’m afraid he will; and that we shall do all we can to save him — um — of course we shall. Well, that is no news, and no news is good news as far as it goes, eh? — but it does not go very far. But, my dear fellow, I have had an ally since I have been here, a new ally, “quod minime reris,” as they say in the Senate — from an unexpected quarter, n fact; and a very useful ally he has been already.”

“You mean Florus?”

“Yes, Florus; my dear, stupid, idle, good-for-nothing 64 Florus. I do not know how he heard of our trouble, but just as I was leaving Imola he stopped me and offered to come with me in order to make interest with the new Judge, who is his uncle, it seems. So he jumped up into the gig, and we came here together, and a very good fellow he is, after all. I was never so mistaken in a young man in my life. You Christians, you see, are not the only people who return good for evil.”

Gaudentius was silent, hardly knowing what to say about this new and surprising friendship. “And Marcellinus?” he inquired, at length.

“Ah,” said Cassianus, sadly; “the man himself is our great difficulty. As firm as a rock, and as obstinate as a mule. It is very noble of him, of course, but he will not give way an inch, and I verily believe he will be condemned in spite of all that can be said and done. The worst of it is that he knows what will happen, and does not seem to care. For my own part, I should have called it selfishness; but there, I do not pretend to understand your Christian virtues.”

Cassianus got up, and marched indignantly about the room, as he always did when he was vexed. “Pulveris exigui jactu,” he kept on repeating at every turn, now declaiming the phrase like an orator, and now scornfully muttering it to himself. Gaudentius was puzzled. “What of the pulvis exiguus?” he asked. “Ah,” returned Cassianus, testily, “that is just it. It is the least little pinch of dust, the least morsel of incense, that nothing will induce him to offer. Obstinacy! That is not the word for it. It is madness, sheer madness.”

“But is he really and truly in danger of death?”

“Of course he is. Do not I tell you so? If this new Judge, Numerius, does not save him, he will do nothing to save himself. He has flatly refused to employ counsel, and says he will speak for himself. I fear he will be a very damaging orator, for not a word of advice would he listen to when I saw him this morning.”

“And Florus is Numerius’s nephew?” observed 66 Gaudentius, musing. “What can he do for you? Judges are not wont to hear private representations.”

“I know; and Florus knows that too; but he has gone to work, he tells me, delicately, obliquely, and diplomatically, with hints, and suggestions, and insinuations, that have more effect on the Judge’s mind than the judge himself is aware of. Florus is half Greek, you know, and the Greeks are always so clever.”

“Yet you always called him a fool.”

“Oh, only as regards shorthand, and I must not do that again. In other things he is very clever and helpful, and he shall find me grateful enough if ever we pull through this business.”

“Then you are not afraid of ‘Greek gifts’?”

“Not from my friends; certainly not.”

“And you reckon Florus among your friends?”

“Assuredly. Who but a friend would have offered his interest with the Judge? Who but a friend would have voluntarily endured that horrible jolting road from Imola?”

“There is just one other person would have done all this, and more,” said Gaudentius, coolly; “an enemy.”

“What do you mean?” asked Cassianus, staring.

“I mean,” said Gaudentius, speaking earnestly and energetically, “that I much doubt these benevolent intentions and friendly professions. It was only the other day that I myself heard Florus express himself very differently. I have always noticed his sullen rage and anger whenever you have found fault with him, and I believe he never forgets or forgives. For my part, I distrust him altogether. Remember, he is half Greek, as you said just now.”

“I cannot think you are right,” replied Cassianus, after a pause. “He has been angry, I dare say ≬ very angry sometimes — when I have spoken roughly to him as I often have; but that is natural enough. Why, I have sometimes seen the whole class in a rage, and really I myself occasionally find it difficult to keep cool.”

Gaudentius could not avoid a smile, knowing 68 how extremely passionate Cassianus often was.

“But as for Florus,” continued the old man, “though I will not say that I liked him before, he was obviously candid and sincere when he offered his help. There was such an air of transparent honesty about him that it was impossible not to trust him. Besides, he really has been most friendly in speaking to his uncle about the case.”

“Well, but how do you know that?”

“Ah — um — he told me so himself,” said Cassianus, still upholding his friend, “and I cannot very well go to Numerius and cross-examine him.”

“Quite so. He told you so himself!”

“My dear Gaudentius,” returned the other, trying hard not to seem nettled, “you are getting absurd, I cannot conceive what ground you have for your suspicions. Just because a young fellow utters an angry word or two against his tutor, you ump to the conclusion that he is capable of any villainy. It is not in human nature to be so base. If you suspect every one you meet in that 69 manner, you only show your ignorance of the world. A man may lose his temper now and then, and say hasty things, without being an absolute criminal.”

“No doubt. I only mean that my suspicions rest on what my own ears heard him say.”

“Some silly remark about my red face, I suppose.”

