Veranilda

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Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)

Veranilda

By George Gissing

CHAPTER I

THE VANQUISHED ROMAN

Seven years long had the armies of Justinian warred against the
Goths in Italy. Victor from Rhegium to Ravenna, the great commander
Belisarius had returned to the East, Carrying captive a Gothic king.
The cities of the conquered land were garrisoned by barbarians of
many tongues, who bore the name of Roman soldiers; the Italian
people, brought low by slaughter, dearth, and plague, crouched under
the rapacious tyranny of governors from Byzantium.

Though children born when King Theodoric still reigned had yet
scarce grown to manhood, that golden age seemed already a legend of
the past. Athalaric, Amalasuntha, Theodahad, last of the Amal blood,
had held the throne in brief succession and were gone; warriors
chosen at will by the Gothic host, mere kings of the battlefield,
had risen and perished; reduced to a wandering tribe, the nation
which alone of her invaders had given peace and hope to Italy, which
alone had reverenced and upheld the laws, polity, culture of Rome,
would soon, it was thought, be utterly destroyed, or vanish in
flight beyond the Alps. Yet war did not come to an end. In the plain
of the great river there was once more a chieftain whom the Goths
had raised upon their shields, a king, men said, glorious in youth
and strength, and able, even yet, to worst the Emperor's generals.
His fame increased. Ere long he was known to be moving southward, to
have crossed the Apennines, to have won a battle in Etruria. The
name of this young hero was Totila.

In these days the senators of Rome, heirs to a title whose ancient
power and dignity were half-forgotten, abode within the City, under
constraint disguised as honour, the conqueror's hostages. One among
them, of noblest name, Flavius Anicius Maximus, broken in health by
the troubles of the time and by private sorrow, languishing all but
unto death in the heavy air of the Tiber, was permitted to seek
relief in a visit to which he would of his domains in Italy. His
birth, his repute, gave warrant of loyalty to the empire, and his
coffers furnished the price put upon such a favour by Byzantine
greed. Maximus chose for refuge his villa by the Campanian shore,
vast, beautiful, half in ruin, which had been enjoyed by generations
of the Anician family; situated above the little town of Surrentum
it caught the cooler breeze, and on its mountainous promontory lay
apart from the tramp of armies. Here, as summer burned into autumn,
the sick man lived in brooding silence, feeling his strength waste,
and holding to the world only by one desire.

The household comprised his unwedded sister Petronilla, a lady in
middle age, his nephew Basil, and another kinsman, Decius, a student
and an invalid; together with a physician, certain freedmen who
rendered services of trust, a eunuch at the Command of Petronilla,
and the usual body of male and female slaves. Some score of
glebe-bound peasants cultivated the large estate for their lord's
behoof. Notwithstanding the distress that had fallen upon the Roman
nobility, many of whom were sunk into indigence, the chief of the
Anicii still controlled large means; and the disposal of these
possessions at his death was matter of interest to many persons--
not least to the clergy of Rome, who found in the dying man's sister
a piously tenacious advocate. Children had been born to Maximus, but
the only son who reached mature years fell a victim to pestilence
when Vitiges was camped about the City. There survived one daughter,
Aurelia. Her the father had not seen for years; her he longed to see
and to pardon ere he died. For Aurelia, widowed of her first husband
in early youth, had used her liberty to love and wed a flaxen-haired
barbarian, a lord of the Goths; and, worse still, had renounced the
Catholic faith for the religion of the Gothic people, that heresy of
Arianism condemned and abhorred by Rome. In Consequence she became
an outcast from her kith and kin. Her husband commanded in the city
of Cumae, hard by Neapolis. When this stronghold fell before the
advance of Belisarius, the Goth escaped, soon after to die in
battle; Aurelia, a captive of the Conquerors, remained at Cumae, and
still was living there, though no longer under restraint. Because of
its strength, this ancient city became the retreat of many ladies
who fled from Rome before the hardships and perils of the siege;
from them the proud and unhappy woman. ever held apart, yet she
refused to quit the town when she would have been permitted to do
so. From his terrace above the Surrentine shore, Maximus gazed
across the broad gulf to the hills that concealed Cumae, yearning
for the last of his children. When at length he wrote her a letter,
a letter of sad kindness, inviting rather than beseeching her to
visit him, Aurelia made no reply. Wounded, he sunk again into
silence, until his heart could no longer bear its secret burden, and
he spoke--not to Petronilla, from whose austere orthodoxy little
sympathy was to be expected--but to his nephew Basil, whose
generous mettle willingly lent itself to such a service as was
proposed. On his delicate mission, the young man set forth without
delay. To Cumae, whether by sea or land, was but a short journey:
starting at daybreak, Basil might have given ample time to his
embassy, and have been back again early on the morrow. But the
second day passed, and he did not return. Though harassed by the
delay, Maximus tried to deem it of good omen, and nursed his hope
through another sleepless night.

