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THE LION'S BROOD

by

DUFFIELD OSBORNE

Author of "The Spell of Ashtaroth," "The Secret of the Crater"







[Frontispiece: Here and there a Gaul would bound
forward . . . to throw himself prone beneath
the vermilion hoofs.]



New York
Doubleday Page & Company
1904
Copyright, 1901,
by Doubleday, Page & Co.




To the Memory of

HOWARD SEELY

BRILLIANT WRITER, TRUE-HEARTED GENTLEMAN,

STANCH AND LOYAL FRIEND





CONTENTS.


PART I.

INTRODUCTION


CHAPTER

    I.  NEWS
   II.  WORDS
  III.  PARTING
   IV.  FABIUS
    V.  TEMPTATION
   VI.  DISOBEDIENCE
  VII.  PUNISHMENT
 VIII.  DISGRACE
   IX.  HOME
    X.  CONVALESCENCE
   XI.  POLITICS
  XII.  BRAWLINGS
 XIII.  THE RED FLAG
  XIV.  CANNAE
   XV.  "WITHIN THE RAILS"


PART II.

    I.  THE QUEEN OF THE WAYS
   II.  THE GATE
  III.  PACUVIUS CALAVIUS
   IV.  THE HOUSE OF THE NINII CELERES
    V.  THE BANQUET
   VI.  ALLIES
  VII.  "FREEDOM"
 VIII.  DIPLOMACY
   IX.  THE BAIT
    X.  MELKARTH
   XI.  THE SLAVE
  XII.  FLIGHT
 XIII.  WINTER QUARTERS




PART I.


THE LION'S BROOD.


INTRODUCTION.

Centuries come and go; but the plot of the drama is unchanged, and the
same characters play the same parts.  Only the actors cast for them are
new.


It is much worn,--this denarius,--and the lines are softened and
blurred,--as of right they should be, when you think that more than two
thousand years have passed since it felt the die.  It is lying before
me now on my table, and my eyes rest dreamily on its helmeted head of
Pallas Nicephora.  There, behind her, is the mint-mark and that word of
ancient power and glory, "Roma."  Below are letters so worn and
indistinct that I must bend close to read them: "--M. SERGI," and then
others that I cannot trace.

Perhaps I have dozed a bit, for I must have turned the coin,
unthinking, and now I see the reverse: a horseman, in full panoply,
galloping, with naked sword brandished in his left hand, from which
depends a severed head tight-clutched by long, flowing hair.

The clouds hang low over the city, as I peer from my tower
window,--driving, ever driving, from the east, and changing, ever
changing, their fantastic shapes.  Now they are the waving hands and
gowns of a closely packed multitude surging with human passions; now
they are the headlong rout of a flying army upon which press hordes of
riders, dark, fierce, and barbarous--horses with tumultuous manes, and
hands with brandished darts.  Surely it is a sleepy, workless day!  It
will be vain to drive my pen across the pages.

I do not see the cloud forms now--not with my eyes, for they have
closed themselves perforce; but my brain is awake, and I know that the
eyes of Pallas Nicephora see them, and grow brighter as if gazing on
well-remembered scenes.

Why not?  How many thousand clinkings of coin against coin in purse and
pouch, how many hundred impacts of hands that long since are dust, have
served to dim your once clear relief!

Surely, Pallas, you have looked upon all this and much more.  Shall I
see aught with your eyes, lady of my Sergian denarius?  Shall I see,
if, with you before me, I look fixedly at the legions of clouds that
cross my window an hour--two--three--even until the night closes in?

Grant but a grain of this, O Goddess, and lo! I vow to thee a troop of
pipe-players upon the Ides of June.




I.

NEWS.

"A troop of pipe-players to Minerva on the Ides of June, if we win!"

"And my household to Mars, if we have lost!"

The speakers were hurrying along the street that leads down from the
Palatine Hill toward the Forum, and both were young.  Their high shoes
fastened with quadruple thongs and adorned with small silver crescents
proclaimed their patrician rank.

"Why do you vow as if the gods had already passed judgment, Lucius?"

"Because, my Caius, I am very sure that a battle has been fought.  What
else do these rumours mean that are flying through the city? rumours
that none can trace to a source.  It is only a few minutes, since my
freedman, Atius, told me how the slaves report that our neighbour
Marcus Sabrius rode in last night through the Ratumenian Gate; and when
I sent to his house to inquire, the doorkeeper feigned ignorance.  That
is only one of a hundred tales.  Note the crowd thickening around us as
we approach the Forum, and how all are pressing in the same direction.
Study their faces, and doubt what I say if you can."

"But is it victory or defeat?"

"Answer me your own question, Caius.  Is 'victory' or 'defeat' the word
that men do not dare to utter?"

The face of Caius became grave.  Then suddenly he burst out with:--

"You are right.  I see it all now, even as you speak; and what hope had
we from the first?  Who was the demagogue Flaminius that he should
command our army, going forth without the auspices--a consul that was
no consul at all in the sight of the gods!  Then, too, there were the
warnings that poured in from all the country: the ships in the sky, the
crow alighting on the couch in the Temple of Juno, the stones rained in
Picinum--"

"Foolish stories, my Caius; the dreams of ignorant rustics," replied
Lucius, smiling faintly.  "Besides, you remember they were all
expiated--"

"And who knows that they were expiated truly!" croaked an old woman
from a booth by the road.  "Who does not know that, as Varro says, your
patrician magistrates would rather lose a battle than that a plebeian
consul should triumph!  Varbo, the butcher, dreamed last night that his
son's blood was drenching his bed, and when he awoke, it was water from
the roof; and Arates, the Greek soothsayer, says that Varbo's son has
been slain in the water, and his blood--"

But the young patricians, who had halted a moment at the interruption,
now hurried on with an expression of contempt on their faces.

"That is what Flaminius stands for," resumed Lucius after a moment of
silence.  "How can we look for success when such men are raised to the
command, merely because they _are_ such men; and when a Fabius and a
Claudius are set aside because their fathers' fathers led the armies of
the Republic to victory in the days when this rabble were the slaves
they should still be."

The friends had turned into the Sacred Way.  A moment later they
arrived at the Forum lined with its rows of booths nestled away beneath
massive porticoes of peperino, and with its columned temples standing
like divine sentinels about or sweeping away up the rugged slope of the
Capitoline to where the great fane of Jupiter Capitolinus shed its
protecting glory over the destinies of Rome.

Below, the broad expanse of Forum and Comitia was thronged with a
surging crowd--patricians and plebeians,--elbowing and pushing one
another in mad efforts to get closer to the Rostra and to a small group
of magistrates, who, with grave faces, were clustered at the foot of
its steps.  These latter spoke to each other in whispers, but such a
babel of sounds swelled up around them that they might safely have
screamed without fear of being overheard.

The booths were emptied of their cooks and butchers and silversmiths.
Waving arms and the flutter of robes emphasized the discussions going
on on every side.  Here a rumour-monger was telling his tale to a
gaping cluster of pallid faces; there a plebeian pot-house orator was
arraigning the upper classes to a circle of lowering brows and clenched
fists, while the sneering face of some passing patrician told of a
disdain beyond words, as he gathered his toga closer to avoid the
contamination of the rabble.

One sentiment, however, seemed to prevail over all, and, beside it,
curiosity, party rancour, wrath, and contempt were as nothing.  It was
anxiety sharpened even into dread that brooded everywhere and
controlled all other passions, while itself threatening at every moment
to sweep away the barriers and to loose the warm southern blood of the
citizens into a seething flood of furious riot or headlong panic.

The two young men had descended into this maelstrom of popular
excitement, and were making such headway as they could toward the
central point of interest.  Now and again they passed friends who
either looked straight into their faces, without a sign of recognition,
or else burst out into floods of information,--prayers for news or
vouchsafings of it,--news, good or bad, true or false.  Perhaps
three-fourths of the distance had been covered at the expense of torn
togas and bruised sides, when a sudden commotion in front showed that
something was happening.  The next moment the hard, stern face of
Marcus Pomponius Matho, the praetor peregrinus, rose above the crowd,
and then the broad purple band upon his toga, as he mounted the steps
of the Rostra.

It seemed hours--almost days--that he stood there, grave and silent,
looking down into the sea of upturned faces, while the roar of the
multitude died away into a gentle murmur, and then into a silence so
oppressive that each man seemed to be holding his breath.  Once the
magistrate's lips moved, but no words came from them, and strange
noises, as of the clenching of teeth and sharp, quick breathing, rose
all about.  Then a voice came from his mouth, the very calmness of
which seemed terrible:--

"Quirites, we have been beaten in a great battle.  Our army is
destroyed, and Caius Flaminius, the consul, is killed."

For a moment there was stillness deeper almost than before, as if the
leadlike words were sinking slowly but steadily along passage and nerve
down to the central seats of consciousness; then burst forth a sound as
of a single groan--the groan of Jupiter himself in mortal anguish; and
then the noise of women weeping, the shrieking treble of age, and the
rumbling murmur of curses and execrations,--against senate and nobles,
against the rabble and their dead leader, but, above all, against
Carthage and her terrible captain.

"Who are these men that slay consuls and destroy armies?" piped the
shrill voice of an aged cripple who had struggled up from where he sat
upon the steps of Castor, and was shaking the stump of a wrist toward
the north.

"Are they not the men who surrendered Sicily that we might let them
escape from us at Eryx?  Did they not give up their ships, and pay us
tribute, and scurry out of Sardinia that Rome might spare them?  I--I
who am talking to you have seen their armies: naked barbarians from the
deserts, naked barbarians from the woods--not one well-armed man in
five--a rabble with a score of languages, to whom no general can talk.
_They_ to destroy the army of Rome--in her own land!--what crime have
we committed that the gods should deal with us thus?"

"But the great beasts that tear up the ranks?" put in a young butcher,
one of the circle that had been drawn together about the veteran.

"How did his elephants save Pyrrhus--and then we saw them for the first
time?" retorted the cripple.

"You forget, that was before Rome had become the prey of demagogues;
before she had Flaminii for consuls."

All turned toward the new speaker--the young patrician whom his
companion had called Lucius.  He was a man perhaps twenty-five years of
age, of middle height, sparely built but as if of tempered steel, with
strong, commanding features and dark hawklike eyes that were now
glittering with passion.  It was not a handsome face except so far as
strength and pride make masculine beauty, but it was the face of one
whom a man might trust and a woman love.

The butcher was on the point of returning an angry retort, half to hide
his awe of the other's rank, when a friend caught him by the arm.

"Do you not see it is Lucius Sergius Fidenas?" he whispered.

