CHAPTER XI.
THE VEILS OF ISHTAR
Domitia did not go into the house, as desired, to receive Lamia.
She was well aware that he would come to her into the garden, if she did not present herself within, and she preferred to speak with him away from her mother.
She therefore continued to walk under the vines. She looked up at the sunlight filtering through the broad green flaky shade, with here and there a ray kissing a purple, pendent bunch of grapes.
Then she looked at the dreaming peacock, the sun flashing on its metallic plumage.
No! matter was not evil. Matter, indeed, without life was not even like the statue – for that was a copy of what lived, and failed just in this, that it fell short of life. Domitia felt as though she were touching the edge of a great verity, but had not set her foot upon it. Then she considered what Euphrosyne had said to her, and she to her slave. Wherever the path of duty lay, there violets bloomed and verbena scented the air. Was not life itself, devoid of the knowledge of its purport, and its obligations and its destiny, like matter uninformed by Life? Or if any life entered into it, it was the disintegrating life of decay and decomposition?
She, for her part, had no obligations laid on her. If, however, she were married to Lamia, then at once duties would spring up, and her way would be rosy. Till then her happiness hung in suspense, like that of her mother, during the period of widowhood in which she was expected and required to live in retirement. Out of society, not elbowing and shouldering her way forward – that was a year of blank and of unhappiness to Longa Duilia, in which she found no consolation save in badgering her steward, and in scheming for the future.
Lamia, as Domitia expected he would, came to her under the trellis, and she received him with that dimple in her cheek which gave her expression so much sweetness mingled with pathos,
“Lucius,” she said, “you are good to come. My mother is, oh! so dull, and restless withal.”
“It is well that she should be away from Rome, my Domitia. I have told her as much. On no account must you leave Gabii. Rome is boiling over, and will scald many fingers. None know who will be up to-morrow, and which down. Galba is dead, almost torn to pieces by those who worshipped him yesterday. Otho is proclaimed by the Senate. Yet there is fresh trouble brewing and threats sound from the provinces. Methinks every general at the head of an army is marching upon Rome to snatch the purple for his own shoulders. Otho has but a poor chance. He can command the prætorians and the household troops – none others. Soldiers that have disbanded themselves and gangs of robbers prowl the streets, waylay men of substance and plunder them, break into houses and strip them of their contents. Murders are frequent. Thus far your palace in the Carinæ is undisturbed.”
“Oh, Lucius! my mother has so fretted over that house, as it stands back, and makes no show behind its bank of yews and laurels, and yet those evergreens, I believe, saved it in the fire. She says that the house is unworthy of our dignity.”
“You may rejoice that it is so in such times of anarchy. Order in the city is now at an end, none are safe unless attended by armed slaves; and, by the Gods! no man is quite safe even from his own slaves.”
“What did my mother say to that?”
“She sighed and said – ” there was a twinkle in Lamia’s eye, “that she was glad the disturbances were taking place now, as at no time could they have happened so happily, when she was obliged to live in retirement.”
“Lucius, what do you think will be the end?”
“That the gods alone can tell. At present the soldiers are masters in the State, and the Senate proclaims whomsoever they set up. Rome is dishonored in the face of the Barbarians.”
“What think you, my Lucius, – shall we ask the Chaldee if he can unveil the future?”
“Not of the State, Domitia, that were too dangerous. Women have lost their lives, or been banished on such a charge. No, do not risk it.”
“Nay, Lucius, like my mother, the State concerns me only so far as its affairs affect my own silly little interests. But I do want to know something of my future. Elymas is reputed to look into destiny. He hath glimpses beyond the strain of a philosopher’s eye. I have offended him by my quips and objections, and would humor him now by asking him to read in the stars, or where he will, what the gods have in store for me.”
“I believe not in such vision.”
“Nor I greatly, Lucius. Yet I heard say that he had prognosticated evil on the day my dear father set foot in Cenchræa.”
“It needed no prophet to foretell that.”
“Shall we seek him, Lucius?”
“As you will. I will attend thee. Only, no questions relative to the prince, as to his life, his reign, his health. No questions concerning the State – promise me that.”
“It shall be so, Lucius. Come with me to the Temple of Isis. He is there.”