Soon after sunrise, he was carried forth to his place of
observation, a portico in semicircle, the marble honey-toned by
time, which afforded shelter from the eastern rays and commanded a
view of vast extent. Below him lay the little town, built on the
cliffs above its landing-place; the hillsides on either hand were
clad with vineyards, splendid in the purple of autumn, and with
olives. Sky and sea shone to each other in perfect calm; the softly
breathing air mingled its morning freshness with a scent of fallen
flower and leaf. A rosy vapour from Vesuvius floated gently inland;
and this the eye of Maximus marked with contentment, as it signified
a favourable wind for a boat crossing hither from the far side of
the bay. For the loveliness of the scene before him, its noble
lines, its jewelled colouring, he had little care; but the infinite
sadness of its suggestion, the decay and the desolation uttered by
all he saw, sank deep into his heart. If his look turned to the
gleaming spot which was the city of Neapolis, there came into his
mind the sack and massacre of a few years ago, when Belisarius so
terribly avenged upon the Neapolitans their stubborn resistance to
his siege. Faithful to the traditions of his house, of his order,
Maximus had welcomed the invasion which promised to restore Italy to
the Empire; now that the restoration was effected, he saw with
bitterness the evils resulting from it, and all but hoped that this
new king of the Goths, this fortune-favoured Totila, might sweep the
land of its Greek oppressors. He looked back upon his own life, on
the placid dignity of his career under the rule of Theodoric, the
offices by which he had risen, until he sat in the chair of the
Consul. Yet in that time, which now seemed so full of peaceful
glories, he had never at heart been loyal to the great king; in his
view, as in that of the nobles generally, Theodoric was but a
usurper, who had abused the mandate intrusted to him by the Emperor
Zeno, to deliver Italy from the barbarians. When his own kinsmen,
Boethius and Symmachus, were put to death on a charge of treachery,
Maximus burned with hatred of the Goth. He regarded with disdain the
principles of Cassiodorus, who devoted his life to the Gothic cause,
and who held that only as an independent kingdom could there be hope
for Italy. Having for a moment the ear of Theodoric's daughter,
Amalasuntha, when she ruled for her son, Maximus urged her to yield
her kingdom to the Emperor, and all but saw his counsel acted upon.
After all, was not Cassiodorus right? Were not the senators who had
ceaselessly intrigued with Byzantium in truth traitors to Rome? It
was a bitter thought for the dying man that all his life he had not
only failed in service to his country, but had obstinately wrought
for her ruin.

Attendants placed food beside him. He mingled wine with water and
soothed a feverish thirst. His physician, an elderly man of Oriental
visage, moved respectfully to his side, greeted him as Illustrious,
inquired how his Magnificence had passed the latter part of the
night. Whilst replying, as ever courteously--for in the look and
bearing of Maximus there was that _senatorius decor_ which Pliny
noted in a great Roman of another time--his straining eyes seemed
to descry a sail in the quarter he continually watched. Was it only
a fishing boat? Raised upon the couch, he gazed long and fixedly.
Impossible as yet to be sure whether he saw the expected bark; but
the sail seemed to draw nearer, and he watched.

The voice of a servant, who stood at a respectful distance,
announced: 'The gracious Lady'; and there appeared a little
procession. Ushered by her eunuch, and attended by half a dozen
maidens, one of whom held over her a silk sunshade with a handle of
gold, the sister of Maximus approached at a stately pace. She was
tall, and of features severely regular; her dark hair--richer in
tone and more abundant than her years could warrant--rose in
elaborate braiding intermingled with golden threads; her waistless
robe was of white silk adorned with narrow stripes of purple, which
descended, two on each side, from the shoulders to the hem, and
about her neck lay a shawl of delicate tissue. In her hand, which
glistened with many gems, she carried a small volume, richly bound,
the Psalter. Courtesies of the gravest passed between her and
Maximus, who, though he could not rise from his couch, assumed an
attitude of graceful deference, and Petronilla seated herself in a
chair which a slave had placed for her. After many inquiries as to
her brother's health, the lady allowed her eyes to wander for a
moment, then spoke with the smile of one who imparts rare tidings.