The result of the warning was still doubtful, when a sudden commotion
in the crowd about them drew the attention of all to a short, thick-set
man of middle age, in the light panoply of a mounted legionary.  Cries
went up from all about:--

"It is Marcus Decius."  "He is from the army."  "Tell us! what news?"

For answer the newcomer turned from one to the other of his
questioners, with a dazed expression on his pale, drawn face.

"What shall I say, neighbours?" he muttered at last.  "My horse fell
just out there on the Flaminian road, and I came here on foot.  I have
eaten nothing for a day."

But they paid no attention to his wants, thronging around with almost
threatening gestures and crying:--

"What news?  What news--not of yourself--of the army?--of the battle?"

"There was no battle, and there is no army," said the man, dully.

Sergius forced his way to the front and threw one arm about the
soldier.  Then, turning to the crowd:--

"Stand back!" he cried, "and give him air.  Do you not see the fellow
is fainting?"

"No battle--and yet no army," repeated Decius, in a murmurous monotone,
when, for a moment, there were silence and space around him.  "We
marched by the Lake Trasimenus, and the fog lay thick upon us.  Then
came a noise of shouts and clash of arms and shrieks, but we saw
nothing--only sometimes a great, white, naked body swinging a huge
sword, and again a black man buried in his horse's mane that waved
about him as he rushed by--only these things and our own men
falling--falling without ever a chance to strike or to see whence we
were stricken."

The crowd shuddered.

"And the elephants?"

"I did not see them.  They say they are all dead."

"And the consul?"

"I do not know."

Just then the cripple from the steps was pushed forward.

"Flaminius is dead.  He died fighting, as a Roman consul should.  But
you?  What are you, to let the pulse-eaters at him.  You should have
seen how _we_ dealt with them off the Aegusian Islands."

"Or at Drepana?" sneered the horseman, roused from his lethargy by the
other's taunt.

"That was what a _patrician_ consul brought us to," muttered the
cripple, glancing at Sergius.  "Do you know what the Claudian did?
When the sacred chickens would not eat, he cried out, 'Then they shall
drink,' and ordered them thrown overboard.  How could soldiers win when
an impious commander had first challenged the gods?"

"And what about Flaminius ordering our standards to be dug up when they
could not be drawn from the earth?" retorted the other.

"Did he do that?" asked several, and for a moment the feeling that had
been with the cripple, and against the victim of this latest disaster,
seemed divided.

Sergius perceived only too clearly that, in the present temper of men's
minds, the faintest spark could light fires of riot and murder that
might leave but a heap of ashes and corpses for the Carthaginian to
gain.  Taking advantage of the momentary lull, he said in conciliatory
tones:--

"Flaminius neglected the auspices, and disaster came upon us for his
impiety, but it appears that he died like a brave soldier, and he is a
whip-knave who strikes at such.  As for this man, he needs succour and
care.  Stand aside, then, that I may take him where his wants may be
ministered to.  There will soon be plenty of fugitives to fill your
ears with tales."

"Not many, master, not many," murmured Decius, as the young man forced
a way for them through the crowd.  "Some are taken, but most lie in the
defile of Trasimenus or under the waters of the Lake."

Sergius hurried on, thinking of Varbo the butcher's dream, and of
Arates the Greek soothsayer's interpretation.




II.

WORDS.

Three days had passed since the awful news from the shore of Lake
Trasimenus had plunged Rome into horror and despair.  Every hour had
brought in stragglers: horse, foot, fugitives from the country-side,
each bearing his tale of slaughter.  Crowds gathered at the gates,
swarming about every newcomer, vociferous for his story, and then
cursing and threatening the teller because it was what they knew it
must be.

In the atrium of Titus Manlius Torquatus, on the brow of the Palatine,
overlooking the New Way, was gathered a company of three: the aged
master of the house, a type of the Roman of better days, and a worthy
descendant of that Torquatus who had won the name; his son Caius, the
youth who had been with Sergius in the Forum; and Lucius Sergius
himself.  All were silent and serious.

The elder Torquatus sat by a square fountain ornamented with bronze
dolphins, that lay in the middle of the mosaic paving of the apartment.
The walls were painted half yellow, half red, after the manner of Magna
Grascia, while around them were ranged the statues of the Manlian
nobles.  The roof was supported in the Tuscan fashion by four beams
crossing each other at right angles, and including between them the
open space above the fountain.

It was the old man who spoke first.

"Do not think, my Lucius, but that I see the justice of your prayer, or
that I wish otherwise than that Marcia should wind wool about your
doorposts.  Still there is much to be said for delay.  Surely these
days are not auspicious ones for marriages, and surely better will
come.  You have my pledge, as had my dead friend Marcus Marcius in the
matter of her name.  Do you think it was nothing for me to call a
daughter other than Manlia--and for a plebeian house at that?  Yet she
is Marcia.  Doubt not that I will keep this word as well."

"Aye, but, father," persisted Sergius, "is it not something that she
should be mine to protect in time of peril?"

"And who so able to protect as Lucius," put in Caius, with an admiring
glance, for Caius Torquatus was six years younger than his friend, and
admired him with all the devotion of a younger man.

"Has it come that our house cannot protect its women?" cried the elder
Torquatus.  "What more shameful than that our daughter should be
carried thus across a Sergian threshold--going like a slave to her
master!"  He spoke proudly and sternly.  Then, turning to Sergius, he
went on more gently: "Were you to remain in the city, my son, there
might be more force in what you claim; but you will go out with one of
the new legions that they will doubtless raise, and you will believe an
old man who says that it is not well for a soldier in the field to have
a young wife at home."

Sergius flushed and was silent, lest his answer should savour of pride
or disrespect toward an elder.

Suddenly they became conscious of a commotion in the street.  Shrill
cries were borne to their ears, and, a moment later, blows fell upon
the outer door, followed by the grinding noise as it turned upon its
pivots.  A freedman burst into the atrium.

Titus Torquatus rose from his seat, and half raised his staff as if to
punish the unceremonious intrusion.  Then he noted the excitement under
which the man seemed to be labouring, and stood stern and silent to
learn what news could warrant such a breach of decorum.

"It is Maharbal, they say--" and the speaker's voice came almost in
gasps--"Maharbal and the Numidians--"

"Not at the gates!" cried both young men, springing to their feet; but
the other shook his head and went on:--

"No, not that--not _yet_, but he has cut up four thousand cavalry in
Umbria with Caius Centenius.  The consul had sent them from Gaul--"

"Be silent!" commanded the elder Torquatus.  "Surely I hear the public
crier in the street.  Is he not summoning the Senate?  Velo," he said,
turning to the freedman; "you are pardoned for your intrusion.  Go,
now, and bear orders from me to arm my household, and that my clients
and freedmen wait upon me in the morning.  It is possible that the
Republic may call for every man; and though I fear Titus Manlius
Torquatus cannot strike the blows he struck in Sicily, yet even _his_
sword might avail to pierce light armour; and he is happy in that he
can give those to the State whose muscles shall suffice to drive the
point through heavy buckler and breastplate."

"Shall it be permitted that I attend you to the Senate House?" asked
Caius.

His father inclined his head, and, donning the togas which slaves had
brought, they hurried into the street, hardly noting that Sergius had
reseated himself and was gazing absently down into the water, counting
the ripples that spread from where each threadlike stream fell from its
dolphin-mouth source.

He did not know how long he had sat thus, nor was he, perhaps,
altogether conscious of his motive in failing to pay the aged senator
the honour of accompanying him, at least so far as the gates of the
Temple of Concord.  Sounds came to his ears from the apartments above:
the trampling of feet and bustle of preparation that told of Velo's
delivery of his patron's commands.  Then a woman's laugh rang through
the passage that led back to the garden of the peristyle.

Sergius rose and turned, just as a girl sprang out into the atrium,
looking back with a laughing challenge to some one who seemed to pursue
her, but who hesitated to issue from the protecting darkness.

"What do you fear, Minutia," she cried.  "My father and Caius have
gone, and there is no one--oh!"

Suddenly she became conscious of Sergius' presence, and her olive
cheeks flushed to a rich crimson.  Then she faced him with an air of
pretty defiance and went on:--

"No one here but Lucius Sergius Fidenas, who should have business
elsewhere."

Sergius said nothing, but continued to stand with eyes fixed
thoughtfully upon her face.

Her figure was tall, slender, and very graceful, her hair and eyes were
dark, and her features delicate and perfectly moulded.  Over all was
now an expression of hoydenish mirth that bespoke the complete
forgetfulness of serious things that only comes to young girls.  His
attentive silence seemed at last to disturb her.  An annoyed look drove
the smile from her lips, and, with an almost imperceptible side motion
of her small head, she went on:--

"Surely Lucius Sergius Fidenas has not allowed my father to go to the
Senate House with only Caius to attend him!  Lucius respects my father
too much for that--and too disinterestedly.  It is an even more serious
omission than his failure to attend the consul at Trasimenus--"

Sergius' eyes blazed at the taunt, and, struggling with the answer that
rose to his lips, he said nothing for fear he might say too much.

The girl watched him closely.  Her mirth returned a little at the sight
of his confusion, and, with her mirth, came something of mercy.

"Oh, to be sure, his wound.  I almost forgot that.  Tell me, my brave
Lucius, did the Gauls bite hard when they caught you in the woods and
drove you and my brave uncle to Tanes?  How funny for naked Gauls to
ambush Roman legionaries and chase them home!  Father has not spoken to
Uncle Cneus since.  He says it was his duty to have remained on the
field, and I suppose he thinks it was yours, too, instead of running
away like a fox to be shut up in his hole."

Sergius had recovered his composure now, but his brow was clouded.

"You are as cruel as ever, Marcia," he said.  "And yet I know you have
heard that it was the men of my maniple who carried me away, senseless
from the blow of a dead man."

"Oh, you _did_ kill him.  I remember now," she resumed, with some
display of interest.  "You had run him through, had you not? and he
just let his big sword drop on your head.  I got Caius to show me about
it, and I was the Gaul.  Caius did not stab me, but I let the stick
fall pretty hard, and Caius had a sore head for two days.  I meant it
for you, because you are trying to make an old woman of me when I am
hardly a girl."

"Marcia--" began Lucius; but she raised her hand warningly and went
on:--

"Do you want me to tell you why my father will not let you marry me
now?  There are two reasons.  One because I don't want him to, and
another because he thinks you must do something great to wipe out the
stain of a Roman centurion's even being _carried_ away before the
Gauls."

"That will be an easy task, judging by the news we receive each day.  I
wish I felt as certain of the safety of the Republic as I am that my
honour shall be satisfactorily vindicated."

