glow with other suns?
What banished man whose fate is such
He fain would shun himself?
‘Grim, cankering care climbs up the brazened ships,
And swifter than the stag,
Or eastern wind which sweeps
The storms and rattling rain,
It leaveth not the bands of horsemen
Trooping o’er the plain.
‘Be happy for the day,
And hate to think on what may follow!
Tempering all bitterness
With an easy laugh;
For no such happiness there is
As knows no sorrow.
‘Swift death bore off Achilles, and old age
Hath shrunk Tithonus —
Time, mayhap, will give to me
That which it denies to thee.’
This foreign rendering can give only a faint idea of the effect which Apicius produced upon his hearers, by the beauty of his elocution, in his native tongue; for it was given in a voice of singular, pathetic melancholy. The hot burning tears dropped silently from the down-turned face of Martialis. Then, for a brief moment, he raised his swimming eyes toward his friend. All that was purest and noblest in his nature struggled with those welling drops, from beneath the load of a careless, misguided life, and beautified his weary face. The voices of the others were raised in entreaties and arguments, and even Torquatus summoned a snarling joke. But Apicius was firm, and only shook his head.
‘Think not that I go heedlessly,’ said he; ‘we have passed many delightful hours together. Although I shall henceforth be absent, I would not have my memory altogether die amongst you. I have, therefore, to ask each of you to accept of a slight memorial which may, at various times, as I hope, recall something of Apicius and his days.’
‘But you tell us not where you go,’ murmured Martialis once more.
‘Patience, Caius – you shall know; it is within easy reach, on an easy road.’
Martialis made a gesture of pleasure, and Apicius gave a sign to his butler. On a sideboard stood a row of nine objects of nearly equal height, entirely draped and hidden by white gold-fringed napkins thrown over them. They were curious and unusual, and had, many times, already, excited the inward curiosity of the company.
The slave advanced to these and carefully took the first. At a nod from his master he placed it before Martialis, on the table, with the snowy white napkin still hiding whatever was beneath. The next was placed before Sejanus. The others before Charinus, Flaccus, Torquatus, Pansa, Afer, and Zoilus in rotation. One was left. Apicius pointed to his own place. The slave put it down before him, and the table was ranged round with these mysterious white-robed objects.
‘Friends,’ said Apicius calmly, ‘beneath those covers you will find the presents which I give to you in token of our fellowship. I have striven to the best of my ability to render them suitable and useful to their owners. Look at them and accept of them, I pray.’
They all, with more or less eagerness, lifted the napkins from their allotted gifts and sat gazing thereat, at Apicius, and each other with mingled expressions of ill-suppressed anger, mortification, and disappointment. The napkin before Apicius was still untouched, and he received the rancorous glances which were shot towards him, with a calm, scornful expression.
Before Sejanus was a small representation of a lictor’s fasces, a miniature axe bound up in a bundle of twigs; but in addition to the axe was the model of an iron hook, such as was used to drag the bodies of traitors and malefactors down the Gemonian steps into the Tiber.
The cheek of the conspirator flushed, and from beneath his gathering brows he flashed a look as dangerous and dark as a thundercloud.
‘Be not offended, Prefect,’ said Apicius; ‘I act as a true friend who fears not the truth, and not as a parasite, who bestows nothing but what may prove pleasant to the ear.’
His cold, mocking tone belied his words, and, ere he finished, Zoilus, with a face purple with rage and fury, had jumped from his seat and dashed the article he had uncovered to the floor. It was a small figure of a negro, carved in ebony, having its nakedness barely draped in a ludicrous fashion with a little cloak of figured silk.
‘What!’ cried Apicius jibingly; ‘displeased with the image of your grandfather?’
But Zoilus, speechless and shuddering with his boiling feelings, rushed from the room with his slaves. He was followed by a titter, which the biting satire of the proceeding even wrung from the offended natures of the others.
Torquatus sat scowling before a small stand, on which was placed a common wooden platter having a copper coin in the centre. Pansa evinced his disgust of a similar stand bearing a diminutive cup of silver. The figure of a very ancient goat on its hind legs, having a garland of roses around its horns, caused Flaccus to fume and fret immoderately. Afer smiled scornfully upon a miniature gilded weather-vane; whilst a mirror, upheld by an Apollo, with an averted face, was regarded by Charinus with ineffable disdain.
Thus had Apicius amused his invention. A small bronze casket was deemed sufficient for Martialis. It was unpretentious in its outward appearance; but a fast-locked box ever provokes curiosity.
‘Lift it, Martialis!’ snapped Torquatus derisively, ‘and see whether it be filled with iron, or chaff, or what is lighter still – emptiness.’
‘There is the key, my Caius,’ said Apicius, in answer, drawing the article from his breast and handing it to his friend. ‘Before you leave the house you shall use it – at present, sad necessity must deprive any one of the pleasure of seeing what the box contains. Dear friends,’ he added, turning his eyes upon them, ‘I grieve that my trifling tributes should not, by appearances, have pleased you. Had I been less truthful and more liberal, probably you would have overwhelmed me with gratitude. At least I have ever found it thus. There is little more to add save farewell – Caius, give me thy hand.’
The hand was extended and grasped fervently by Apicius, who then lifted the napkin before him. A richly chased gold cup, studded with jewels, was exposed, gorgeous and glowing, to the expectant gaze of all. The eyes of Torquatus, Flaccus, and Pansa kindled. Sejanus still sat motionless, with a cloud resting on his pale, immobile face. The sad brooding eyes of Martialis showed no change.
‘That is my father’s cup,’ continued Apicius; ‘Martialis, thou wilt preserve it – it is too rich for my future needs of simplicity. I will drink to the future welfare of you all. May the gods send you plentiful pastures of liberal purses and groaning tables; and may ye die the death of noble, virtuous, uncovetous men. Listen, dear friends,’ he said, with a bitterly scornful emphasis of the adjective, ‘I have lived to the age of forty years. With your help and the help of others I have spent of my patrimony sixty-four thousand sestertia.’2
A movement of sensation passed round the couches at this calm statement of such enormous extravagance.
‘In the process I have discovered how rarely the immortals make true friends, and how idle it is to try and gain them with the glitter of gold alone. I have met with but one in my career who has followed me for love – Caius, true friend, may the gods repay you, for Apicius cannot.’ He raised the goblet in his hand; it was partly filled with wine. Looking round the company, while he poised the flashing cup, he said: ‘Vultures, I have done. I have had my pleasure – I have spent my patrimony – what is left I give to thee, Caius – that casket will vouch for it. I want it not; it is not worth living on for. Vale!’
He emptied the cup at a draught, threw it from him on to the table, and then proceeded to sink back to his former position on the cushions. Ere he reached them, the smile on his lip became suddenly contorted into a horrible grimace. The pallor of his face changed to a ghastly lividness. His body and limbs gave a spasmodic twist of agony,