'Late last night--too late to trouble you with the news--there
came a post from the reverend deacon Leander. He disembarked
yesterday at Salernum, and, after brief repose, hopes to visit us.
Your Amiability will, I am sure, welcome his coming.'

'Assuredly,' answered Maximus, bending his head, whilst his eyes
watched the distant sail. 'Whence comes he?'

'From Sicily. We shall learn, I dare say, the business which took
him there,' added Petronilla, with a self-satisfied softening of her
lips. 'The deacon is wont to talk freely with me of whatever
concerns the interests of our holy Church, even as I think you
remember, has now and then deigned--though I know not how I have
deserved such honour--to ask, I dare not say my counsel, but my
humble thoughts on this or that. I think we may expect him before
morning. The day will not be too warm for travel.'

Maximus wore an anxious look, and spoke after hesitation.

'Will his reverend leisure permit him to pass more than one day with
us?'

'Earnestly I hope so. You, beyond doubt, dear lord, my brother, will
desire long privacy with the holy man. His coming at this time is
plainly of Heaven's direction.'

'Lady sister,' answered Maximus, with the faintest smile on his sad
features, 'I would not willingly rob you of a moment's conference
with the good deacon. My own business with him is soon despatched. I
would fain be assured of burial in the Temple of Probus where sleep
our ancestors.'

'Of that,' replied Petronilla, solemnly and not unkindly, 'doubt not
for a moment. Your body shall lie there, by the blessed Peter's
sanctuary, and your tomb be honoured among those of the greatest of
our blood. But there is another honour that I covet for you, an
honour above all that the world can bestow. In these sad times,
Maximus, the Church has need of strengthening. You have no children--'

A glance from the listener checked her, and, before she could
resume, Maximus interposed in a low voice:

'I have yet a daughter.'

'A daughter?' exclaimed Petronilla, troubled, confused, scarce
subduing indignation.

'It is better I should tell you,' continued her brother, with some
sternness, resulting from the efforts to command himself, 'that
Basil is gone to Cumae to see Aurelia, and, if it may be, to lead
her to me. Perhaps even now'--he pointed to the sea--'they are
on the way hither. Let us not speak of it, Petronilla,' he added in
a firmer tone. 'It is my will; that must suffice. Of you I ask
nothing save silence.'

The lady arose. Her countenance expressed angry and bitter feeling,
but there was no danger of her uttering what she thought. Gravely,
somewhat coldly, she spoke good wishes for her brother's ease during
the day, and so retired with her retinue. Alone, Maximus sighed, and
looked again across the waters.

In a few minutes the servant who guarded his privacy was again heard
announcing the lord Decius. The Senator turned his eyes with a look
of good-humoured greeting.

'Abroad so early, good cousin? Did the oil fail you last night and
send you too soon to bed?'

'You have not chanced to remember, dear my lord, what day it is?'
returned Decius, when he had bestowed a kiss on his kinsman's cheek.
'Had I but vigour enough, this morning would have seen me on a
pilgrimage to the tomb.' He put out a hand towards Neapolis. 'I rose
at daybreak to meditate the Fourth Eclogue.'

'The ides of October--true. I take shame to myself for having lost
the memory of Virgil in my own distresses.'

Decius, whose years were scarce thirty, had the aspect and the gait
of an elderly man; his thin hair streaked with grey, his cheeks
hollow, his eyes heavy, he stooped in walking and breathed with
difficulty; the tunic and the light cloak, which were all his
attire, manifested an infinite carelessness in matters of costume,
being worn and soiled. Than he, no Roman was poorer; he owned
nothing but his clothing and a few books. Akin to the greatest, and
bearing a name of which he was inordinately proud--as a schoolboy
he had once burst into tears when reciting with passion the Lay of
the Decii--felt content to owe his sustenance to the delicate and
respectful kindness of Maximus, who sympathised with the great wrong
he had suffered early in life. This was no less than wilful
impoverishment by his father, who, seeking to atone for sins by
fanaticism, had sold the little he possessed to found a pilgrims'
hospice at Portus, whither, accompanied by the twelve-year-old boy,
he went to live as monk-servitor In a year or two the penitent died;
Decius, in revolt against the tasks to which he was subjected,
managed to escape, made his way to Rome, and appealed to Maximus.
Nominally he still held the post of secretary to his benefactor, but
for many years he had enjoyed entire leisure, all of it devoted to
study. Several times illness had brought him to the threshold of
death, yet it had never conquered his love of letters, his
enthusiasm for his country's past. Few liked him only one or two
understood him: Decius was content that it should be so.