He spoke bitterly, but she went on without taking note of his meaning.

"These are auspicious words, my Lucius.  You will regain your honour;
father will once more receive you into his favour, and, by that time, I
shall doubtless be old enough to marry,--perhaps too old,--but, no, I
must not wait so long as that.  Perhaps I shall have married some one
else by the time you are worthy of my favour."

"More probably I shall have ceased to care for the favour of living men
and women."

"Truly?  And you think you will have to die?  Perhaps you will be a
Decius Mus, and stand on the javelin and wear the Cincture Gabinus; and
then I shall mourn for you and hang so many garlands on your tomb that
all the shades of your friends will be mad with jealousy--"

"Marcia, is it possible for you to be serious?"

He was pale with suppressed passion, and, as he spoke, he stepped
forward and laid his hand upon her wrist.

She sprang back and half raised a light staff she carried, while her
face flushed crimson.

"I will be more serious than will please you," she said, "if you please
me as little as you do now.  Learn, I am not your wife that you should
seek to restrain me, and it is quite possible that I never shall be."

"You speak truly," he said; "it is quite possible that no woman shall
be a new mother to the house of Fidenas--that our name shall die in me.
So be it; and may the gods only avert the evils that threaten the
Republic, nor look upon one of the race of the Trojan Segestes as an
unworthy offering."

Bending his head in respectful salutation, he turned toward the
entrance hall.

Marcia stood silent beside the fountain, and her face clouded with
thought.  The sound of her lover's footsteps grew fainter and fainter.
She started forward as if to follow him.  Then she stopped and
listened.  The noise of the street had drowned their echoes; the door
had creaked twice on its pivots.  He was gone.  Then she called,
"Lucius!" but there was no answer.  Her eyes drooped with a little
frown of regret, but in a moment she turned away laughing.

"Never mind.  He cannot do anything very desperate yet, and I will
treat him better next time--perhaps."




III.

PARTING.

The ensuing days were pregnant with rumour and action.  The waves of
terror and despair that lashed over the city, as blow after blow fell,
had now receded.  The white banner, that was always lowered at the
approach of an enemy, still spread its undulating folds above
Janiculum; the crops and fruit trees and vines smiled upon the
hillsides; the flocks and herds browsed peacefully along the Campagna
with never a Numidian pillager to disturb their serenity; and, amid
all, there was no rumour of allied gates opened to receive the invader,
no welcome from the Italians whom he had striven to conciliate.
Courage returned, and with courage firmness, and with firmness
confidence to endure and dare and do, so long as invaders presumed to
set foot upon the heritage of Rome.

How far this new confidence was born of the news that the Carthaginian
was turning aside to the west, through Umbria and Picenum, how far by
the rumour that Spoletum had closed her gates and repulsed his
vanguard, or how far by wrath at the tales of ravage and the numberless
murders of Roman citizens that marked his line of march, it would be
difficult to apportion.

However these, the city was now seething with energetic preparation.
The Senate sat daily and into each night.  No word of peace was
uttered--all was war and revenge.  Quintus Fabius Maximus was elected
pro-dictator by a vote of the Comitia--not dictator, because that could
only be done through appointment by the surviving consul, then absent
in Gaul--or none knew where.  By the same power, and in order to
appease the commons irritated by criticisms of Flaminius, Marcus
Minutius Rufus was elected master of the horse.  Nor were the gods
neglected.  Their stimulating influence was invoked by the dictator to
inspire the people with confidence, while he soothed them with the
intimation that Flaminius had failed rather through overcourage and
neglect of divine things than through mere plebeian temerity and
ignorance.  Fabius took care to impress it upon all that he himself
would take full warning from the lesson.  He moved that the Sibylline
books should be consulted, and the Senate promptly acted upon the
motion.  These directed that a holy spring be proclaimed forthwith;
that every animal fit for sacrifice, and born between the Kalends of
March and May throughout all Italy, should be offered to Jupiter.
Votive games were decided upon, couches were set by the judges, whereon
the twelve gods should feast in splendour, temples were vowed, to Venus
Erycina by the dictator himself, to Mens by Titus Otacilius, the
praetor.

But with all, and, as Fabius put it, that the immortal gods should not
be overburdened with the petty affairs of mortals, every care that
human prudence and warcraft could suggest was taken.  Walls and towers
were strengthened, and bridges were broken down; the inhabitants of
open towns were driven into places of security, and their houses and
crops destroyed.  Amid all, the rumour came that Servilius was
hastening back from Gaul; then, that he was close at hand, and,
finally, Fabius set out to meet him, sending orders in advance that the
consul should come without lictors, so that the dignity of the
dictatorship might stand high before the people.  And when Servilius
had come, in all respects as commanded, then he, the consul, after
first delivering up his legions which he had left at Ariminum, was
ordered to Ostia and the fleet to keep watch and ward over the Italian
coast and to protect the corn ships.  So all the armies of the Republic
went to the pro-dictator, together with authority to raise such more as
he should consider needful; two new legions in the place of those dead
on the shores of Trasimenus, and some thousands of poorer citizens from
the tribes, to man the quinqueremes of Servilius and the walls of Rome.

Amid these days of bustle and preparation, Sergius had found little
difficulty in keeping his footsteps from Marcia's threshold.  After the
first grief of the conviction that she did not love him, pride came to
his rescue.  Should he, the head of the noblest house of the noble
Sergian gens, should he abase himself and submit to scornful words even
from a daughter of Torquatus? or, yet, should he, as a man, desire to
bear the torch before an unwilling bride?  These were simple questions,
and there was but one word that could answer them; so Sergius struggled
to put Marcia from his heart, until he flattered himself that the
difficult task had at last been accomplished.

During this internal struggle, there came, also, to help him, word that
he had been named as one of the military tribunes in the new Fourth
Legion, and, his wound being now almost well, he threw himself headlong
into the work of the levy and of exercising his men, striving to bring
them to such a degree of efficiency as might win honour for himself and
advantage to the Republic.  Now and again twinges of the old heart-pain
would rack him, but he obstinately attributed all depression and
melancholy to the inferior quality, both physically and socially, of
many of the new levies, and to his misgivings as to the account they
would render of themselves when confronted by the veterans of Hannibal.

At last the day of marching arrived, and with it the greatest struggle
of all.  Suddenly a suspicion awoke within him, whispering that the
task he had set for himself was but poorly done; that the image of
Marcia still smiled unbanished above the altar of his heart; and, with
all his pride and strength, this suspicion of his weakness was, oddly
enough, a source of positive exultation.  Caius had been with him
through much of his work, for Caius served in the same legion.  It was
evident, however, that the young man had received strict orders on one
subject; for, in all their talks, the name of Marcia never passed his
lips.  This was unlike Caius, who was thought by many to be given to
overmuch speaking, and, for that reason, it irritated Sergius the more,
who would sooner have cut away his hand than questioned his friend
concerning his sister.  Thus the two men, illogically but humanly
enough, continued to grow apart, until, with never a thought but of
friendliness, their intercourse became limited, through sheer
embarrassment, to the commonplaces of fellow-soldiers who held light
acquaintance with each other's names and faces.

As the hour drew near, the city bubbled with excitement, and the altars
of the gods reeked with unnumbered victims.  Especially invoked were
Castor, Fortune, Liberty, and Hope, but, above all, the mighty trinity
of the Capitol.  Lest the pang of so great a parting with men who were
about to encounter such grave dangers might sap the courage of those
remaining, and thence that of the new levies, the dictator had wisely
decreed that the army should assemble at Tibur.  So it happened that
there was none to go now save himself and a small escort of cavalry,
five turmae, at the head of which was Sergius.  With these went Rome's
last hope: the cast behind which lay only ruin, but for the averting
favour of the gods.

At midday the fasces would be carried forth, and it lacked but an hour
of the time.  Sergius had prepared everything; his men were ready to
mount at the blast of the trumpet, and his household was set in order
against the absence of its master.  He was standing within the Viminal
Gate, while an attendant held his horse close by and a little apart
from the crowds of weeping women who surrounded the soldiers of the
dictator's escort.  Suddenly he felt some one pluck him by the cloak,
and turned quickly to see a young woman in the single tunic of a slave.
Her dress, however, was of finer texture than that worn by most of her
class, and seemed to bespeak a rich mistress and especial favour.  She
stood with her finger to her lips, her eyes great with the importance
of her mission.

"My mistress, the Lady Marcia, orders that you come and bid her
farewell," she whispered hurriedly.

Then she darted away among the crowd, before the young tribune could
make answer to an invitation so oddly worded.

His first impulse was to show the Lady Marcia that he was not to be
dismissed and sent for--much less ordered back at the caprice of a
girl.  His next was to humour the whim of a child, and his third was to
obey humbly and thankfully, without a thought but of Marcia's beauty
and his own good fortune.

A word to his slave and another to his horse, whereat the former loosed
the bridle, and the latter knelt for his master.  Then came a wild
gallop across the crest of the Viminal Hill, through the ill-omened
street where the wicked Tullia had driven over her father's corpse,
into the Forum, and out up the New Way to the house of Torquatus.

Throwing his rein to the porter, Sergius entered the court of the
atrium, vacant and resounding to the hurried tread of his cothurni.
Pausing for a moment and hesitating to penetrate farther into the
house, he became aware that the porter had followed him.  Like most of
his class, he was a man considerably past middle life, and thus
considered suited to the comparative ease and responsibility of his
position.  With a freedom and garrulity born of long service, he
began:--

"It was a word I was commanded to deliver to the most noble Sergius,
and I doubt not it would have been well and truly delivered, but for
his springing from his horse so quickly and rushing past me.  It is
possible that I might have come to him sooner had he not left me to
take care of the animal, and it needed time to summon the groom, whose
duty such work is.  Therefore--"

"By Hercules, man, give me the message!  Do you think I can listen all
day to your gabbling?" cried the soldier, furious with impatience.

A faint laugh seemed to come from somewhere beyond the hallway.

"I was about to say, most noble lord," pursued the porter, hardly
ruffled by the outburst; "and I trust you will pardon me if I dallied
over-much; but--"

Sergius raised his hand.  Then, thinking better of the blow, he seized
the man by the throat.

"Perhaps I can shake the words out like dice from a box.  Now for the
Venus cast!" he cried, suiting the action to the speech.

"Are you making trial of your strength that you may break more readily
into Carthaginian houses?  Remember it is soldiers with whom you are to
contend."

