Chapter VI

The Chamber of Death—The Catastrophe.

She obeyed him, shuddering and silent. He followed her, closed the entrance, and fastened it within. They were alone among the dead of a thousand years—alone, but not in darkness. The hand of preparation had been there, and cressets were burning upon the walls; their lights, reflected from the numerous shields of bronze within the apartment, shedding a strange and fantastic splendor upon the scene. The eyes of Aurelia rapidly explored the chamber as if in search of some expected object. Those of Cœlius watched them with an expression of scornful triumph, which did not escape her glance. She firmly met his gaze, almost inquiringly, while her hands were involuntarily and convulsively clasped together.

“Whom dost thou seek, Aurelia?”

“Thou know’st! thou know’st!—where is he? Tell me, my Cœlius, that he is safe, that thou hast sped him hence—that I may bless thee.”

He smiled significantly as he replied, “He is safe—I have sped him hence!”

“Tinai, (Adonai,) my husband, keep thee in the hollow of his hand.”

“How shameless! dost thou dare so much!”

“What mean’st thou, my Cœlius?”

“Sit thou there,” he answered, “till I show thee my picture.” He pointed her, as he spoke, to a new sarcophagus, upon which she placed herself submissively. Then, with a wand in his hand, he, himself seated upon another coffin of stone, pointed her to a curtain which covered one of the sides of the chamber. “Behind that curtain, Aurelia, is the last work of my hands; but before I unveil it to thine eyes, let me tell thee its melancholy history. It will not need many words for this. Much of it is known to thee already. How I found thee in Rome, when I was there a captive—how I loved thee, and how I believed in thy assurances of love; all these things thou know’st. We wedded, and I brought thee, a Roman woman, held a barbarian by my people, into the palace of one of the proudest families of all Etruria. Shall I tell thee that I loved thee still, that I love thee even now, when I have most reason to hate thee, when I know thy perjury, thy cold heart, thy hot lust, thy base, degrading passions!”

“Hold, my lord—say not these things to my grief and thy dishonor. They wrong me, not less than thy own name. These things, poured into thine ear by some secret enemy, are false!”

“Thou wilt not swear it.”

“By all the gods of Rome—”

“And of what avail, and how binding the oath taken in the names of the barbarian deities of Rome.”

“By the Etrurian—”

“Perjure not thyself, woman, but hear me.”

“Go on, my lord, I will hear thee, though I suffer death with every word thou speak’st.”

“It is well, Aurelia, that thou art prepared for this.”

“Thy dagger, my Cœlius, were less painful than thy words and looks unkind.”

“Never was I unkind until I found thee false.”

“Never was I false, my lord, even when thou wast unkind.”

“Woman! lie not; thou wert discovered with thy paramour, here, in this tomb; thou wert followed, day by day, and all thy secret practices betrayed. This thou ow’st to the better vigilance of my dear brother Aruns—he, more watchful of my honor than myself—”

“Ah! well I know from what hand came the cruel shaft; Cœlius, my Cœlius, thy brother is a wretch, doomed to infamy and black with crime. I have had no paramour. I might have had, and thou might’st have been dishonored, had I hearkened to thy brother’s pleadings. I spurned him from my feet with loathing, and he requites me with hate. Oh! my husband, believe me, and place this man, whom thou too fondly callest thy brother, before thine eyes and mine!”

“Alas! Aurelia, this boldness becomes thee not. I myself traced thee to this tomb—these eyes but too frequently beheld thee with thy paramour.”

“Cœlius, as I live, he was no paramour—but where is he, what hast thou done with him?”

“Sent him before thee to prepare thy coach in Hades!”

“Oh, brother!—but thou hast not! tell me, my lord, that thy hand is free from this bloody crime!”

“He sleeps beneath thee. It is upon his sarcophagus thou sittest.”

She started with a piercing shriek from the coffin where she sat, knelt beside it, and strove to remove the heavy stone lid, which had been already securely fastened. While thus engaged the Lucumo drew aside with his hand the curtain which concealed the picture.

“Look,” said he, “woman, behold the fate which thou and thy paramour have received—behold the task which I had set me when first I had been shown thy perjuries. Look!”

She arose in silence from her knees, and turned her eyes upon the picture. As the curtain was slowly unrolled from before it, and she conceived the awful subject, and distinguished, under the care of the good and guardian genii, the shades of well-known members of the Pomponian family, her interest was greatly excited; but when following in the train and under the grasp of the Etrurian demon, she beheld the features of the young Roman who was doomed, she bounded forward with a cry of agony.

“My brother, my Flavius, my own, my only brother!” and sunk down with outstretched arms before the melancholy shade.

“Her brother!” exclaimed the husband. She heard the words and rose rapidly to her feet.

