Claudia

Front matter

by

Mrs. Fredrick Prideaux.

"It is old and plain." "It is old and plain"Twelfth Night.

Part I

The unrelenting summer sun of Rome Poured from the zenith,—not a line of shade Edged the white streets,—when Brân, a British prince, The son of Llyr, the sire of Caradoc, Sat wrapped in sadness at Narcissus' gate: Narcissus, freedman and chief favourite Of Claudius Cæsar. For when Llyr, the king Of the fierce tribe that held the Cymric coast North of the tawny channel which receives The rivers of the west, had passed away, His son, the patient, many-thoughted Brân,

Searching his spirit, could not find the skill To rule their turbulence in times of war. Though brave like all his sires, the noble prince Was minded otherwise. He could not hear The trumpets of ambition: they were drowned By a still voice which drew him from the midst Of evil men, to stand above the world And wait the dawning of a better day. Wherefore, withdrawing from the sovereignty, He left it in the hands of Caradoc, His younger son; the elder prince had fallen In Llyr's last battle with the Roman power, Led on by Aulus Plantius. For himself, He passed, a willing exile, from the court Of grey Trefrân; and crossed the tawny sea, The Summer-country, and the Deep-valed Land; And paused not, save for needful rest and food, Till in the centre of the granite horn That pierces far into the unknown seas He found the solitude his soul desired And grew alive again. But Caradoc, Whose giant heart sent out a pulse which throbbed On to the farthest limits of his sway,

Aroused the fierce Silures, and reknit The old alliance with the North and West, Till as one man the Cymric sovereignties Rose on the rash invaders of the world, And thrust them eastward from the Sabren's brink, And for nine glorious years with desperate arms Held them at bay. But as stern winter treads Close on the heels of autumn, flushed and full, So did disaster follow victory. Ere the ninth year had closed, Ostorius,— Whose firmer hand now led the alien powers, While Plautius in ovation entered Rome,— Vanquished the dwindled forces of the king, Who, trusting in a traitress, was betrayed, And sent a trophy to imperial Rome. A splendid gem set round with precious stones, His queen, his brothers, and his only child. Then all the pageant-loving city thronged About his steps, eager to feast their eyes Upon this marvellous barbarian, Who for a half-score of astonished years Defied the arms that had defied the world. And now the vast procession wound along The shouting streets to where, without the walls,

The sun flashed hotly on the glittering arms Of the pretorian bands that lined the fields, And clustered thickly round the imperial thrones Of Agrippina and of Claudius. First came the followers of the captive king, Dejected and ashamed; and with them, borne On polished cars, the trophies of his wars: Rich golden torques and amber necklaces Won in a hundred fights. Then as these passed, The noisy rapture, rending all the air, Swept on from street to street, but followed still By awe-struck murmurs: for behind the cars The royal captives dragged their weary limbs, Heavy with gilded chains: and last of all, With eye unquenched and an unfettered air That mocked his bonds, came Caradoc the king. Now when they reached the throne of Claudius All but the king debased themselves to kneel In shameful supplication for their lives. But as for him, he stood erect and spoke Kingly and soldierly, as speaks a man Unto his fellow: lifting all the while His hand in fitting cadence to his words As easily as if the ponderous chain

Were a light wreath. Then his majestic air,— His words of unadorned, unboastful truth,— Went to such heart as Cæsar still possessed: So that a spark of nobleness revived Within him; and much marvelling to himself What this might mean, but conscious of a sense Of unaccustomed light and warmth, resigned His soul to the strange pleasure, and decreed Life and free pardon to the king, his queen, His princely brothers; and his only child, Eirgen, the gold-bright princess. So they dwelt As prisoners in a house assigned to them, A splendid palace on the Palatine, Or what seemed such to unaccustomed eyes. And though the tooth of secret anguish gnawed The heart of Caradoc, he bore his pangs In silence; while his feebler kindred sank Beneath their smaller griefs and filled the halls With loud laments. And he and all his kin, He in stern silence, they with loud laments, He with a drowning sense of vaster woes, They cooped in narrow thoughts of narrow things, Pined in that glowing city of the South