Sergius turned quickly, to see Marcia herself standing at the entrance
to the hall.  In her eyes, on her lips, was malicious laughter; but a
little red spot on either cheek seemed to tell of some stronger feeling
behind.  He had released the porter so quickly that the latter
staggered back almost into the fountain, and Marcia smiled.

"I think I have been taking a great deal of trouble for the sake of a
very discourteous person," she said.  "I sent Minutia to tell a certain
soldier that I am willing to bid him farewell, despite his
unworthiness, and he comes and nearly strangles poor old Rhetus for
trying to say that I was awaiting him in the peristyle."

"Rhetus' attempt was not very successful, and my time was short," said
Sergius, growing alternately red and pale.

"And so you thought to hasten his speech by closing his throat?  Oh!
you are a wise man--a very logical man.  They should have made _you_
dictator, so that you could save Italy by surrendering Rome."

"Is it to say such things that you sent for me?" asked Sergius, after a
pause during which he struggled against embarrassment and wrath.

"Surely not, for how could I know that you were going to behave so
outrageously?  If you will follow me, we will go into the peristyle."

She turned back through the passage, and Sergius followed, issuing a
moment later into a large, cloister-like court, open in the middle, and
decorated with flowers and shrubs.  Four rows of columns, half plain,
half fluted, supported the shed roof that protected the frescoes.
These covered three of the walls.  On the back was a garden scene so
painted as to seem like a continuation of the court itself into the far
distance; on the right was the combat between Aeneas and Turnus, and on
the left a representation of the first Torquatus despoiling the slain
Gaul of the trophy from which the family took its name.

"And now I will tell you why I sent."

She had seated herself in a marble chair with wolf heads carved on the
arms, and her face had grown grave and thoughtful.

"It was to tell you a dream--a dream of you that I had last night."

Her cheek flushed, and Sergius' eyes sparkled.

"You dreamt of _me_?" he said in a low voice.  He half raised his arms
and came nearer; but she held up one hand in the old imperious manner.

"If you please, I have not sent for you that you should grow
presumptuous, because I was unmaidenly enough to dream of so badly
behaved a person as yourself.  It--it was because it--I thought you
should know, so that the omen might be expiated."

Sergius had halted and was standing still.  His lip curled slightly.

"I dreamt," she went on, after a short pause, "that there was a wide
plain with mountains about it and a river running through; and it was
all heaped up with dead men--thousands upon thousands--stripped of arms
and clothing, and the air was gray with vultures, and the wolves and
foxes were calling to each other back among the hills.  And I was very
sad and walked daintily so that my sandals and gown might not be
splashed with the blood that curdled in pools all about.  Suddenly I
came to a heap of slain whereon _you_ were lying, with a long javelin
through your body.  So I screamed and awoke--"

"Surely, then, you felt sorrow," cried Sergius, who had followed the
narrative with deep interest, but who seemed to consider nothing of it
save the concern she had shown at his death.

"I--I," she began; and then, as if angry with herself at the betrayal
of feeling and of her embarrassment, she burst out; "I did not send,
foolish one, that you should consider _me_.  Look rather to yourself."

But Sergius was full of the joy of his own thoughts.

"That I shall do, my Marcia, by setting my mind upon things that are
better than myself--the Republic--you--"

"Ah, but the omen?"

"I shall put it aside together with the other: that you have called me
back from the march; and I shall consider both well expiated by the
knowledge that I am not as nothing to you."

Her face grew pale, and she half rose from the chair.

"Truly, I did not think about calling you back.  It is terrible--all
this--and it is my doing--"

"Then, if you wish, I shall lay it up against you," cried he, gayly,
"unless you promise to be Caia in my house--"

"You are unfair to press me now and by such means."

"But it must be now," exclaimed the young man, springing forward and
trying to catch her in his arms.  "Do you not see I must leave you at
once?  Shall it be without a promise?"

The blush had turned again to little anger spots, as she evaded him.

"Very well," she said slowly.  "I will be Caia where thou art Caius--"

Sergius' face shone with exultation, and his lips parted.

"I will be Caia," she resumed, "upon the day when Orcus sends back the
dead from Acheron."

His expression of joy faded, and indignation took its place.  Surely
this was carrying light speech too far--and at such a time.  Suddenly
he realized that the dictator might already have ridden on, and
disgrace have fallen upon a Sergius at the very beginning of the
campaign.

"So be it!  I accept that omen--with the others," he cried sternly,
and, turning, strode out through the atrium, bounded upon his horse,
and dashed headlong down the street, before Marcia was fairly aware
that he had gone from her presence.




IV.

FABIUS.

Sergius rode back to his men, deeply wounded in love and pride.  He
tried to excuse Marcia for her treatment of him, on the score of her
youth and of youth's thoughtlessness; he blamed himself for his
abruptness and his lack of knowledge of women--failings that had
perhaps turned an impending victory into the defeat that now oppressed
him.  Worst of all, there was no hope to remedy his or her fault.  A
dangerous campaign lay before him, and the omens--but pshaw! _he_ was
not one of the rabble, to tremble at a flight of birds from the west or
an ox with a bad liver.  He had always admired the spirit of that old
sceptic, Claudius, who had drowned the chickens off Drepana, though he
admitted the faulty judgment in failing to realize the effect of such a
defiance upon ignorant seamen and marines: the hierarchy was necessary
for the State; if only to keep fools in order, but for a man of family
and education--well, he smiled.  It provoked him, amid all his
disbelief, that he could not help preferring that those same omens had
been more favourable.  Pride, pride was his last and truest safeguard.
He, a descendant of the companion of Aeneas, to fear the Carthaginian
sword! he, a Roman noble, about to face death for his country, to waste
his thoughts upon a silly girl who chose to flout him!

Then the long clarions of the cavalry rang out, and the horsemen ran to
their steeds.  Down the slope of the Viminal rode the dictator: before
him went the twenty-four axes, each in its bundle of staves, their
bearers robed in military cloaks of purple cloth; behind came a small
troop of illustrious Romans--his legati, his staff, nominated by him
and sanctioned by the Senate for their fame and skill in war; also such
senators as had elected, by way of personal compliment, to ride with
the general and to partake as volunteers in whatever share of the war
he might set for them.

Quintus Fabius Maximus seemed a man just passing the prime of life.
His figure, as he sat his horse, was squat rather than tall, though
this appearance might be due, in a measure, to the great breadth of his
shoulders; altogether his frame seemed one better adapted to feats of
strength and endurance than for those of agility.  The face, with its
grizzled hair and beard, both cut short, suited well the figure that
bore it.  Dignity, firmness, and kindliness were in its strong and
rugged outlines, with less, perhaps, of the pride of race and rank than
might have been looked for in the head of the great family whose name
he bore--he who was now twice dictator of the destinies of Rome.  For
dress, his purple cloak, similar to those of his lictors, hung loosely
from his shoulders to below his knees, and, opening in front, disclosed
a corselet of leather overlaid with metal across chest and abdomen, and
embossed with bronze designs of ancient pattern and workmanship.  The
hem of the white tunic showed below the leathern pendants that hung a
foot down from his girdle; the greaves were ornamented at the knees
with lions' heads; an armour-bearer carried his master's bronze helmet
with its crest of divergent red plumes.

Such was the man upon whom Rome now depended for her saving--"for
victory," dreamed such of the unthinking as had recovered from their
terror; "for time, time, time," reasoned the man with the deep-set,
gray eyes upon whom they had pinned their faith.

Hardly a stride behind him rode Marcus Minucius Rufus, tall and
well-built, with bold, coarse features and fierce, roving eyes.  His
red hair bristled from his brow, and he seemed to restrain with
difficulty either his steed or himself from darting forward into the
lead.

"Yonder is the sword of the Republic," said one of Sergius' men, as the
master-of-the-horse rode by the escort; but the man to whom he said
it--an old soldier of the Spanish wars--only shrugged his shoulders.  A
moment later he grunted in reply:--

"Like enough; but it is a shield that the Republic needs most of all."

Then the clarion summoned them to fall in behind the dictator's
company, and the troop rode out from the gate--out into the broad
plain--away from the protecting walls fluctuant with waving stoles, and
from which tear-dimmed eyes strove to follow them among the villas,
farms, and orchards of the country-side--away from the Forum, from the
sacred fig tree and the black stone of Romulus--away from the divine
triad that kept guard over the Capitol.  Beyond lay the Alban
Mountains, and, beyond these,--no one knew where,--the strange dangers
that awaited them: fierce Spaniards with slender blades as red as the
crimson borders of their white coats; wild Numidian riders that always
fell upon the rear of Rome's battle; serried phalanges of Africans,
veterans of fifty wars; naked Gauls with swords that lopped off a limb
at every stroke; Balearic slingers whose bullets spattered one's brains
over the ground; Cretans whose arrows could dent an aes at a hundred
yards; and above all, over all, the great mind, the unswerving,
unrelenting purpose that had blended all these elements into one
terrible engine of destruction to move and smite and burn and ravage at
the touch of a man's will.

The cavalry rode two and two, thinking of such things; picked men,
equipped in the new Greek fashion with breastplate, stout buckler, and
strong spear pointed at both ends.  What thoughts held the mind of the
general, none could fathom.  With head slightly inclined he seemed to
study, now the ribbons woven in his horse's mane, now the small,
sensitive ears that pricked backward and forward, as the Tiburtine Way
flowed sluggishly beneath.  As for Minucius, he alone seemed hopeful
and unimpressed by the dangers that menaced.  He glided here and there,
reining his horse beside this senator or that lieutenant to utter a
word of the safety assured to Rome and of the ruin that hung over the
invader, or even calling back to the foremost of the escort some rough
badinage upon their gloomy looks; for Minucius was a man of the people,
scorning patrician pride of race, and wishing it known that, however
high his rank, he held himself no whit better than any potter of the
Aventine or weaver of the Suburra.

So, riding, thinking, talking, they reached Tibur, where the new levies
lay encamped.

Thence began the march of the army--a long, weary march to strike the
line of the Carthaginian devastators; and, as it rolled onward, the
stream of war gathered volume.  At Daunia they were joined by the
legions of Servilius that had marched down from Ariminum; and, at every
point, contingents of the allies poured in, until even the most timid
began to believe it impossible that disaster could befall, and grew
first confident, then defiant, then boastful.

To the mind of the dictator himself, however, came no such change.  He
alone knew the danger, he alone knew the value of the force with which
he must meet it--soldiers in whose minds, despite all their present
spirit, lingered the tradition of defeat; raw levies not yet truly
confident of their officers or themselves, however much the sight of
their numbers and their brave show might blind them to the fact that
there was another side to the war.