'Let us speak of it,' he continued, unrolling a manuscript of Virgil
some two hundred years old, a gift to him from Maximus. 'Tell me,
dear lord, your true thought: is it indeed a prophecy of the Divine
Birth? To you'--he smiled his gentle, beautiful smile--'may I
not confess that I have doubted this interpretation? Yet'--he cast
his eyes down--'the doubt is perhaps a prompting of the spirit of
evil.'

'I know not, Decius, I know not,' replied the sick man with
thoughtful melancholy. 'My father held it a prophecy his father
before him.--But forgive me, I am expecting anxiously the return
of Basil; yonder sail--is it his? Your eyes see further than
mine.'

Decius at once put aside his own reflections, and watched the
oncoming bark. Before long there was an end of doubt. Rising in
agitation to his feet, Maximus gave orders that the litter, which
since yesterday morning had been in readiness, should at once be
borne with all speed down to the landing-place. Sail and oars soon
brought the boat so near that Decius was able to descry certain
female figures and that of a man, doubtless Basil, who stood up and
waved his arms shoreward.

'She has come,' broke from Maximus; and, in reply to his kinsman's
face of inquiry, he told of whom it was he spoke.

The landing-place was not visible from here. As soon as the boat
disappeared beneath the buildings of the town, Maximus requested of
his companion a service which asked some courage in the performance:
it was, to wait forthwith upon the Lady Petronilla, to inform her
that Aurelia had just disembarked, to require that three female
slaves should be selected to attend upon the visitor. This mission
Decius discharged, not without trembling; he then walked to the main
entrance of the villa, and stood there, the roll of Virgil still in
his hand, until the sound of a horse's hoofs on the upward road
announced the arrival of the travellers. The horseman, who came some
yards in advance of the slave-borne litter, was Basil. At sight of
Decius, he dismounted, and asked in an undertone: 'You know?' The
other replied with the instructions given by Maximus, that the
litter, which was closed against curious eyes, should be straightway
conveyed to the Senator's presence, Basil himself to hold apart
until summoned.

And so it was done. Having deposited their burden between two
columns of the portico, the bearers withdrew. The father's voice
uttered the name of Aurelia, and, putting aside the curtains that
had concealed her, she stood before him. A woman still young, and of
bearing which became her birth; a woman who would have had much
grace, much charm, but for the passion which, turned to vehement
self-will, had made her blood acrid. Her great dark eyes burned with
quenchless resentment; her sunken and pallid face told of the
sufferings of a tortured pride.

'Lord Maximus,' were her first words, as she stood holding by the
litter, glancing distrustfully about her, 'you have sworn!'

'Hear me repeat my oath,' answered the father, strengthened by his
emotion to move forward from the couch. 'By the blessed martyr
Pancratius, I swear that no harm shall befall you, no constraint
shall be put upon you, that you shall be free to come and to go as
you will.'

It was the oath no perjurer durst make. Aurelia gazed into her
father's face, which was wet with tears. She stepped nearer to him,
took his thin, hot hand, and, as in her childhood, bent to kiss the
back of the wrist. But Maximus folded her to his heart.

CHAPTER II

BASIL'S VISION

Basil and Decius paced together a garden alley, between a row of
quince-trees and a hedge of Christ's-thorn; at one end was a
fountain in a great basin of porphyry, at the other a little temple,
very old and built for the worship of Isis, now an oratory under the
invocation of the Blessed Mary. The two young men made a singular
contrast, for Basil, who was in his twenty-third year, had all the
traits of health and vigour: a straight back, lithe limbs, a face
looking level on the world, a lustrous eye often touched to ardour,
a cheek of the purest carnation, a mouth that told of fine
instincts, delicate sensibilities, love of laughter. No less did his
costume differ from the student's huddled garb; his tunic was finely
embroidered in many hues, his silken cloak had a great buckle of
gold on the shoulder; he wore ornate shoes, and by his waist hung a
silver-handled dagger in a sheath of chased bronze. He stepped
lightly, as one who asks but the occasion to run and leap. In their
intimate talk, he threw an arm over his companion's neck, a movement
graceful as it was affectionate; his voice had a note frank and
cordial.

Yet Basil was not quite his familiar self to-day; he talked with
less than his natural gaiety, wore a musing look, fell into
silences. Now that Aurelia had come, there was no motive for reserve
on that subject with Decius, and indeed they conversed of their
kinswoman with perfect openness, pitying rather than condemning her,
and wondering what would result from her presence under one roof
with the rigid Petronilla. Not on Aurelia's account did Basil droop
his head now and then, look about him vacantly, bite his lip, answer
a question at hazard, play nervously with his dagger's hilt. All at
once, with an abruptness which moved his companion's surprise, he
made an inquiry, seemingly little relevant to their topic.