The two young people walked to a small shrine or ædiculum at the extremity of a terrace above the lake.
In the colonnade in front of the door was the Magus. He was out of humor, offended at his treatment by Domitia. His sole satisfaction was that Senecio, the Stoic, was placed below him in her estimation.
Now the girl went up to him, with a pretty, winning smile, and said:
“Sir! I fear me greatly that I gave you occasion to think I held your theories cheaply. Indeed it is not so, they are too weighty to be dismissed at once; they take time to digest. There is one thing you may do for me, that I desire of you heartily, and in which I will not controvert your authority. It is said that the stars rule the destinies of men, and that in the far East, on the boundless plains of Mesopotamia, you and your people have learned to read them. I would fain know what the heavens have in store for me.”
“Indeed, lady, to consult the stars is a long and painful business, that I will gladly undertake, but it cannot be done hastily. It will require time. There are, however, other ways of reading the future than by the stars. There is Ishtar, whom the Egyptians call Isis, whom thou mayest consult in this temple.”
“I am ready.”
“That also cannot be undertaken at once. I must even send for my assistant Helena. It is not I who see, save mediately. The goddess has her chosen instrument, and such is Helena. Lady! Ishtar is the Truth, she has no image. She is invisible to us veiled in matter. She hides herself behind seven veils, or rather our eyes are so wrapped about that we cannot see her who is visible only in spirit. Thou knowest that in the Temple floor is a rent, and through that rent the breath of the gods ascends. I will place Helena over that rent, and she will fall into a trance, and if I say certain prayers and use certain invocations, then the veils will fall away, and in pure spiritual essence she will look into the face of Ishtar and read therein the Truth, past, present, and future. Is it your pleasure to consult the goddess?”
“Indeed I do desire it,” said Domitia.
“Thou hast no fear?”
“Fear! fear of what?”
“Of the future. It is well for us that the gods hide this from our eyes.”
Domitia turned and looked at Lamia.
“No,” she said with a smile, “I have no fear for my future.”
“That which is anticipated does not always come, but rather that which is unexpected.”
“Then when forewarned, one is forearmed.”
“If it be thy pleasure, lady, return at sunset. Then Helena shall be here, and I shall have made my preparations.”
“That is but an hour hence. Be it so. Come, Lamia. Thou shalt row me on the lake till Elymas call.”
“So be it,” said Lucius; and as they withdrew, he added, “I like that not. If it pleased the gods to show us what is in store, then they would reveal it to us. I mistrust me, this man is either an impostor or he deals with the spirits of evil.”
“Nay, think not so. Why should not the Truth lie behind seven veils, and if so, and we are able, why not pluck away those veils?”
“In good sooth, Domitia, thou hast more daring in thy little soul than have I.”
The girl and Lucius Lamia had been so much together in Syria, that they had come to regard each other with the affection of brother and sister. In Greek life the females occupied a separate portion of the house to the males, and did not partake of meals with them. There was no common family life.
Old Roman domestic arrangements had been very different from this. There the wife and mother occupied a place of dignity, with her daughters around her, and sat and span in the atrium, where also the men assembled. She prepared the meals, and partook of them with her husband, and the sisters with their brothers. The only difference between them at table was that the men reclined to eat, whereas the women sat on stools. But this home life, which had been so wholesome and so happy, in the luxury and wealth of the age at the fall of the Commonwealth and the rise of Imperialism, had become an element of demoralization. For the conversation of the men had grown shameless, the exhibitions at banquets of coarse drunkenness, and of dancing girls, and the singing of ribald songs by musicians, had driven away shame from the cheeks of the women, and corrupted the freshness of the children’s innocence.
Yet there were, through even the worst periods, households in which the healthy old Roman simplicity and familiarity between the sexes remained, good fathers and mothers who screened their children’s eyes from evil sights, devoted husbands and wives full of mutual reverence. Such had been the house of Corbulo, whether in Rome, or in Syria. He had been a strict and honorable soldier, and a strict and honorable father in his family.
Thus it was that Lucius Lamia, and Domitia had seen much of each other, and that affection for each other mingled with respect had grown up naturally and vigorously in their hearts.