And now rumours began to reach them of the enemy.  He was at Praetutia,
at Hadriana, at Marrucina, at Frentana!  He had set out toward Iapygia!
he had reached Luceria! and everywhere the country was a garden before
him and a desert behind.  Only one gleam of light shone through the
darkness,--the Apulians submitted to ravage, but they refused to save
their lands by joining fortunes with the invaders.

At last came the day of trial.  "The enemy was at hand."  Scouts poured
in with news of foraging parties, of masses of troops on the march; and
at Aecae the dictator ordered the camp to be pitched and fortified in
the order that Roman discipline prescribed, with rampart and ditch and
stakes--a city in embryo.

Now it was that the boasters must stand by their boasts.

Scarcely had the morning broke, when the distant mist of the plain
seemed to sparkle with myriads of glittering points--seemed to thicken
and become dense with clouds of dust.  Mingled noises came to the ears
of the waking legions,--the neighing of horses, the inarticulate murmur
of a multitude, the dull rumble of marching men, the ring of arms and
accoutrements.

Then came the order from the praetorium,--not to advance the standards,
but to man the rampart and to repel.  Such was not the custom of
Rome--to refuse battle amid the ravaged lands of her allies.  Had the
heart of the dictator grown cold?  Forthwith the pale cheeks of the
boasters flushed again; lips that had been compressed, before the
terrors they had so rashly invoked, parted in wonder and complaint; the
mist rose, and the sun pierced through the settling dust.  There stood
the enemy, drawn up in order of battle across the plain, and waiting;
too far away for the Romans to make out their form or equipment--just a
long, dense array that seemed dark or light in spots.  Now and again a
trumpet rang out its distant note of defiance; now and again some
portion of the line seemed to manoeuvre or change front, as if to tempt
attack, while from time to time a flurry of horsemen--dark-skinned
riders, bending low upon the necks of wiry little steeds and urging
them with shrill, barbarous cries--swept almost up to the ditch, and
brandished their darts, making obscene gestures and shouting words that
brought the blood to the faces of the garrison, though they understood
not the tongue that uttered them.

A circle of officers surrounded the dictator's tent.  Some were silent
and shamefaced; some were vociferous of their desire to be allowed to
go forth and fight, or, at least, to lead out the cavalry to chastise
the insolence of slaves and barbarians; all were wondering and
dissatisfied.  Few, however, ventured to express their full thoughts.
There was a something in the very mildness of the general that
discouraged too direct criticism.  Only Minucius, presuming, perhaps on
his position of second in command, perhaps on his contempt for the
great houses, sought the dictator's presence and spoke as if half to
him, half to the company of officers.  Even his first words but thinly
veiled his feelings.

"The enemy await us in line of battle, my master, but I do not see the
red flag above your tent.  Is it your will that the standards be
advanced?"

"No, Marcus, it is not my will, or the signal would have been
displayed," said Fabius, calmly.

"The troops are eager to be led out; the enemy insult us up to the very
ditch.  Italy is wasted," went on Minucius; but, as if slightly cowed
by the deep, gray eyes, his tone seemed less aggressive.

Fabius paused a moment, before answering, and glanced around upon the
lowering faces of legates and tribunes.  Then he said:--

"It is proper, Quirites, that I should say something to you of my
plans.  Our men are new--untried.  Those that have seen service have
seen defeat.  The enemy are flushed with victory, full of confidence in
themselves and their general, well seasoned in battle.  Has the
Republic a new army if this be lost?  But happily there is another side
to the picture.  We are in our own lands.  Our supplies are
inexhaustible; _we_ receive; _they_ must take.  We shall wear them out
in skirmishes, cut off their foragers--men whom they cannot replace,
while we replace our losses daily and season ourselves in battle and
grow to see that even Carthaginians are not immortal."

There was a moment of silence.  Then Minucius spoke again.

"And, while we pursue this prudent policy, what becomes of the spirit
of our men who see that their general dares not face the enemy?  What
becomes of the allies who see their fields wasted and cities burned,
while Rome lies silent in her camps and offers no succour?"

Fabius' brow clouded, but he spoke even more mildly than before.

"There is much of truth in what you say Marcus; but I am convinced that
there is less danger in such risks than in tempting the fate of
Flaminius; and there are many compensations, together with certain
victory in the end."

And then the master-of-the-horse lost control of his temper; his voice
rose, and he cried out:--

"You are general and you command, but you shall hear me when I say that
I had rather have perished bravely with a Flaminius than live to
conquer in such cowardly fashion with a Fabius."

A murmur of half-uttered applause ran around the circle, but Fabius did
not seem to hear it.  He eyed his lieutenant calmly for an instant.
Then he said:--

"You speak truth, Marcus, when you say that I am general;" and, turning
his back upon Minucius, he passed through the line of officers, as they
fell aside to give him way, and proceeded slowly toward the praetorian
gate.

Here, among the soldiers, discontent with the dictator's policy was as
strong as it had been in the praetorium, while its expression was less
governed by the amenities of rank.  Roman discipline, however severe as
to the acts of the legionary, put very few restrictions upon his
speech; and the general, as he watched from the rampart the lines and
movements of the enemy, heard many comments no less uncomplimentary
than those of his master-of-the-horse, and couched in language almost
as coarse as that of the Numidians themselves.  It seemed as if the
foul words of the barbarians were passed on thus to the man held
responsible for Romans being compelled to listen to such insults.

Curiously enough, the centurions and under officers appeared to be the
only ones not hostile to Fabius' policy.  These were silent or even
made some efforts to restrain the ribaldry of their men.

As for the general himself, no one could have appeared less conscious
of the storm his orders had provoked.  His eyes were still fixed upon
the distant array, and when, as the sun almost touched the meridian,
Lucius Sergius approached with despatches just arrived from Rome, he
was compelled to speak twice before the other was aware of his
presence.  Then the dictator turned quickly, and, pointing to the
Carthaginians, exclaimed:--

"See! they are withdrawing.  Do you not note how thin the centre grows?
Ah! I shall teach them new lessons of war--new lessons.  They will find
in me no Flaminius, to let my enemy choose the day and field of battle."

Leaving the ramparts, they walked back toward the praetorium, Fabius
breaking the seals and reading the letters as he walked.  When they
reached the tent, he stood still for a moment and seemed to study the
face of the young tribune who had followed, a half pace behind, to
receive any answer or order that might be forthcoming.

"What is your opinion of my refusing battle?" he asked suddenly, after
a short silence.

Sergius turned crimson, but he answered quickly:--

"I have learned to trust in my general until such time as I know him to
be unworthy of trust."

Fabius smiled.

"Some of your colleagues appear to have already arrived at the latter
conclusion," he said.  Then, after a pause, he went on: "After all, it
is the judgment of the centurions that counts for most.  Our legates
and tribunes feel disgraced by our refusing a challenge; they may be
sneered at for _that_, but who would blame _them_ for the defeat that
might follow its acceptance.  The common soldier knows only his rage
against the enemy, sees his comrades about him furious for battle, and
comprehends nothing of its dangers.  It is the centurions, our
veterans, who realize the truth: the worth of their own men as measured
against those of the enemy; nor are they puffed up with foolish pride
of rank.  You observe, sir, that the centurions are with me."

Sergius bowed.

"Now mark well what will happen," pursued Fabius.  "Hannibal will
retreat to his camp; he will break camp and march off during the night.
He must have forage, and he cannot scatter his forces while I am near.
He will escape, and I shall let him, rather than risk the army in a
night battle; but I shall hang close as the father-wolf to the stag's
haunch, keeping nevertheless to the high ground, where his cavalry
cannot trouble me.  There will be need of good horsemen who shall cling
yet closer and advise me of his movements."

Sergius' eyes flashed with eagerness, but he said nothing.

"You will attend to this service," continued Fabius, not seeming to
regard the young officer's exultation.  "Take the other five turmae of
your legion--not those of the escort.  You must have light cavalry to
cope with the Numidians, and your Greek horsemen are too heavily
equipped.  Assemble your men, watch the enemy, follow him when he
marches tonight, cut off his stragglers, and send such words to me as
you consider necessary.  This shall be your reward for trusting greater
things to your general."

Turning, he entered the tent, before the tribune could express his
thanks.

Deeply impressed by the favour and confidence of the dictator, Sergius
hurried away to his quarters, and, sending for Marcus Decius, the
decurion who had told the news of Trasimenus to the crowd of the Forum,
he directed him to see that the horses were fed and the men in
readiness for a night march.  Then he resigned himself to sleep and
dreams of a certain pictured peristyle on the Palatine Hill,--a
peristyle wherein a maid sat spinning by a fountain and thinking--of
what?  Perhaps of him--for he was only dreaming, and maidens do not
always think as men dream.




V.

TEMPTATION.

The night was already far spent, and the Roman camp slept on, secure in
all its grim array; silent, but for the tread of the patrols, as they
paced the streets and exchanged the watchword, post with post, or but
for the clang of sword upon greave, or shield against cuirass, as some
sentry at gate, rampart or praetorium shifted his arms in weary waiting
for the day.

Far up in the heavens the moon shone silvery and serene, while here and
there upon the plain below swaying points of light seemed to move,
flicker, go out, and rekindle again.  No Roman watcher but knew well
that play of moonlight upon the heads of the reedlike spears with which
the ancient cavalry of the legion were equipped--weapons which,
together with their ox-hide bucklers, were being gradually superseded
by the heavier Greek accoutrements.  Yes, and had not the word passed
from the guard at the praetorian gate, how a tribune and five turmae of
the fourth legion had ridden out on the service of the dictator?

Earlier in the night, those who listened closely had heard a low hum
that seemed to pervade the air, rising and falling like the dull glow
in the west that told of the fluctuant watch-fires of the hostile camp.
Now the noises had died away, as in the distance, and the light that
had flashed up a few hours since hardly tinted the clouds.  It is only
the old soldier who can read the signs of a decamping foe, who knows
how the fagots must be heaped at the moment of departure, so that the
deserted fires may burn until the morning, whose quick ear catches and
recognizes the indefinite noises of a host moving in secret.  All these
things were, and old campaigners among the legionaries at the gate had
read them aright.  Messenger after messenger hurried to the praetorium,
and returned with word that the dictator slept, "having taken all
needed measures," and how the master-of-the-horse paced up and down
before his tent, grinding his teeth, clenching his hands, and muttering
curses upon patrician cowardice and imbecility.

Meanwhile, Lucius Sergius rode on through the night, with Marcus Decius
at his side, and the troop of horse trailing out across the plain
behind them.