“Ay, Flavius, my brother, banished from Rome, and concealed here in thy house of silence, concealed even from thee, my husband, as I would not vex thee with the anxieties of an Etrurian noble, lest Rome should hear and punish the people, by whom her outlaw was protected. Thou know’st my crime. This paramour was the brother of my heart—child of the same sire and dame—a noble heart, a pure spirit, whose very virtues have been the cause of his disgrace at Rome. Slay me, if thou wilt, but tell me not, O, Cœlius, that thou hast put the hands of hate upon my brother!”

“Thy tale is false, woman—well-planned, but false. Know I not thy brother? Did I not know thy brother well in Rome? Went we not together oft? I tell thee, I should know him among a line of ten thousand Romans!”

“Alas! alas! my husband, if ever I had brother, then is this he. I tell thee nothing but the truth. Of a surety, when thou wert in Rome, my brother was known to thee, but the boy has now become a man. Seven years have wrought a change upon him of which thou hast not thought. Believe me, what I tell thee—the youth whom I sheltered in this vault, and to whom I brought food nightly, was, indeed, my brother—my Flavius, the only son of my mother, who sent him to me, with fond words of entreaty, when the consuls of the city bade him depart in banishment.”

“I cannot believe thee, woman. It were a mortal agony, far beyond what I feel in the conviction of thy guilt, were I to yield faith to thy story. It is thy paramour whom I have slain, and who sleeps in that tomb. His portrait and his judgment are before thee, and now—look on thine own!”

The picture, fully displayed, showed to the wretched woman her own person, in similar custody with him who was her supposed paramour. The terrible felicity of the execution struck her to the soul. It was a picture to live as a work of art, and to this she was not insensible. She clasped her hands before it, and exclaimed,

“Oh! my Cœlius, what a life hast thou given to a lie. Yet may I bear the terrors of such a doom, if he whom thou hast painted there in a fate full of dreadful fellowship with mine, was other than my brother Flavius—he with whom thou did’st love to play, and to whom thou did’st impart the first lessons in the art which he learned to love from thee. Dost hear me, my Cœlius, as my soul lives, this man was none other than my brother.”

“False! false! I will not, dare not believe thee!” he answered in husky accents. His frame was trembling, yet he busied himself in putting on a rich armor, clothing himself in military garb, from head to foot, as if going into action.

“What dost thou, my lord?” demanded Aurelia, curious as she beheld him in this occupation.

“This,” said he, “is the armor in which I fought with Rome when I was made the captive of thy people, and thine. It is fit that I should wear it now, when I am once more going into captivity.”

“My husband, what mean’st thou—of what captivity dost thou speak?”

“The captivity of death! Hear me, Aurelia, dost thou feel nothing at thy heart which tells thee of the coming struggle when the soul shakes off the reluctant flesh, and strives, as it were, for freedom. Is there no chill in thy veins, no sudden pang, as of fire in thy breast. These speak in me. They warn me of death. We are both summoned. But a little while is left us of life.”

“Have mercy, Jove! I feel these pains, this chill, this fire that thou speak’st of.”

“It is death! the goblet which I gave thee, and of which I drank the first and largest draught was drugged with death.”

“Then—it is all true! Thou hast in truth slain my brother. Thou hast—thou hast!”

“Nay, he was not thy brother, Aurelia. Why wilt thou forswear thyself at this terrible moment? It is vain. Would’st thou lie to death—would’st thou carry an impure face of perjury before the seat of the Triune God! Beware! Confess thy crime, and justify the vengeance of thy lord!”

“As I believe thee, my Cœlius—as I believe that thou hast most rashly and unjustly murdered my brother, and put death in the cup which, delivered by thy hands, was sweet and precious to my lips, so must I now declare, in sight of Heaven, in the presence of the awful dead, that what I have said and sworn to thee, is truth. He whom I sheltered within the tombs of thy fathers, was the son of mine—the only, the last, best brother of my heart; I bore him in mine arms when I was a child myself. I loved him ever! Oh, how I loved him! next to thee, my Cœlius—next to thee! Could’st thou but have spared me this love—this brother!”

“How knew I—how know I now—that he was thy brother?” was the choking inquiry.

“To save thee the cruel agony that thou must feel, knowing this, I could even be moved to tell thee falsely, and say that he was not my brother—but, indeed, some paramour, such as the base and evil thought of thy brother has grafted upon thine; but I may not, thy love is too precious to me at this last moment, even if death were not too terrible to the false speaker. He was, indeed, my Flavius, dear son of a dear mother, best beloved brother, he whom thou did’st play with as a boy, to whom thou gav’st lessons in thy own lovely art; who loved thee, my Cœlius, but too fondly, and only forbore telling thee of his evil plight for fear that thou should’st incur danger from the sharp and angry hostility of Rome. Seek my chamber, and in my cabinet thou wilt find his letters, and the letters of my mother, borne with him in his flight. Nay,—oh! mother, what is this agony?”