For Britain's mist-wreathed hills and varied skies; Though lodged and served right nobly, as became Such noble captives, pined for liberty; Pined for the freedom of the rustic court Held by Silurian kings in grey Trefrân, Beside Dunraven's wood-entufted hill. Now when the tidings of that dark defeat And darker treachery reached the ears of Brân, Far in the bleak wilds of the granite horn, They shook him to the centre. He arose And, nerved to action by the sudden stress, Disguised his princely aspect in the weeds Of a poor mendicant; then, staff in hand, Retraced his steps across the Land of Vales, The garden of the west; and crossed once more The Summer-country and the tawny sea. So after weary days that grew to weeks Before the toilsome pilgrimage was done, Came to the silent halls of grey Trefrân. There lost in tearless grief he paced along The grass-grown roadway to the ruined gate, Once all alive with loyal multitudes. And thence through desolate spaces, wherein once The noblest druids, bards, and warriors

Met in high council round their nobler king. He wandered on, still lost in tearless grief. So through the banquet-hall, where oftentimes The noise of feast and dance and merriment Had made the walls and roof-tree ring again, He passed in tearless grief. But when at length He reached the inner chamber, once the home Where Caradoc the husband, son, and sire Forgot to be a soldier and a king, He bowed his hoary head and wept his fill. But soon the eager thirst of grief for grief Made him uplift his eyes and gaze around On all that was and was not, till at length That pain was slowly quenched with greater pain. Then rose the prince to seek the inland hills, Where dwelt within a secret woodland hut Cadair, his faithful hind, from whom he learned That all was over true; Siluria Lay as a vassal province at the feet Of the world's ruler; Caradoc, betrayed, Was borne in triumph as a thrall to Rome, The hateful city. But it came to pass, As each successive note of misery

Fell on his ears and sank into his heart, He grew the stronger. For his soul, drawn back From her vast wanderings through the confused worlds Of space and speculation, centred home, And mustered all her forces for the field Of actual and inevitable life. Nor many days had passed, or ere, once more In sordid weeds arrayed, he took his way To Venta by the coast, and finding there A vessel bound for Gaul, set sail in her, And through the Gallic forests and flat lands Passed with unflinching foot until he reached The broad Rhodane, whose barges carried him To rich Massilia's many-masted port. Thence rudely tossed on the Tyrrhenian waves, He came to Ostia, and at length to Rome. And clad in all his native dignity, Which like a rich and ample robe of state Concealed the mean and travel-stained attire That hung upon his stately form, he stood In Cæsar's presence and besought of him That Caradoc his heir, the chosen chief Of all the Cymri, might return in peace To Britain, while that he, his sire, remained

In Rome, a hostage for his fealty. And Claudius seemed to listen to his suit With favouring ears; but many vexing forms Hung on the wheels of action, and required Hard proofs of most plain things. Till on a day In the imperial presence sire and son Met without warning; and their mighty love, Like & swollen torrent rising, bore them on Into each other's arms with bursting sobs Of joy and grief that could not be controlled, And so the proof was plain to all the world. Then Cæsar,—thinking thus to pacify The wrathful people of the Western isles, Who held his legions still at bay, or else Out of a mere infirmity of will,— Granted the prince's prayer, or seemed to grant. But the court favourites, greedy for a bribe, Hampered the prince's business; and the king Remained a captive still; and his sire's heart Grew sick with hope deferred from day to day. Thus then it was that Brân, a British prince, The son of Llyr, the sire of Caradoc, Sat wrapped in sadness at Narcissus' gate. And as he waited on the favourite,

Worn out with long delays, and still denied By scornful menials, a stranger passed: An aged man, who pausing near him made Obeisance as the Easterns make and said, "O prince,—for all men know thou art a prince From the far isle of Britain,—I beseech thee Pardon thy servant. All my heart is moved To see thee watch thus patiently in vain, Day after day, year after year, to win An audience of Narcissus. Verily A tythe of all this thankless service paid Unto the King of kings, would purchase thee More fruitful hearing." "Nay, thou knowest not," Brân answered him, full courteously, but yet With just a touch of coldness in the tone; For though most patient of his own disgrace It galled his heart to think his fallen estate Should cast a slur on Britain, being linked E'en by a casual comment with her name. "At my first coming I had audience Of him thou rightly call'st the King of kings, Though such he be not rightfully. Yea more, Cæsar allowed my suit. But none the less