"It is silent, master," said the decurion, but his attitude, as he
leaned forward over his horse's neck, was rather of one trying to smell
than to listen.  "The pulse-eaters sleep deeply."  He watched Sergius
from under half-closed lids, waiting to be contradicted, that he might
measure his officer's warcraft.

Sergius smiled.  "Perhaps they are even wider awake than ourselves," he
said, drawing rein.  Then, as the other nodded several times in
satisfied acquiescence, he brought his horse to his haunches a stride
beyond, and added: "It was the dictator who said we should find their
lair empty, and, though I do not question his judgment, it will be well
to send on a few who shall spy out the fact, and see whether there be
not Numidians lurking among the huts."

So, slowly and cautiously, they pushed forward again, with riders in
advance, until a shout gave notice that the way was indeed clear, and
they rode through the open gate of the rampart and along the silent
street of the deserted camp.

Nothing was about them save dismantled huts, for the most part mere
burrows with roofs of interlaced boughs that were now smoking amid the
ashes of the fires.  Not a sign of disorder, nor even of the rapidity
with which so great an army had been moved; not a scale of armour left
behind--only the insufferable stench of a barbarian camp, of offal and
refuse piled or scattered about, of dead beasts and of dead men--the
sick and wounded who had yielded to sword or disease during the last
few days.

It was with a sense of relief that the cavalcade emerged from the
shadows of the huts and began to mount the rising ground beyond.  The
moon, too, had grown faint, and the gray mists of the morning were
lying along the lower levels.  Sounds, mingled and far ahead, told of
the presence of a marching host, and Sergius led his troop on a more
oblique course to gain the flank of the foe and lessen the chances of
detection and ambuscade.

It was not stirring work for a soldier--the days that followed; never
attacking, always guarding against discovery and surprise, viewing
slaughter and devastation that duty and weakness alike made him
powerless to prevent or punish, sending courier after courier to his
general to tell of the enemies' march or of stragglers and foragers to
be crushed in the jaws of the army that enveloped the invader's rear.
Thus the war passed through Apulia, over the Apennines, down into the
old Samnite lands, past Beneventum that closed its gates and mourned
over its devastated fields, on across the Volturnus, descending at last
into the Falernian plain, the glory of Campania, the Paradise of
Italian wealth and luxury.

During all these days Sergius had grown thinner and browner.  Little
furrows had been ploughed between the eyes that must pierce every ridge
and thicket for the glint of javelins and the wild faces of the
bridleless riders of the desert.  From time to time news of devastators
cut to pieces brought a fierce joy to his heart; from time to time he
dreamt he saw the eagles of the Republic hovering upon the heights
above, ready to stoop and strike and save the allied lands from trials
greater than they could bear; but of Marcia, scarce a waking thought.
Surely the man he now was had never reclined in peaceful halls where
women plied the distaff and talked about love, and of how Rabuleius,
the perfume-maker of the Suburra, had just received a new essence from
Arabia!  That old life was all a dream, perhaps the memory of a former
existence, as the sage of Croton had taught.  There was nothing real in
the world, in these days, but fear and suffering and humiliation and
revenge.  Even duty had become a mere habit that should minister to
greater influences.

And now it was worst of all.  Campania was a conflagration from which
rose supplications and shrieks and groans, mingled with curses against
the cowardly ally that had left her to her fate.  Still the legions
held to the high ground, and still the black pest of Numidia swept
hither and thither on its errand of murder and rapine.  Even to Sergius
the plans of the dictator began to seem but "coined lead," as Marcus
Decius roughly put it.  Of what avail was it that the pass at Tarracina
was blocked, that he had garrisoned Casilinum in the enemies' rear and
Cales upon the Latin Way, and that the sea and the Volturnus and the
steep hills with their guarded passes seemed to complete the line of
circumvallation?  Could such bonds hold one so wise as Hannibal from
the rich cities of the plain?  Unless Rome would advance her standards,
were not Sinuessa and Cumae, Puteoli and Neapolis, Nuceria and Teanum,
and, above all, Capua, left to fight their own battle against barbarian
insolence and barbarian power?  What hope to starve out an enemy
established in such a region and amid such affluence!

Then, too, there was less work now for Sergius, even such as it was.
The enemy, wheresoever he marched, was well in view from a dozen points
held by the dictator, and at last word came to the tribune that he
should join the camp near Casilinum.  There, at least, he would have
companionship in shame, instead of seeming to command men and being
unwilling to lead them to fight for lands which the gods themselves had
deemed worthy of their contention.

They were near Cales when the orders were brought.  Could it be the
dictator's intention to give battle and avenge what he had failed to
save?  By midday they were mounted and threading the forest paths that
led to their comrades--paths whence, from time to time, some vista in
the woods disclosed the plain below, with here and there a column of
smoke that made Sergius grind his teeth and clench his hands in
impotent rage.  Suddenly he drew rein, for a man, dressed in the
coarse, gray tunic of a slave, had half run, half stumbled across his
way.  An instant more, and the fellow was struggling in the grasp of
Decius, who had sprung to the ground.

"What now, forkbearer! what now, delight of the scourges!" cried the
decurion.  "Will you delay the march of a tribune of the Republic?"

"Pity me, master, pity me and let me go!" cried the man, still striving
vainly to escape.  "Surely they are close behind me--"

"Who are behind you?" asked Sergius, sternly.  "Speak and lie not, food
for Acheron!"

"They who are burning the farm."

Sergius' eyes glittered, and he leaned forward to catch the words, as
he began to gather their import.

"Speak quickly, and you shall be safe," he said, in more reassuring
tones.  "Whose farm is it that is burning?  Loose him, Marcus."

Released from the hands that held him, the fugitive seemed to waver for
a moment between speech and flight.  Perhaps exhaustion turned the
balance, for, still panting for breath, he threw himself on his knees
before Sergius' bridle and gasped:--

"My master's farm--a veteran of the first war--a centurion--the
Numidians."

"Where is it?  How many are there?"

The man pointed down the slope up which he had scrambled.

"I did not note their numbers, lord.  Perhaps a hundred--perhaps more."

As he spoke, the sky began to brighten as with fire, and Sergius,
wheeling his horse, urged him downward toward the plain.  Decius was by
his side in an instant, and behind them came the cavalry at a speed
that threatened to hurl them headlong to the foot of the rocky
declivity.  Joy and fury shone on the faces of the men: only Marcus
Decius seemed troubled and abstracted.

"We shall be with them soon, my Marcus," cried Sergius, gayly, and
then, noting the furrowed face of his first decurion: "Surely,
Trasimenus has not cooled your heart.  Take courage.  There is no water
here to chill you."

Decius flushed through the deep bronze of his skin.

"It is true that there is no water here, and blows might warm my blood.
It was the command of the dictator that I thought of."

They had reached the level plain now.  A cluster of burning buildings
hardly a mile ahead marked their goal.

"And it is you, Marcus, who have been railing at those same commands?"

"I am an old soldier, my master.  I growl, but I obey."

For answer, Sergius urged on his horse with knee and thong.  Now they
could distinguish dark shapes gliding hither and thither around the
fires, and now they burst in upon a scene as of the orgies of demons.

Utterly unsuspicious of danger, the marauders had taken no precautions.
Their wiry, little horses had been turned loose about the gardens,
while the riders murdered and pillaged and ravished and destroyed.  The
worst was over now.  Little remained of the buildings, save clay walls
covered with plaster; dead bodies were scattered here and there; the
women and such of the slaves as had not been slaughtered, together with
the farm stock and other things of value, were gathered beyond the
reach of the fires; while, bound high upon a rude cross before his own
threshold, the master of the farm writhed amid flames that shot upward
to lick his hands and face.

Then, in an instant, the scene was changed: the Roman horsemen burst
in, and, frenzied by the spectacle before them, slew madly and fast.
Hither and thither they swept, wherever the dusky figures sought to
fly, and the thin, reed-like lances rose and plunged and rose again,
shivering and dripping, from the bodies of their victims.  But for
their well-trained steeds, who came and knelt at their masters' calls,
not one of the desert horsemen could have escaped, and, as it was, a
mere dozen broke out from the carnage and scurried away, with the
avengers in close and relentless pursuit.  Marcus Decius paused a
moment before the cross and studied the torn frame and blackened skin
of the man who hung there.  Then, with a swift movement of his lance,
he transfixed the quivering body, and, hardly catching the "Jove bless
thee, comrade," and the sigh with which life escaped, he dashed on
after the pursuing squadrons.




VI.

DISOBEDIENCE.

That the chase was doomed to be a vain one seemed apparent.  Once mounted
and urging on their steeds with the shrill, barbaric cries of the desert,
Hannibal's light horsemen were safe from all ordinary pursuit.  One after
another of the Romans drew up his panting animal, and scarce half of
their turmae pounded on.

Suddenly they saw the flying Numidians throw their horses upon their
haunches.  A moment of indecision followed, and then, while several
darted off obliquely, the remainder, seven or eight in all, swung around
and charged straight at the legionaries.  At their head rode a giant,
black as ebony save where gouts of red had splashed him with the hue of
terror.  His frizzly hair was caught up high and ornamented with a
cluster of ostrich feathers, while with his right hand he drew javelin
after javelin from the sheaf he carried in his left, and launched them
with unerring aim at his former pursuers.  Three had flown on their
errands, two had brought down a soldier each, and the third quivered in
the throat of Sergius' horse.  Then, as the animal reared and went over,
carrying his rider with him, the assailant burst through the line, and in
a moment had gained the open plain beyond.  Once more he was safe, safe
but for one short, thick-set rider,--Marcus Decius, first decurion of the
first turma, hastening to overtake his troop.

Escape from such a pursuer was child's play for the Numidian; but the
fury of fight was on him, and, gnashing his white teeth, from which the
thick, black lips seemed to writhe away, he bent low amid his horse's
mane and, with an inarticulate cry, urged him straight at the veteran.
His javelins had all been expended in breaking through the Roman line,
and a short, heavy dagger was his only weapon.  Nothing daunted, he came
on, evaded like a flash the thrust of Decius' spear, and hurled himself
upon him.  It was the small buckler of the Roman that saved his life; the
dagger passed through the ox-hide, slightly gashing his arm, and, before
the barbarian could withdraw it, the impact of the horses in full career
had sent both men and animals to the plain in a floundering heap.  Again
the Numidian was quicker, and, gaining his feet, he sprang, weaponless as
he was, upon the decurion still struggling to untangle himself from his
fallen horse.  The buckler, with the African's knife thrust through it,
had rolled away, and the possession of Decius' sword, which hung in its
sheath upon his right thigh, became the object of the struggle.  Perhaps
the strength of the men was not very unequal; but the Roman, hardly free
from his mount, was undermost and wounded, so that the result seemed
hardly doubtful.  The Numidian's charger had risen to its feet, and
stood, with out-stretched neck, whinnying softly, as if sharing in the
excitement of the contest.  Then the trampling of hoofs sounded in the
ears of the straining combatants.  Decius felt his adversary make a
convulsive effort as if to free himself, and then a gush of something
warm came into the Roman's face, and his foe sank down upon him, limp and
helpless.  With a last effort of his spent strength, he pushed the
twitching body aside, and, staggering to his feet, saw Sergius standing
beside him, with a dripping sword in his hand, and the bridle of Titus
Icilius', the flag-bearer's, horse thrown over his left arm.