'Heard you ever of a Gothic princess--a lady of the lineage of
Theodoric--still living in Italy?'

'Never,' responded Decius, with a puzzled smile. 'Is there such a
one?'

'I am told so--I heard it by chance. Yet I know not who she can
be. Did not the direct line of Theodoric end with Athalaric and his
sister Matasuntha, who is now at the Emperor's court?'

'So I believed,' said Decius, 'though I have thought but little of
the matter.'

'I too, trust me,' let fall Basil, with careful carelessness; no
actor he. 'And the vile Theodahad--what descendants did he leave?'

'He was a scholar,' said the other musingly, 'deep read in Plato.'

'None the less a glutton and a murderer and a coward, who did well
to give his throat to the butcher as he ran away from his enemies.
Children he had, I think--but--'

Basil broke off on a wandering thought. He stood still, knitted his
brows, and sniffed the air. At this moment there appeared in the
alley a serving man, a young and active fellow of very honest
visage, who stood at some yards' distance until Basil observed him.

'What is it, Felix?' inquired his master.

The attendant stepped forward, and made known that the lord Marcian
had even now ridden up to the villa, with two followers, and desired
to wait upon Basil. This news brought a joyful light to the eyes of
the young noble; he hastened to welcome his friend, the dearest he
had. Marcian, a year or two his elder, was less favoured by nature
in face and form: tall and vigorous enough of carriage, he showed
more bone and sinew than flesh; and his face might have been that of
a man worn by much fasting, so deep sunk were the eyes, so jutting
the cheek-bones, and so sharp the chin; its cast, too, was that of a
fixed and native melancholy. But when he smiled, these features
became much more pleasing, and revealed a kindliness of temper such
as might win the love of one who knew him well. His dress was plain,
and the dust of Campanian roads lay somewhat thick upon him.

'By Bacchus!' cried his friend, as they embraced each other,
'fortune is good to me to-day. Could I have had but one wish
granted, it would have been to see Marcian. I thought you still in
Rome. What makes you travel? Not in these days solely to visit a
friend, I warrant. By Peter and Paul and as many more saints as you
can remember, I am glad to hold your hand! What news do you bring?'

'Little enough,' answered Marcian, with a shrug of the shoulders.
The natural tune of his voice harmonised with his visage, and he
spoke as one who feels a scornful impatience with the affairs of
men. 'At Rome, they wrangle about goats' wool, as is their wont.
Anything else? Why, yes; the freedman Chrysanthus glories in an
ex-consulate. It cost him the trifle of thirty pounds of gold.'

Basil laughed contemptuously, half angrily.

'We must look to our honours,' he exclaimed. 'If Chrysanthus be
ex-consul, can you and I be satisfied with less than
ex-Praetorian-Prefect? What will be the price, think you? Has Bessas
hung out a tariff yet in the Forum?'

'He knows better than to fix a maximum, as long as a wealthy fool
remains in the city--though that won't be much longer, I take it.'

'Why come you hither, dear my lord?' urged Basil, with more
seriousness.

Regarding him with a grave eye, his friend replied in an undertone:

'To spy upon you.'

'Ha!--In very truth?'

'You could wish me a more honourable office,' Marcian went on,
smiling sadly. 'Yet, if you think of it, in these days, it is some
honour to be a traitor to both sides. There has been talk of you in
Rome. Nay, who knows how or why l They have nothing to do but talk,
and these victories of the Goth have set up such a Greek cackle as
was never heard since Helen ran away to Troy,--and, talking of
Greek, I bear a letter for you from Heliodora.'

Basil, who had been listening gravely, started at this name and
uttered an idle laugh. From a wallet hanging at his girdle, Marcian
drew forth the missive.

'That may wait,' said Basil, glancing indifferently at the folded
and sealed paper before he hid it away. 'Having said so much, you
must tell me more. Put off that sardonic mask--I know very well
what hides beneath it--and look me in the eye. You have surprised
some danger?'

'I heard you spoken of--by one who seldom opens his lips but to
ill purpose. It was not difficult for me to wade through the
shallows of the man's mind, and for my friend's sake to win his base
confidence. Needing a spy, and being himself a born traitor, he
readily believed me at his beck; in truth he had long marked me, so
I found, for a cankered soul who waited but the occasion to advance
by infamy. I held the creature in my hand; I turned him over and
over, and he, the while, thinking me his greedy slave. And so,
usurping the place of some other who would have ambushed you in real
enmity, I came hither on his errand.'

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