Virgilia | Page 3

kissed her hand, then he embraced his father and sister.
Claudia's expression relaxed. Had it not been for his absurd belief in the Jew, who seemed to have set the world mad, she could have loved this fine-looking young man, whose auburn curls fell over a white forehead, whose brown eyes gleamed with a mixture of earnestness and merriment. He was, indeed, a lovable youth.
"Hast thou come back cured, Martius? Then art thou indeed welcome."
"Cured of what, mother?"
"Of thy mistaken worship of Christus."
"No, mother," came the firm reply. Aurelius saw his son's face pale, saw him straighten up as though he expected a blow on those broad shoulders, saw his hand clench as if he were in pain. And Aurelius was sorrowful. He loved Martius for himself and for his mother, whom he resembled. The lawyer was also, only too well aware of the danger run by all those who called themselves followers of Christus. The worst had not yet come. There were only threats now against the members of this sect who were growing daily more numerous, and more menacing to the priests and the pagan religion. No one could tell what might happen by to-morrow, the storm would break suddenly.
He knew Claudia and her blind bigotry. She would not hesitate to sacrifice Martius if she thought that her soul's salvation depended on it; Claudia's soul was her chief thought. But would she sacrifice her own daughter, if her religion should prove to be the same as that of her brother?
The sister had slipped her hand into that of Martius. She stood beside him shoulder to shoulder. Virgilia was unusually tall. She had inherited the fine, cameo-like profile of her mother, but her hair was fair and very abundant. It was bound around her head in heavy braids and was not decorated by any jewel. Her white draperies had fallen from her arm, disclosing its pure whiteness and delicate outline.
Virgilia looked straight at her mother and spoke, breaking sharply the silence following the two words of Martius. The sun had now set. It was almost dark in the garden. The lilies gleamed ghostly white among their long green leaves. The odor of the jessamine was heavy on the evening air, overpowering in its sweetness. A servant entered and lighted torches in iron rings fastened on the fluted pillows. He lit, also, the wicks in huge bronze lamps placed here and there, and in a three-tapered silver lamp on a table by Claudia's side.
The soft radiance lit up the strange scene, the Roman matron, seated in her chair, jewels gleaming in her dark hair and on her bosom, her face set and stern. It shone upon the young Virgilia and Martius, standing before her, and upon the heavier figure of the lawyer, Aurelius Lucanus, just behind them.
Then Virgilia spoke, and her voice was as clear as the sun-down bell which had just rung out its warning from Caesar's Hill.
"I, too, am a Christian."
With a sharp outcry, Claudia, dragging her white draperies on the ground, disappeared in her small room, opening by a long window from the gallery bordering on the garden. She was seen no more that night. Silently, the lawyer and his son and daughter ate their evening meal, reclining on the triclinium in the long room tinted in Pompeian red, a frieze three feet in width ran around the walls. Small, chubby cherubs, or cupids doing the work of men, weaving draperies, preparing food, chopping meat, plucking grapes and carrying them away in miniature wheelbarrows, were faithfully portrayed in rich colors. Some of these frescoes, tints as vivid as when they were laid on by the artists of twenty centuries ago, remain to this day on the walls of ancient Roman dwellings, and enable us to know how people lived in those far-off times.
A servant, assisted by the porter, Alyrus, brought the food in on huge trays, roast kid and vegetables, green salad fresh from the market in the Forum Boarium, dressed with oil from the groves of Lucca and vinegar made of sour red wine. Then came a delicious pudding, made from honey brought from Hymetus in Greece to add luxury to the food of the already too luxurious Romans, and fruit strawberries, dipped in fine sugar and sprinkled with lemon.
Virgilia ate little; the main portions of the food she sent away untouched. The salad and fruit were more to her liking. She was very pale. The scene in the Circus, followed by the sudden confession of her faith, had taxed her strength. This, her anxiety for her mother and the unusual heat of the evening caused her to feel faint, so that she excused herself and went away, climbing a narrow staircase to the flat, tiled roof. Here were many plants, blossoming vines and the gurgling of