Remounting, they rode slowly back to their troop, and then the cause of
the strange boldness of the fugitives was disclosed.  Advancing across
the plain directly in the path of their flight came four hundred of the
allied cavalry, whom the dictator had sent out to reconnoitre, and,
caught thus between two lines, the Numidians had, for the most part,
chosen to take their chances against the weaker force.  Not one of the
marauders was alive, but they had sold their lives dearly; for a dozen of
the Romans also were dead, and a score more showed wounds that marked
this last spasm of barbarian frenzy.

While the men talked together, Sergius sought the praefect of the new
detachment, a Hostilian of the family of Mancinus, whom he recalled among
the young hot-heads that formed the party of the master-of-the-horse, and
declaimed against the policy of Fabius as cowardly and base.  He found
him in the best possible humour, laughing and making coarse jests amid a
circle of decurions and optios--as rude a Roman as marched with the
standards, yet able, when occasion demanded, to play the man of fashion
who had spent a year at Athens.  The latter mood fell upon him when he
descried Sergius.  He came forward to meet him.

"Health to you, my Lucius!" he cried, "Surely the gods have held you in
especial favour this day.  I am told you have cut up a few squadrons of
this African offal."

"With your timely aid," replied Sergius, bowing.

"I but made the hares double to your coursing," said Hostilius,
carelessly; "and they tell me you have won both the spolia opima and a
civic crown.  That is a great deal for one day--and under a peaceful
dictator."

Sergius flushed.

"I shall not claim them," he said.  "Doubtless, Decius would have both
slain the fellow and saved himself had I not come up--"

"No modesty! no modesty!" cried Hostilius, gayly.  "I assure you it is
even less Greek than Roman in these days.  Lo! now, I myself will claim
both for you at Rome, if only to show that I do not grudge you your share
of the carrion.  Perhaps such honours will not prejudice you in a certain
house on the Palatine," he added, slyly.  "But come! you and I shall join
our forces and raid together.  We have sent two hundred to Acheron since
we left the camp, and birds have been singing on our left all the
morning."

"Where is the dictator now?" asked Sergius.

"In his tent, of course," replied the other, scornfully.  "And no one
cares where that may be."

"And you?"

"Oh! he was persuaded at last to risk a scouting party, and, at the
request of the brave Minucius, he gave the command to me with strict
injunctions to use only my eyes.  Well, I have used them so sharply that
my hands, too, have been full," and Hostilius laughed.  "There are some
five hundred of the cross-food that have evaded me thus far.  We shall
catch them now, though, and, together, it will be easy for us to prevail."

Sergius was silent.  To make a dash from the heights in defence of allies
dying in his sight, was one thing; to deliberately join this
insubordinate in turning a reconnaissance into a raid, was another and
much more serious matter.

The praefect noted his hesitation, and a slight frown chased the smile
from his lips.

"Or perhaps you prefer to obey the old woman's orders," he added, "and
keep your couch warm.  Well, our men and horses are fed by this time, and
I am off.  If you are a Roman, I greet you to ride with me; if you fear
robbers or the axe that smote Titus Manlius, why, I will bid you farewell
and ride alone."

"Where do you set your course?" queried Sergius, with a vague hope of at
least seeming to combine inclination with duty.

"Toward the enemy," replied the other, shortly.  "Does not the direction
please you?" and he turned to his horse.

Sergius' brow clouded.  His blood was hot with the conflict just
finished.  Youth, courage--all combined to turn him from obedience; but
obedience bade fair to conquer, when Marcia's laugh rang in his ears, and
he could hear her gravely complimenting his prudence and discoursing on
the rare value of docility in a husband.  Besides, what did it all
matter?  Had he not said that he sought death? and, surely, the way it
came soonest was the best.

Placing his hand upon his horse's withers, he vaulted upon its back,
before the animal had time to kneel, and a moment later was beside
Hostilius.

"By Hercules!" exclaimed the latter; "I am glad you are here.  Even in
these days of strange things, I would have found it difficult to imagine
that a Sergian could be a coward."

"And now," cried Sergius, "you will only have to imagine him a fool.  So
be it, and let the cost of his life pay for his folly."

"Jupiter avert the omen!" exclaimed Hostilius, shuddering, and then,
turning to his trumpeter, he bade him give the signal for the march.

It was a desolate country--the fair plains of Campania through which they
rode.  Here and there a cluster of blackened ruins, here and there things
that were once men, fruit trees cut down, vines uprooted, corn-fields
reaped with the sword; while far away upon the horizon smoky columns
curled up to show that the work of devastation still went on.

"May Mavers curse him--curse him forever!" cried Hostilius, grinding his
teeth in rage at each new manifestation of the enemy's handiwork.  "Could
the most disastrous battle be worse than this?"

Sergius was silent.  In a way his feelings went out to meet those of his
companion; but the dictator had trusted him, and he had disobeyed, and,
for all his disobedience, his soldier's instinct told him that the
dictator was right.

Hostilius eyed him sharply and suspiciously, as if trying to divine his
thoughts.

"If you regret--" he began.

Suddenly a decurion of the allies dashed up beside them.

"Look!" he cried, pointing toward the east.  "There is carrion for the
wolves."

Both leaders turned at the words.

Far out across the plain was what seemed at first sight like a clump of
dark foliage, save that it moved and changed shape too much.

"Numidians!" exclaimed the decurion, following his finger with his
speech, while the veins in Hostilius' forehead began to swell and grow
dark.

"The signal!  Let it be given," he cried to his officer, and, turning, he
dug his knees into his horse's sides and galloped toward the distant
quarry.  A moment later the cavalry wheeled at the trumpet call, and, in
some disorder but full of eagerness, began the pursuit of their leader.

As for Sergius, he, too, gave order and rein, though more deliberately,
and his troop followed the cavalry of the allies in somewhat better
array.  By his side galloped Decius with an expression hard to analyze
upon his weather-beaten face.

Sergius glanced at the old soldier from time to time with a look of
inquiry and concern.  At last he ventured to question his grim mentor.

"Is it well or ill, Marcus?"

"Ill for you that command, well for me who obey," growled the other, and
Sergius flushed and was silent.

"Shall we catch them?" he asked, a few moments later, for the clump of
Numidians, who had sat motionless upon their horses until the Romans
covered half the intervening distance, had now wheeled for flight.

"If they be too strong for us, we shall catch them," replied Decius.  "It
is as they will."

And now it became apparent that the marauders were far inferior in
numbers to the assailants, and that they recognized the fact; for flight
and pursuit began in earnest.  Horses were urged to higher speed.  At one
moment the Numidians seemed to be holding their distance; at another, the
Romans gained slightly but unmistakably.  All order of detachments and
turmae was soon lost; Romans and allies, officers and men, were mingled
together in a straggling mass, with naught but the eagerness of the
riders and the speed of their animals to marshal them.  Only Decius
continued to pound along, with his horse's nose at his tribune's elbow.
The thunder of many hundred hoofs rolled across the plain.

"By Hercules! we shall do it!" cried Sergius, in whom ardour of the chase
had put to flight all sentiments of regret or doubt.  "Do you not see we
are gaining?"

"They ride silently yet," said Decius.  "It is but knee-speed with them.
Wait till they cry out to their horses, and we shall see."

Suddenly, as if to supplement the words, a single shrill cry, half
whistle, half scream, rose up ahead.  Had they been closer, they might
have noted the pricking ears of the desert steeds; but this much they
saw:--one horse and rider darting out of the press, like arrow from bow,
and scurrying away over the plain as if their former gait had been but a
hand-gallop.

An instant of misgiving came to some few of the Romans, who were not
blind to everything but the excitement of the moment, but they, like the
rest, only plied knee and thong the harder, and the episode of the single
rider was forgotten by all save Marcus Decius and Sergius.

"It is a trap, master," said the former, with an inquiring glance at his
leader.

Sergius bowed his head, and his face was troubled, as he replied:--

"I know it, my Marcus, but we cannot turn back now.  I have accepted the
feast: therefore I must recline until my host gives the signal to rise.
I pray you pardon me."

By a quick movement Decius urged his horse a stride ahead of the
tribune's, that he might the better hide his emotion; at the same time
growling:--

"I pardon you?--and for the chance of a blow at the scum?  I thank you
many times."

And now, from the plain ahead rose a low range of rolling hills over
which a light cloud seemed to hover.  Was it the ascent that wearied the
horses of the Numidians?  Surely the space between pursuers and pursued
was lessening rapidly, and Hostilius leaned far forward, shaking his
spear and calling upon his men for a renewed effort.

"Now! now!" he cried.  "See! they are spent!  Up with them ere they top
the hill!"

But the Numidians gained the sought-for ridge, if only by a few
spear-lengths' lead, and the cloud, now close ahead, hung so dense that
there were those who thought it the smoke of another farm.  Decius' eyes
seemed set in a dazed stare.  There was too much red in that cloud, and
yet it was not the red of fire, and it was too light and too thin for
smoke.  He knew it; he had known it all along, but what did it matter?
The last Numidian had disappeared down the opposite slope--no! surely
they had turned again, and in a longer line--a thicker one; and the light
javelins and naked black bodies had become long, stout spears and
glittering corselets, while at their head rode a slender man with forked
beard, and his black eyes seemed to burn in his head like coals.  So,
with one barbaric roar, the whole array poured down over the allied
cavalry, and these were like the dust of the trampled field.




VII.

PUNISHMENT.

Sergius hardly knew what was happening.  He was conscious that the
stride of his horse had been checked by a dense mass of plunging
animals in front--a mass that grew more dense and more tangled with
every instant.  Those behind were still endeavouring to press forward,
and those in front were hurled back upon them or were striving
frantically to break through the rearmost squadrons and escape; while,
shrill above the clash of arms and the shouts and screams, rose a name
that Sergius found himself listening to with a sort of curious interest.