And now Lucius was paddling on the glassy tarn. He used but little action. Occasionally he dipped the paddles, then allowed the skiff to glide forward till she ceased to be moving, when again he propelled her with one stroke. He was musing; so also was Domitia.
All at once he roused himself.
“Domitia,” said he, “Do you know that there is a rumor about that Nero is not dead, but has fled to the Parthians, and that he will return?”
“You do not say so!” The girl’s color died away.
“I do not believe it. It cannot be. The sword of your father would not bite so feebly as to let him live. Yet the tale is circulating. Men are uneasy – expecting something.
“If he be dead and burnt, he cannot return.”
“No,” said Lucius, “he cannot return from the dead. And yet – there be strange rumors. Among the Christians, I am told, there has risen up a seer, who hath been taken with an ecstasy, and hath beheld wonderful visions. And this is reported, that he saw a beast arising out of the sea, having seven heads, and on each head a golden crown. And one of those heads, the fifth, received a death-wound. Then arose two other heads, and after them the wounded head arose once again and breathed fire and slaughter, and the second state was worse than the first.”
“But, Lucius, what can this signify?”
“They say it signifies the Empire of Rome, and that the heads are the princes, and the fifth head, that is wounded as unto death, but not slain, is Nero, and that after two have arisen, then he will return.”
Domitia shuddered.
“If he return, Lamia, he will not forget thee. Well, we will ourselves look behind the veils; that is better than hearing through others what some unknown prophet hath said. See, on the shore stands Elymas, calling us.”
CHAPTER XII.
THE FALL OF THE VEILS
Lucius and Domitia stepped out of the boat; he moored it to the side, and they walked together to the little temple. This was not one to which a college of priests was attached, nor even an ædiculum, with a guardian who had charge of it, to open it on special festivals; it had been erected by the father of Corbulo in deference to the wish of his wife, who had taken it into her head to become a votary of Isis, this having become a fashionable cult. But on her death the doors had been closed, and it had fallen into neglect, till the return of Longa Duilia from the East with the Chaldee Magus from Antioch. It was now fashionable to dabble in sorcery, and a distinguished lady liked to be able to talk of her Magus, to seek his advice, and, at table, air a superficial familiarity with the stars, and the Powers and Æons, the endless genealogies of emanations from the primæval and eternal Light.
Longa had engaged the Magus when at Antioch, but when somewhat summarily sent to Europe by her husband, she had not taken her Chaldæan magician with her. As, however, she had no wish to appear in Rome without him, she had laid it on her husband when he returned to bring the man with him, and if he did not return himself, to despatch the Magus to her.
On her arrival in the villa at Gabii, she had given up the temple of Isis to Elymas, and he had converted it into a place for study.
Before the door hung a heavy curtain, and this Lamia raised to allow Domitia to pass within. The interior would have been wholly dark, but that a brazier with glowing charcoal stood within, and into the fire the magician threw gums, that flamed up and diffused a fragrant smoke.
By the flicker Domitia observed that a bed was laid above a small fissure in the marble floor – a rent caused by earthquake – through which vapor of an intoxicating nature issued.
On this bed lay a woman, or rather a figure that Domitia took to be that of a woman, but it was covered with much drapery that concealed face and hands.
The brazier was near the head, and by it stood Elymas in a tall headdress, with horns affixed, that met in front. He wore a black garment reaching to the feet.
In the darkness nothing could be seen save his erect figure, and face shining out like a lamp, when he cast resinous drops on the fire, and the motionless couched form of the woman.
Domitia, somewhat frightened, put her hand on the arm of Lamia, to make sure that he was present and could assist her, should need for assistance arise; – that is to say, should her courage fail, or the visions she expected to see prove too alarming.
Then the Magus said:
“As I have told thee, lady, out of the ineffable Light stream rays that are both luminous and life-producing. These rays penetrate to the lowest profundity of matter, and as they pass through the higher atmospheres, gather about them the particles of vapor, and become angels and demons. But other rays passing further down, and assuming grosser envelopes, become men and women, some more animal than others, some with higher spiritual natures than the rest, according as in them matter or spirit dominates. And the rays darting into further depths become the beasts of the field, the fishes of the sea, even the very worm that bores in the soil. As thou knowest, he who stands on a high mountain can see far horizons to right and to left as well as the objects below him. So, to the Eternal, all is visible, the past on one side, the present before Him, and the future on the other side, all in one vision. To Him there is no past, and no present, and no future, for Time is not – all is comprehended in one view. But we, who are below, see only the present, remember the past, and conjecture what is future. If we would see future as well as past, we must rise above matter, mount from our base level to the altitude of spirit. Thence all is clear. But this is not possible to all, only to those elect ones in whom the flesh is subdued, and to it the spirit remains attached only by a fibre. Such is Helena. Through her thou shalt see what thou desirest. Now behold!”