The business lingers, in the greedy hands Of this Narcissus; wherefore I besiege His still reluctant doors." Then said the man, "Pardon! my lord, my words were over-dark And failed to show my meaning. Know, O prince, I spake not of imperial Claudius; But of the Lord of heaven and earth, Who reigns From everlasting on to evermore. In Whose vast hand the kings and emperors Are pliant tools, Whose palace-doors stand wide In every place, Whose kingdom is a home For sorrowing exiles scattered through the world." At that the languid eyelids of the prince Were lifted suddenly, as if the words Had touched a secret in his breast. "Yes, true, I missed thy meaning, friend; yet none the less That meaning was the meaning of my life Until misfortune drove me from the calm Of meditation in the Cymric wilds, And led me to this vile tumultuous place, This seething caldron filled to the hissing brim With cruelty and luxury. Here all thoughts

Save those of indignation and despair Have died within me. Yet how long I watched Those heavenly palace-doors! but never once Did any streak of light show them ajar, Nor any voice reply." "Yet God has heard," Broke in the stranger—"yea, and answered too, Though thou hast thought Him deaf to thy desire. He drew thee from the empty, voiceless wilds, From that close gazing on the inner dark Which burns the aching eye-balls of the soul, But never pierces to the light beyond. His hand has brought thee hither; here, in Rome, His servant waits to lead thee to His feet." He ceased; and Brân was silent for a space As if he gathered up the golden words And told them over. Then he rose from off The clients' sordid bench, girded his robe, Turned from Narcissus' door, and made as though He would have joined the stranger, saying,— He would have joined the stranger, saying, "Friend, 'Tis well a man should know with whom he speaks. Therefore I will not hide that I am Brân, The son of Llyr, the sire of Caradoc,

Fain to become a hostage for my son. Who then art thou?" "My name is Julius," The stranger answered in an altered voice, Saddened by nameless memories and regrets,— "A name of little note or novelty. Born of the Hebrew race in Lydia, But disallowed by all my kin and creed For this strange crime; that when our God vouchsafed To grant us our desire, to hear the prayer Which swelled for ages Judah's yearning heart, I would not slight His gift—no less a gift Than that Deliverer sought by kings and seers, And found at last in Christ of Nazareth. Wherefore, cast out by all, I came to Rome; Where I have dwelt three years. Many are here Of mine own nation, driven as I have been, From kindred, home, and country, for His sake Who bore worse things for ours, O prince, and thine. Others, the sons and daughters of the land, Are joined with us. Some of great houses: more Of the plebeian stock, but most of all Of the disheartened slaves. Among the first Is one of whom thou hast heard in other days,

Pomponia, wife of Aulus Plautius, The general who aforetime held command In Britain, ere the days when Caradoc Rose in his strength." "Yea! yea!" replied the prince, "I have heard men speak of her. A lady wrapt In most mysterious woe, who never changed Her mourning robe, whose hair was white with snow That fell in summer, Some averred her grief Grew from her childless state; but others said That sorrow for a dear friend put to death Because her beauty vexed the wicked eyes Of Messalina, gnawed upon her still. However this might be, thus much was clear,— That she was stricken to the hopeless heart. Yet though so stricken that all the tears she had Seemed but too few for her own misery, She spared full many a precious drop for ours. Many a captive owed his rescued life To her kind pleadings. Many a trembling town Was spared the cruel rifling of the troops At her entreaties. Yet the veterans, Though muttering curses on the general, Had not a threat for her; so sweet, so pure,