“Too late! too late! If it be truth thou speakest, Aurelia, it is a truth that cannot save. Death is upon us—I see it in thy face—I feel it in my heart. Oh! would that I could doubt thy story!”

“Doubt not—doubt not—believe and take me to thy heart. I fear not death, if thou wilt believe me. My Cœlius, let me come to thee and die upon thy bosom.”

“Ah! should’st thou betray me—should’st thou still practice upon me with thy woman art!”

“And wherefore? It is death, thou say’st, that is upon us now. What shall I gain, in this hour, by speaking to thee falsely. Thou hast done thy worst. Thou hast doomed me to death, and to the eyes of the confiding future!”

She threw her arms around him as she spoke, and sunk, sunk sobbing upon his breast.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “that dreadful picture! I feel, my Aurelia, that thou hast spoken truly—that I have been rash and cruel in my judgments. Thy brother lies before thee, and yonder tomb is prepared for thee. I did not yield without a struggle; and I prepared me for a terrible sacrifice. Upon this bier, habited as I am, I yield myself to death. There is no help—no succor. Yet that picture! Shall the falsehood overcome the truth? Shall that lie survive thy virtues, thy beauty, and thy life! No! my Aurelia, this crime shall be spared at least.”

He unwound her arms from about his neck, and strove to rise. She sunk in the same moment at his feet. “Oh, death!” she cried, “thou art, indeed, a god! I feel thee, terrible in thy strength, with an agony never felt before. Leave me not, my Cœlius—forgive—and leave me not!”

“I lose thee, Aurelia! Where—”

“Here! before the couch—I faint—ah!”

“I would destroy,” he cried, “but cannot! This blindness. Ho! without there! Aruns! It is thy step I hear! Undo, undo—I forgive thee all, if thou wilt but help. Here—hither!”

The acute senses of the dying man had, indeed, heard footsteps without. They were those of the perfidious brother. But, at the call from within, he retreated hastily. There was no answer—there was no help. But there was still some consciousness. Death was not yet triumphant. There was a pang yet to be felt—and a pleasure. It was still in the power of the dying man to lift to his embrace his innocent victim. A moment’s return of consciousness enabled her to feel his embrace, his warm tears upon her cheek, and to hear his words of entreaty and tenderness imploring forgiveness. And speech was vouchsafed her to accord it.

“I forgive thee, my Cœlius—I forgive thee, and bless thee, and love thee to the last. I know that thou would’st never do me hurt of thy own will; I know that thou wert deceived to this—yet how, oh, how, when my head lay upon thy breast at night, and I slept in peace, could’st thou think that I should do thee wrong!”

“Why,” murmured the miserable man, “why, oh, why?”

“Had I but told thee, and trusted in thee, my Cœlius?”

“Why did’st thou not?”

“It was because of my brother’s persuasion that I did not—he wished not that thou should’st come to evil.”

“And thou forgiv’st me, Aurelia—from thy very heart thou forgiv’st me?”

“All, all—from my heart and soul, my husband.”

“It will not, then, be very hard to die!”

An hour after and the chamber was silent. The wife had yielded first. She breathed her last sigh upon his bosom, and with the last effort of his strength he lifted her gently and laid her in the sarcophagus, composing with affectionate care the drapery around her. Then, remembering the picture, he looked around him for his sword with which to obliterate the portraits which his genius had assigned to so lamentable an eternity; but his efforts were feeble, and the paralysis of death seized him while he was yet making them. He sunk back with palsied limbs upon the bier, and the lights, and the picture, faded from before his eyes, with the last pulses of his life. The calumny which had destroyed his hopes, survived its own detection. The recorded falsehood was triumphant over the truth; yet may you see to this day, where the random strokes of the weapon were aimed for its obliteration. Of himself there is no monument in the tomb, though one touching memorial has reached us. The vaulted chamber buried in the earth was discovered by accident. A fracture was made in its top by an Italian gentleman in company with a Scottish nobleman. As they gazed eagerly through the aperture, they beheld an ancient warrior in full armor, and bearing a coronet of gold. The vision lasted but a moment. The decomposing effects of the air were soon perceptible. Even while they gazed, the body seemed agitated with a trembling, heaving motion, which lasted a few minutes, and then it subsided into dust. When they penetrated the sepulchre, they found the decaying armor in fragments, the sword and the helmet, or crown of gold. The dust was but a handful, and this was all that remained of the wretched Lucumo. The terrible picture is all that survives—the false witness, still repeating its cruel lie at the expense of all that is noble in youth and manhood, and all that is pure and lovely in the soul of woman.