He pointed into the darkness before him, and both Domitia and Lucius saw a spark that grew in intensity and shone like a star.
“That,” said Elymas, “is a crystal. It is the lens through which the rays of the Eternal and Immortal Light pass to the soul of Helena, out of Infinite Altitude and Illimitable Space. She is enveloped in seven veils. Now she lieth in a trance, and seeth naught. But I will invoke this Fount of Life and Light and Knowledge, and will gather the rays together into her soul through yonder crystal, and she will see in vision what thou desirest. Seven veils cover her, and seven are the revelations that will be made. I cannot assure thee that all will be future – some may be scenes of the past, for to the All-Seeing, the Eye of Eternity, there is neither past nor future; all is present.”
“Well, so be it,” said Lamia, “By the past we can judge the future. Let us see things that have been and we can form some notion of what is shown us as future. If the one be incorrect, then the other is untrustworthy.”
“Thou shalt behold nothing,” said the Magus, “for it is not thou who consultest me, but the lady Domitia Longina.”
“How shall I see, and not he who stands beside me?” asked the girl. Her heart fluttered with apprehension.
The sorcerer stooped, and drew from under the covering the right hand of the prostrate woman, and bade Domitia hold it.
She took the hand in hers; it was stiff and cold as that of a corpse, and she shuddered.
“Hold her hand in thine,” said Elymas, “and I will invoke the Source of Spirits, and as I withdraw each veil that covers her face, she will see something, and she seeing it, the sense of sight will pass through her hand to thee, and thou wilt see also, inwardly, yet very really. Only let not go her hand, or all will become dark.”
Then he went before the crystal, that stood on an altar like a truncated column; and he uttered words rapidly in a strange tongue, then turned, threw a handful of spices upon the coals, and a dense aromatic smoke filled the interior. It dissipated, and Domitia uttered a faint cry.
“What ails thee?” asked Lucius.
Thinking she was frightened, he added – “Let us go forth. This is mere jugglery.”
“But I see,” she said in tremulous tones.
“What dost thou see?”
“O Lucius! It is the garden at Cenchræa – and my father! O, my father!” she sobbed.
One veil had been withdrawn.
“Enough,” said Lucius. “I think naught of this: every one is aware how the noble Cnæus Corbulo came by his death.”
“Then see again,” said the Magus. He took hold of a second veil that covered the prostrate woman, drew it off, and let it fall on the ground.
Lucius felt the left hand of Domitia contract suddenly on his arm. He looked before him, but saw nothing save the crystal, in which moved lights. It was iridescent as an opal.
Then Domitia exclaimed:
“It was he! the physician Luke – who cut the thong. But for him, we should have run down the Imperial trireme. He did it!”
“What mean you?” asked the young man in surprise.
“Lucius, I see it all – the sea, the vessel on which is Nero carousing; – ourselves – we are running at her. And he has cut the thong, the paddle flies up, and our course is altered.”
Then the Magus uttered a few words, and withdrew the third veil.
The young man heard his companion breathing heavily; but she said nothing. He waited awhile and then, stooping to her, asked:
“Seest thou aught?”
“Yes,” she answered in a whisper. “Yet not with my bodily eyes, I know not how – but I see – ”
“What?”
“The end of Nero. Now thou hast thrown the mantle over his face – enough!”
Then Elymas turned and said:
“Hitherto thou hast beheld that which is past. Sufficeth it? or wilt thou even look into that which is to be?”
“It sufficeth,” said Lucius, and would have drawn his companion away. But she held to the hand of the woman on the bed, and said firmly:
“No, my friend. Now I have seen things that are past, I will even look into the future. It was for this I came hither.”