Were all her manners towards them." Tis most true," The old man answered, as with laboured breath He overtook the eager-striding prince; Who, stirred as was his custom by the thought Of generous natures and their gentle deeds, Forgot his new companion in the theme. —"Pomponia was all and more than all That thou hast said; and since those days the Lord Has had compassion on her, drawing her Close to Himself; and has moreover blessed her With a fair daughter, born in Britain, one As wise as she is fair; yet no less meek,— O! meeker far! and far more tractable Than softer natures; with a heart at one With God in all things."— So the old man spoke And sighed in speaking, as a father sighs, Who numbers up the lovely qualities Of a dear, dying child. And then he paused, And when he spoke again, his words recurred To the first theme:— "It seems Pomponia's grief Grew from a deeper root than childlessness;

For though less wild and bitter than in days Of heathen gloom, it hangs about her still, And mars perchance the meaning of her life To her impatient lord." "All this I heard By common rumour," said the prince, "and more Was told me by my faithful herdsman's wife, The daughter of a servant of our house; Who, taken captive as a little maid, Had served Pomponia many happy years Within the alien camp, set free by her When she returned to Rome. Estrildis spake Of some new worship, pure and spiritual Beyond all other worships of the world, Which her dear lady practised, and the which Herself had learned to love. A worship paid, By a new life of holy thoughts and deeds And solemn prayers and praises, to one God, Revealed in him of whom thou spak'st anon, Jesus the Christ; but wherefore called the Christ, I know not." Then the other was not slow To answer fittingly, with words that met The faithful witness in the prince's soul,

And ended thus:— "This faith whereof I speak Is no new thing, but eldest born of all: The truth whereof the rest are counterfeits. These base their shadowy fabrics on the sands, The shifting conscience of the varying race, Whereon arise, to glitter for a day, Frail shrines of worship paid to fancied powers: Shrines open only to a favoured few. This, like a city founded on a rock,— The home of generations passed away, The home of generations yet to come,— Rests on the deep foundations of the past, The solid substance of the storied years That slowly settle from the thoughts of God. And in her temple-courts and round about Her fragrant altars, all the tribes of men;— The Greek, the Jew; the unshorn, the civilized; The bond, the free; the simple, and the sage;— Are welcome; and her choicest mysteries She opens to the meekest of the earth." Thus speaking, Julius led the thoughtful prince; Leaving the broad streets and the dazzling domes; The temples, columns, statues; leaving too

The flowery, fragrant gardens; till they came By ever-narrowing ways to Julius' home: A humble lodging by the Tiber's side; Whose waters, ever rushing by the wall, Subdued the strife and clangour of the town. And here with quiet modesty, unspoiled By any false shame for his mean abode, He bade the prince be welcome, while he spread His best upon the board. Then, after meat, They sat and talked until the air grew dim: Until the lights on the opposing shore Streamed out their long reflections on the stream: Until a glory never to be quenched Broke on the soul of Brân. At length he rose And laid his arms about the old man's neck, In kind farewell, and passed into the street. And threading now the ever-widening ways, Through less and less of sordid on to more And ever more of sumptuous, he reached The temples and the palaces again, Where columns, arches, statues, stood aloft In glittering moonlight, amidst gardens sunk In depths of fragrant shade. Yet every step,

From that poor chamber by the river side Towards this central splendour, seemed to him To bear him farther from magnificence Nearer to meanness. And when last he reached The palace on the Palatine, assigned By Claudius to the royal hostages, The small and plaintive questions of the queen, The wife of Caradoc his son,—whose heart, Loving, but ever fretful in its love, Misgave her, that his lingering meant mishap To her or her's or him,—fell on his ears, Though seasoned to such sounds, as something strange, Something most needless and most pitiful. For were not all his goings and returns Guarded divinely? was not every thread Of all the tangled interests of his house Held smooth by hands kinder than kindest hands Of fabled fate? And yet he answered her With meeker patience than his wont (though Brân Was ever famed for patience); for his soul Had risen into the higher calm which stills All angry pulses. Thus his prayer was heard; And thus his eyes, long faithful in the dark, Found at the last they had not watched in vain.