“No. It was a good deal more serious. It was a threat.”

“Threatened men live long. I shall not attach any importance to it; but it was impudent of the lad, distinctly impudent. However, let bygones be bygones; he cannot do any harm, and perhaps he may do a great deal of good. When you see him this evening you will have a better opinion of him.”

“I hope so,” said Gaudentius, who cordially disliked Florus and regretted the necessity of meeting him. Nothing that Cassianus had said had shaken his opinion, and he made up his mind to watch, and if possible, to strike hard, at the first proof of treachery.

Surely his ears had deceived him the other 70 day, and it was not Florus, but some other young man, whose insolence he had punished on the road to the farm? No one could have been easier or less embarrassed than Florus when he made his appearance that evening. His manner towards Gaudentius might naturally have shown resentment, but of that there was no trace, and he greeted him with the air of an old friend. He spoke most feelingly of Marcellinus, lamented this own want of influence, but hinted that his conversation with his uncle had not been wholly in vain; politely inquired as to Gaudentius’s family, and their fair visitor, and appeared to be much interested in the cage of carrier pigeons. But he overdid these amenities, and Gaudentius was more certain than ever that he was lying and acting a part. He looked for the bruise on Florus’s forehead, but saw none. Was he dreaming them, when he thought of Florus’s character, his constant foul language, his disgraceful escapades at Imola, his revengeful threats towards Cassianus, and his vile reference to Lais only a few days ago? No; it was all real enough. No such dreams come through either 71 of the gates of sleep. He looked at Florus’s smiling, tranquil, insincere face, and read nothing but falsehood in it. And Florus was half Greek. Yes, Greek on his mother’s side, no doubt, and on the other side sprung from the father of lies. “Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?”

“I shall never trust that men,” remarked Gaudentius, when Florus was gone; “and I wish he had never come here.” Cassianus looked grave, but refused to admit the justice of the suspicion. He was no judge of character, and, while Gaudentius read Florus’s countenance like an open book, to Cassianus the young man seemed only to have a foolish face, and a good heart. No great results, perhaps, were to be expected from Florus’s good offices, considering the known high character of the Judge; but, on the other hand, it followed that, even if Florus wished to injure him, he could not do much harm. The case was too serious, in his opinion, to be affected either way by such intervention. Unhappily, he did not know how determined Florus was to avenge the sneers, sharp words, 72 and insults that had sunk deep into his sensitive and vindictive nature; nor had he ever heard of the still less pardonable affront that had been inflicted by his own daughter. That was Priscilla’s secret, and she had never been able to tell her father of a certain chance interview with Florus in the garden, on which occasion he had suddenly declared his passion in so absurd and highflown a manner that the girl had laughed at him from sheer gaiety of heart, and had run away merrily and unceremoniously, slamming the garden door behind her. Priscilla, soon afterwards betrothed to Marcellinus, thought no more of the incident, but Florus angrily remembered how his pretensions had been ridiculed, and nursed his wrath. On the whole, he was a very ill-used person, and the only question was as to the best means of revenge. He had come to Ravenna with no definite schemes, but in the hope that chance would somehow assist his malevolence — a hope that did not seem very near fulfilment just at present. Marcellinus might very possibly be condemned, but the Judge would refuse to 73 hear any further calumnies; and, after all, Marcellinus was not Cassianus, the man whom he most desired to injure. And now Gaudentius had arrived, and might prove an obstacle; for even though he suspected nothing as yet, he was hostile, evidently hostile, notwithstanding the smooth words that passed between them in Cassianus’s presence.

In this frame of mind Florus betook himself to his bosom friend and fellow student Lycas, who, finding Imola dull, had followed him to Ravenna and was now enjoying such gaieties as the garrison town afforded. In the course of a few months, Florus had easily acquired an ascendency over Lycas, so that the latter soon equalled him in profligacy, and became his friend, his confidant, and his instrument. It was on the strength of money lent by Florus that Lycas was at this moment disporting himself and seeing life — seeing it, that is, in its most disreputable aspects. On this particular evening, however, Lycas was scarcely in a condition either to give counsel or to receive it. Florus reproached him for his insobriety, but Lycas, with the genial 74 imperturbability of a drunken man, assured him that he was never more clearheaded in his life. He professed himself instantly ready to encounter and annihilate Gaudentius, Cassianus, or Marcellinus, as the case might be, any or all of them, and then fell into a short sleep. Florus finished his friend’s wine, and when it was all gone woke him with an angry kick.

“Pigeons?” exclaimed Lycas, suddenly sitting bolt upright, and staring stupidly at Florus; “did you say something about pigeons?”

“Well?”

“Pigeons, carrier pigeons; take letters; the very thing for you; all as easy as possible.” And with this oracular remark he fell back upon the couch, where Florus judged it best to leave him. Before long it dawned upon Florus that his drunken friend had made a really admirable suggestion.

Next:

CHAPTER  V.

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