The Tour

The night that hung over the sea was windless and blissfully silver-pure after the glowing splendour of the day; and the great quadrireme glided evenly and softly, as though upon a lake, under a wide firmament of stars. The thin horizon was purely outlined around the oval sea; and on this wide world there was nothing but the stars and the ship.

But the ship resounded with music. There was the constantly repeated melodious phrase of the three hundred rowers, soft and monotone, in a melancholy minor, with ever the same refrain, after which the boatswain gave out the chant, after which the chorus of rowers again threw back their long, hushed phrase of melancholy, the soft, monotonous accompaniment of the wearying work, the musical encouragement to repeat the same movement of the arms and the same bending of the body over the loins.

This music rose in a mournful swell from the ship’s lower deck and harmonizing with it was the soft stroke of the oars, which were like the legs of some graceful sea-animal; the ship herself, with her swanlike raised prow, suggested an elegant monster swimming through the lake-calm waters of that silvery night-world, a monster with a swan’s neck and hundreds of slender, evenly-moving legs and winged with two rose-yellow sails, which rose and bellied gently at the ship’s own motion, but did not swell, because the wind lay still.

While the great, winged navigium glided upon that harmony of slaves’ song and oar-strokes, there came from the rear half-deck the blither song of the sailors idling after their work. It sounded cheerful with deep, bass male voices, without the rowers’ melancholy; and there was one sailor who gave the time in a higher voice, for the seamen were at liberty

You are as mettlesome as a young colt. And sorrow drove you mad.”

“It does so still. Sometimes, sometimes it is as though I felt a fury of frenzy here, inside me, in my breast! Then I must have her, have her back, have her here, beside me, in my arms, at my breast, at my lips! O ye gods, ye gods, ye gods!”

He drew a deep breath, moaned and sobbed.

“Be still, dear young master,” said the tutor. “Try to forget and try to be resigned. She is gone. She is not to be found. We have searched everywhere. You have vainly squandered treasures to find her. Ilia is gone. It is three months now since she disappeared. She was probably kidnapped by pirates while bathing. She used often to bathe in the sea, among the rocks.⁠ ⁠…”

“Is the villa at Baiae sold? I won’t go back to it!⁠ ⁠… Since she is no longer there, since she has disappeared, disappeared! She has disappeared! She has disappeared without a trace! Just one sandal on the shore. It was a calm sea. She cannot have been drowned!⁠ ⁠… In my house she was queen! My Ilia: she was the queen of my house, though she was a slave! Everything for her and because of her! She was my slave, but she had slaves herself, male and female: she had the jewels of an empress, she had the raiment of a goddess! I worshipped her as I would Venus herself! And she has disappeared, she has disappeared without a trace, without a trace! Not a thing of hers has been found save a sandal, a sandal! Where can she be? Is she dead, is she alive?

They entered a very narrow little chamber. A woman came from behind a curtain. She was shrouded in a white veil, like a phantom; she carried an earthenware lamp; and it was not possible to see if she was young or old.

“Do you wish to know the future?” she asked, in a hollow voice.

“No,” said Lucius, “I want to know the past and the present. I want to know where a girl named Ilia is and how she vanished from my house. Here is the sandal which she left behind: the only trace of her. If she⁠ ⁠… is dead, can you make her appear before me, so that I may ask her?”

“Yes,” said the sibyl, “I can. For I am descended from the witch of En-dor.”

“Who was she?” asked Lucius.

“The witch who made Samuel appear before Saul.⁠ ⁠…”

“I never heard of them,” said Lucius.

“And another of my forbears was my honoured namesake, Herophila of Erythrae.”

“Who was she?” asked Lucius.

“She was the custodian of the shrine of Apollo Smintheus, the divine rat-killer. She prophesied to Hecuba the calamity which would cause the death of her son Paris, whom she was bearing in her womb.”

“I never heard of her before,” Lucius repeated. “Tell me if Ilia is dead.”

The sibyl pressed the blue-leather sandal to her head; and her other hand pressed Lucius’ forehead.

“The pyramid of Rhodopis. She lived at Naucratis and was incomparably beautiful and chaste. One day, when she was bathing, an eagle flew through the open ceiling of the bathroom and plucked from her maid’s hands the sandal which she was just about to lace on her mistress’ foot.”

Lucius suddenly turned very pale. But the priest continued:

“The eagle flew to Memphis, where the king was administering justice in one of the courts of the palace; and, flying above the king, the eagle dropped the sandal, so that it fell into the folds of the king’s garment. The king was much surprised; and he examined the sandal, which was as small as a child’s and yet was the sandal of a woman. And he bade his servants search all Egypt to find the woman whom so small a sandal would fit. His servants then found Rhodopis at Naucratis and carried her to the king and he married her; and, when she died, after a few months’ happiness, the disconsolate king dedicated to her the black pyramid⁠ ⁠… which is the costliest of all the pyramids.⁠ ⁠… Rhodopis’ scented mummy vanished; her sarcophagus vanished. But the sandal, which the king ever worshipped, was preserved by a miracle. Behold it.”

And the priests, with their torches, lighted in the middle of the jet-black room a crystal shrine, standing on a black-porphyry table. And in the crystal shrine lay a little sandal, like a child’s and yet a woman’s, a little red-leather sandal with gold ornaments, arabesques that glittered incredibly fresh.