And now again did the magician utter prayers, and wave his hands. Thereupon strange lights and changes appeared in the crystal, and it seemed of milky moonlight hue, yet with shoots as of lightning traversing it. All at once the Magus took off the fourth veil and cast it on the marble floor.
Lucius remained motionless, looking at the changing light in the crystal, and feeling the nervous hand of Domitia twitching on his arm. He thought that he heard her laugh, but almost immediately with a cry, she loosed her hand from the unconscious woman on the couch, threw her arms round the neck of Lamia, and sank sobbing on his breast.
It was some time before she was sufficiently recovered to speak, and then was reluctant to disclose what she had seen. Lucius, however, urged her with gentle persuasion, and, clinging to him, between sobs, in whispers she confided:
“Oh, Lucius! I thought – I – I saw that the day had come when you and I – Lucius, when I went to your house and was lifted across the threshold, and then, as I stretched my hands to you and took yours – then, all at once, a red face came up behind – whence I know not – and two long hands thrust us apart. Then I let go – I let go – and – and I saw no more.”
“When that day comes, my Domitia, no hands shall divide us, no face be thrust between. Now come forth. You have seen enough.”
“Nay, I will look to the end.” She took the hand of Helena, into which some flexibility and warmth were returning.
“Art thou willing?” asked the Magus.
She nodded, and the fifth veil fell.
For full five minutes Domitia stood rigid, without moving a muscle, hardly breathing.
Then Lucius said:
“See what a purple light shines out of the crystal. What is thy vision now, Domitia? By the light that beams, it should be right royal.”
“It is royal,” she said in faint tones. “Lucius! what that Christian prophet spoke, that have I also seen – the beast with seven heads, one wounded to the death, and there cometh up another out of the deadly wound, and – it hath the red face I saw but just now. And it climbeth to a throne and lifteth me up to sit thereon. Away with the vision. It offendeth me. It maketh my blood turn ice cold!”
“Hast thou a desire to see further?” asked the Magus.
“I can see naught worse than this,” said Domitia.
A shudder ran through her, and her teeth chattered as with frost.
Then Elymas again waved his hands, and chanted, “Askion, Kataskion, lix, Tetras, damnameneus,” and raised and cast down the sixth veil.
At once from the crystal a red light shone forth, and suffused the whole cell of the temple with a blood-colored illumination, and by it Lucius could see that there was in it no image present, only a dense black veil behind the altar on which the stone glowed like a carbuncle. He heard the breath pass through the teeth of Domitia, like the hissing of a serpent. He looked at her, her face was terrible, inflamed. The eyes stiffened, the teeth were set, the brow knitted and lowering. Then she said:
“I stand on the beast, and the sword of my father pierces his heart.”
Lucius wondered; there was a look of hate, a hideousness in her face, such as he had not conceived it possible so beautiful and sweet a countenance could have assumed.
Then Elymas cast off the last veil.
For a moment all was darkness. The red light in the crystal had expired. In stillness and suspense, not without fear, all waited, all standing save Helena, who had recovered from her trance, and she paused expectant on her couch.
Then a minute spark appeared in the crystal, of the purest white light, that grew, rapidly sending out wave on wave of brilliance, so intense, so splendid, so dazzling, that the magician, unable to endure the effulgence, turned and threw himself into a corner, and wrapped his head about with his mantle. And the medium turned with a cry, as though the light caused her physical pain, buried her face in the pillow, and groped on the floor for the veils to cast over her head to exclude the light.
Lucius, unable to endure the splendor, covered his eyes with his palm.
But Domitia looked at it, and her face grew soft, the scowl went from her brow, and a wondrous tenderness and sorrow came into her eyes; great tears rose and rolled down her cheeks, and glittered like diamonds in the dazzling beam.
Then she said with a sob:
“Ubi lux – ibi Felicitas.”
Suddenly an explosion. The orb was shattered into a thousand sparks, and all was black again in the temple – black as deepest night.
Then Lucius caught Domitia to him, put his hand behind him, drew back the curtain, and carried her forth into the calm evening air, and the light of the aurora hanging over the setting sun.
She sobbed, gradually recovered herself, drew a profound sigh, and said:
“Oh, Lucius! where is light, there is felicity!”