Soon as the morning broke the prince arose Alert and strong, as if a second youth Quickened his veins; and through the silent streets He bent his steps again to Julius' home. There scarcely had he entered and received The old man's welcome, when a hurried knock Startled the door, which opening instantly, Ere Julius could reply,—a fair young girl,— Half child, half woman,—all her delicate face Flushing with eagerness, all her features strung To some set purpose, sprang into the room. Her bearing had a wild and sylvan grace That seemed most strange in one whose raiment spoke Of noble lineage. For her tunic, woven Of finest Syrian wool, bleached by the dews Of summer nights upon the emerald plains That frame Damascus, was all bordered round With Tyrian purple; and was looped above On each fair shoulder with a gleaming pearl, Large as a linnet's egg; and over this Hung loosely draped about her slender form A robe of equal richness; and her hair,— Crisp, golden hair that ran in rippled waves Back from her rounded temples, flowed behind

Into a silken network, strung as thick With pearls as autumn gossamers with dew; Her very feet, that trod the homely floor With such a dainty firmness, were encased In shoes of creamy kid skin, rough with pearls. No sooner was her hasty entrance made Than seeing Brân, she started and drew back Half timidly; yet with her gaze still fixed Upon his face, with a child's look of keen Unconscions scrutiny. "Fear not, my child," Said Julius, rising with a tremulous haste And laying softly on her sunny head One wrinkled hand in blessing; while she kissed Its fellow, lifting it up reverently With her long fingers. "Fear not, Claudia, This stranger will not harm thee, nor betray Thy coming." Then he turned him to the prince, Saying,—"This maid is she of whom I spake: The child of Plautius and Pomponia." And Brân kept gazing on her tender face As if it held a mystery; while he heard, As in a dream, the voice of Julius say,

"Alas! my daughter, wherefore art thou come? For thongh my banished heart yearns after thee, Dear one, as well thou knowest, none the less I tremble that thou thus shouldst disobey Thy sire's commandment." "Nay, my master dear," Answered the maiden, with a sudden flash Of indignation,—"never adjure me more By any father's claim from Plautius. He never gave me any father's love, Only a mockery of a father's pride. And now I know it;—my dim guess is true: Plautius is not my father; nay no more The sire of Claudia than this stranger here Is Claudia's grandsire." "Peace, my child," in haste Julius broke in, "I charge thee, listen not To this slaves' gоssір." "Nay, my father dear," She answered, tempering her passionate voice To meekness, "only hear, and thou wilt own That this is no slaves' gossip. Yesternight, Pomponia,—she whom I will ever call My mother; who has won the name by more

Than mother's love and mother's sorrow too:— Thrown from her guard by grief that Plautius Refused her prayer to bear me company At a gay festival, wherein she knew I should be sore bested,—let fall a word Which told me that my guess had touched the truth. No: I am not their child." "Even were this so," Said Julius, striving to discern the right, Yet baffled still, so that his words became Feeble and void of faith:—"He is thy sire In the law's sight, and thou art bound to heed All his commands. Unless that he command To disobey thy God. Then, not till then, The bond gives way before the greater bond. But let that pass: surely thou hast not braved His anger, merely thus to tell me this, That thou art not his child?" "Nay, surely nay," She answered with a pretty shamefaced smile, Which faded quickly, as her features took An air of settled purpose once again, "I come to warn thee of a fearful snare. Alas! my father, never, never more

Can any dear occasion come to me Of disobeying Plautius for thy sake. Or rather for His dear sake Whose thou art, And Whom thou servest; Whose I also am And Whom I fain would serve. Listen to me, And little Claudia like the fabled mouse May free the lion from the hunter's toils. Before thou camest to Rome, four years ago, The emperor, incensed by rebel deeds Of certain lawless Jews, and with his fears Wrought on by favourites, issued a decree That every Jew and every proselyte Should quit the city and the lands of Rome. I was a child and scarcely read aright The meaning of their grief; but as I looked From our high palace windows on the bands Of plundered exiles hastening to the gates, And saw the sorrow and dismay that sat On every face, I wept aloud with them, And angered Plautius. With them went, they say, Many who owned the Christ and worshipped Him. Now since those days, amidst the cruel strifes And ever-growing licence of the times, This old decree against your tribe has fallen

Into forgetfulness. And some have crept Back to their homes; and others, knowing not Of such a law, have come to Rome from far, As thou, my father. So for a brief while All has seemed safe. But now the courtiers, Sated with softer wickedness and fain To try the taste of blood, have plied the ears Of the dull emperor with a false report Of some conspiracy among your tribe. This very night, at sunset, all your homes Will be beset and every soul be slain. Such is their fiendish scheme. "But God is good; And yesternight I, forced by Plantius To join this banquet, overheard them talk; Such talk as curdled up my blood to hear. But oh, what fervent thanks flew from my heart Up to the Lord Almighty, who refused My prayer to save me from that riotous scene That He might grant my greater prayer: to save Thee, O my father, and thy people too From the fell heathen." Here her voice gave way And suddenly, before she was aware,

Changed to a sob; but pressing her fair hands Hard on her heaving breast, she wrestled down The rising passion, calmed herself, and stood As meek before him as a three years' child, Waiting his answer. But he, all amazed By this unlooked-for stroke, and tossed about By many currents of suggestion, Kept troubled silence. Then he thought:—"Perchance,— Nay doubtless,—they have played upon her fears; For this thing cannot be:" then spake aloud, "Tell me, my child, their very words and looks. Who spoke the first? who followed?" "I will tell As clearly and as truly as I can," She answered him, and girt her eager soul With patience;—"but, my father, while we speak The precious moments fly, moments at most Too few to spread the warning. "Thus it was:— Last night, as I have said, did Plautius feast Three of his chosen friends, mere boys to him; For lately he has seemed to honour such More than his grey compeers. One of the three

Was Martialis, of the Spanish race, Of a most witty and most wanton tongue, For ever stringing all things in the world On slender threads of epigram. With him Came his compatriot and fellow poet, Lucanus; of a grave and modest mien, But with an eye to shrink from. And the third Was Pudens, of the order of the knights." Now when she named that name the maiden blushed And faltered for a moment; at the which The old man sighed, as at a token fraught With danger to his darling. Then Prince Brân Discerning that his presence checked her speech, Arose and stood apart a little space Beside a windowed opening in the wall; And, looking on the stream, his busy thoughts Flowed faster than the current of the stream. "Thus, ever thus," he mused, "the tide of life Flows on without a pause. Scarce have I met The man of all the world who meets my soul,— Who has the message ready on his lips Which I have listened for so long in vain,— Ere the remorseless current sweeping on

Bears him beyond my reach. But if the tale The maiden tells be true, and he must quit This murderous city,—whither shall he go?— Ay, wherefore not to Britain? Many ears, Half opened by the wisdom of the bards, Await the message there, and many souls Are sick to death of sin. Ay, let him go." So mused the prince, watching the stream. Meanwhile The maiden meekly stood by Julius With folded hands, as if her mind were set To say a weary task. And thus she spake:— "And Plantius commanded me to bid Four ladies to the feast, daughters of four Of the great houses. So they came in state. Haughty and vain they looked; their scented locks Made the air heavy, and their gorgeous robes Trailed on the floor, tangling my feet, whereat They frowned as if the injury were theirs. O how my heart longed for Pomponia, My only mother, to be near me then; I felt so shelterless and so alone. But she was shut by Plautius' stern command Within a distant chamber; never since That dreadful day when she was tried by all

Her gathered kindred, tried for life and fame,— Save in his presence, may I speak with her. I will not weary thee, telling the talk That wearied me. At length the purple folds That hung between us and the central hall Were drawn aside by slaves, all crowned with flowers, Revealing us to Plantius and his guests; Who greeted us full courteously, and begged Of Plautius that the banquet might be graced By our fair presence. So we passed along To supper, marshalled by the bowing slaves. My four companions soon reclined at ease Beside the youths upon the couches placed Around the board; but Plautius, kind for once, With some rough joke about my childish ways Bade me be seated at his feet. Four hours, Four endless hours, the feast crept slowly on From costly course to course, with frivolous talk And wanton songs between; and ever more When in these wanton songs there came a line More dull, or more unmeaning than the rest, It seemed to take the hearers' fancy most. And then at every pause,—wine, wine, still wine, Of every varied vintage of the South,