"Maharbal!  Maharbal!" came the cry, nearer and nearer.

At the first moment of the check, Marcus Decius had pushed the sturdy
horse that he rode well to the fore.  He saw Hostilius riding back,
waving one arm and crying out incoherent words: his spear was gone, and
the head of a Spaniard's lance had been thrust through his shoulder and
broken off, so that a third of the shaft hung from the wound.

Then what had happened and the hopelessness of it all became apparent.
Like the veriest fools they had ridden into the snare, and Maharbal,
the Carthaginian, with at least two thousand Spanish and African
horsemen, was thundering on their front and flanks: their front--but in
a moment, their rear; for now those who had not been ridden down at the
first onset or become inextricably entangled with their fellows broke
away over the plain, carrying their officers with them in a mad frenzy
of flight; while other Numidians--fresh riders on fresh steeds--urged
the pursuit and smote down the hindermost.

Decius found himself riding in the middle of the press.  His face was
as imperturbable as ever, though he glanced over his shoulder from time
to time as if to note how much nearer death had come.  Sergius galloped
close behind him, careless and abstracted, his rein lying loose on his
charger's steaming neck.  Then, of a sudden, a resolve seemed to come
to him.  Straightening himself, he urged the weary horse forward
through the fugitives till he drew up even with Hostilius, who, still
frantic with panic, was now swaying in his saddle from the pain and
loss of blood.

Sergius leaned over and laid his hand upon the other's arm, and
Hostilius started as if he had touched a serpent.  Then he became
calmer, and a troubled look was in the eyes that sought the tribune's
face.

"Yes, I know," he said at last, speaking hurriedly and in odd, strained
accents.  "I led you into it, and now I am flying."

"Let us turn back," said Sergius, mildly.  "I do not reproach you, but
let us turn back.  Surely it is better than the rods and axe."

Hostilius shuddered, and, at that moment, Decius, who had overtaken
them, broke in with:--

"By Hercules! there is no fear of those.  They cut us down in flight.
The choice is, shall we have it in the face or between the shoulders."

"By the gods of Rome, then!" shouted the praefect, suddenly reining up,
while Sergius and Decius swung their horses in short circles.

There was no trumpet to give the signal, and the little cavalry banner
had gone down long ago; but such was the force of Roman training that
nearly all of Sergius' men and half of the allies turned in mid-panic
with their leaders.  To make head, much less to form was impossible,
for the foremost of the enemy were well mingled with the rearmost
fugitives.  As Decius had said, it was only a choice of deaths: the one
swift and honourable, the other more lingering, but none the less
inevitable.

Almost in a moment it was over.  Between two and three hundred of the
united detachments had fallen already, and the hundred or so that now
sought to face about, went down in a crushed and bleeding mass under
the thousands of hoofs that overwhelmed them.  Such was the weight and
impetus of the pursuing force that there was no time even to strike,
and most of the victims fell unwounded by spear or javelin.  Sergius
was vaguely conscious that he had seen the praefect cloven through the
head by the short, swordlike Numidian knife, his own horse seemed to
collapse under him, and that was the end.

Then he knew that it was dark and cold and that there was a howling in
the air, as of beasts of prey, and the shadow of a man fell across him,
for the moon was in the heavens, and the man was cursing by all the
gods of the Capitol.

Gradually consciousness returned, and he recalled, incident by
incident, the happenings of the past day.  He had been lying still,
thus far, without further wish than to look up at the stars and think
and listen to what he now knew was the distant howling of wolves and
the nearer curses of Marcus Decius.  At last he stirred slightly, and
the decurion turned and looked down.

"Do you live, master?"

"Yes, truly," replied Sergius; "unless you chance to be a shade."

Then he struggled to his feet, and the two gazed silently at each other
and around them.  All about, in the moonlight, lay the bodies of horses
and men, the latter glittering in their white tunics, save here and
there an officer whose helmet and breastplate had seemed to mark out
his corpse for stripping and nameless desecrations.  Sergius'
head-piece was gone, but he glanced at his own corselet and then at
Decius.

"We were buried together under a heap of dead," said the latter, in
answer to the unasked query.  "They made haste in their spoiling; and,
when they had gone, I drew myself free and found you: the wolves are
feasting well to-night; can you walk?"

Sergius moved stiffly a few steps.  He felt bruised from head to foot,
and one arm hung useless from a dislocated shoulder, but he found no
wound.  Decius had not escaped so lightly.  Besides the gash he had
received earlier in the day, he had been cut again across the forehead,
but his prodigious strength seemed to have inexhaustible resources to
draw upon.

"Come," he said.  "We must go southward as quickly as possible.
Sergius still walked slowly about, glancing at one corpse after
another, until the decurion, at last divining his thought, broke in
roughly:--

"Come!  The wolves must provide him sepulchre as they will do for
better men.  What would he have?  The she-wolf suckled the twins.  Let
Hostilius pay the debt by feeding the she-wolf's cubs.  By Hercules!
other sepulchre for him means need of one for ourselves."

So speaking, he at last drew Sergius away, and they began their weary
tramp across the field.

"If I could have seen but one pulse-eater among the slain," said the
tribune, after they had gone some distance in silence.

"I know of one that should be dead," remarked Decius, grimly, "if a
spear through his midriff be enough for him.  Truly the ancient shafts
are useless in close fight, save for a single thrust.  I, for one,
welcome the Greek equipment--and the sooner the better."

Suddenly Sergius stopped and laid his hand upon his comrade's arm.

"Look!" he said.

A long, low rampart seemed to rise up from the plain two hundred yards
ahead.

"Their camp," said the decurion, after a short pause, "and deserted.
Let us go forward cautiously; perhaps we shall find food."

Step by step they crept up, walking faster and more erect as they drew
nearer and as the evidence that life was not there became more apparent.

"They have left it only to-night," said Decius, clambering up the mound
of earth and sniffing the air.  "Had it been a day old, we should have
smelt it long ago, though the wind blows from us."

Then, as they descended and traversed the silent lanes, a puzzled
expression came to his face, and he halted from time to time.

Sergius eyed him inquiringly.

"Do you not smell fresh blood?" said the veteran, at last.  "I remember
when we marched with Lucius Aemilius, after the Gauls had beaten the
praetor's army at Clusium.  There were ten thousand men just slain, and
the air was salt like the sea--by Jupiter!  What is this?"

Resuming their advance, they had come upon a space of open ground near
the centre of the camp, doubtless the spot reserved for a market; but
what meat was it that cumbered the shambles, without buyer or seller?
Piled in ghastly heaps, or covering the ground two and three deep, lay
a fresh-reaped harvest of corpses, stripped, distorted, gleaming in the
moonlight.  Could it be that the camp had been taken?  But these were
no African dead, nor yet was this a Roman camp.  There was a set
deliberation, too, about the slaughter, that told no tale of battle.

Suddenly Decius cried out and, stooping down, raised the hands of one
of the victims--hands upon which the shackles still hung.

"Slaves," murmured Sergius; "but why--"

"Say, rather, prisoners," said the centurion, grimly.

Sergius struck his thigh.  It was all clear to him now.

"May the plague fall upon him! may he go to a thousand crosses!  Do you
not see?  He is _escaping_.  He has made for the passes and slain his
prisoners, that they may not hamper his march.  Who knows but that by
now he is on the road to Rome?  Gods!  This was Hostilius' duty and
mine, and we wasted our time and our men on a few score of miserable
Numidians.  Come, my Marcus, come: there are no such things as wounds
or weariness or caution.  We must reach the dictator at once, and may
the gods grant that it be not too late!"

Marcus Decius had been gazing gloomily at the young man, as the words
burst from his lips.

"Where shall we go, and how?" he said, with a despairing gesture.

"On our feet," cried Sergius.  "Did I not say that weariness and wounds
were not?  It is for the life of the Republic: I to the camp near
Casilinum; you to Tarracina.  They will march by the Appian or by the
Latin Way, if they strike for Rome.  If not, the plan may not be fatal."

Decius yielded to the decision of his companion, and, with hasty
fingers, they unlaced each other's corselets and hurried out of the
camp, each to run his race with what strength remained.  The last clasp
of hands had been given and received, when, far away on the hills east
and northeast, the quick eye of Sergius caught the gleam of a rapidly
moving torch: then another and another and another seemed to flame out
in the night, like stars when the moon has failed, until the whole
range of heights blazed with fires that flashed and danced and crossed
and recrossed each other in mad confusion, as if all the thronging
bacchanals of Greece had assembled for one frenzied orgy.

Dazed and confounded by the spectacle, as grand as it was weird and
unexplainable, they stood spell-bound, powerless each to take the first
stride.  Decius, the older man, the veteran, turned to his companion,
yielding that unconscious homage to birth and rank and education, that
comes in the presence of unknown perils.  No experience of war could
help him here, and his mind leaped at once to the supernatural for an
explanation.  As for the tribune, such thoughts, at least, had not
occurred to him.  Greek scepticism had already gained too strong a hold
upon young Romans of rank, to let them regard the theology of the State
other than as a machinery devised by wise men to control an ignorant
rabble.  Besides, his mind had taken another direction from the
discovery of the slaughter of the prisoners, and, humanlike, it ran on
in its channel, right or wrong.

Decius was trembling violently.

"Truly, master, the gods of Carthage are loose to-night," said he.

There was even a little of contempt in the glance with which Sergius
noted the abject terror of the sturdy veteran.  Utterly at a loss to
explain the apparitions, he never doubted for a moment but that they
were the product of some human wile.

"Come," he said shortly.  "The gods of Carthage have favoured us in
lighting the way.  First of all, we shall go together and learn the
truth."  Without waiting for a reply, he set off, at an easy, loping
gait, in the direction of the strange fires.  Decius followed, as he
would have followed through the portals of Avernus.

The distance to the heights was not great,--four or five miles at the
utmost,--but half an hour had passed, and still the spectacle, wilder
and more brilliant than ever, remained unexplained.  For a stretch of
miles, the hills above, beyond, and below were all ablaze with rushing
flames that seemed guided by no sentient agency; then, suddenly, a
single torch glanced out from a small grove of trees a short distance
ahead and darted diagonally across their path.  Decius stopped for an
instant, with trembling knees; but Sergius bounded forward to intercept
the torch-bearer, and the veteran followed from sheer shame.

Up, down to the ground, up again, and then around in frantic waving
circles swept the flame: a mad bellowing rolled through the night,
until the tribune himself almost checked his stride in awe-struck
wonder.  The next instant the torch, if torch it was, seemed to
flounder to the earth, from which it rose again and came driving
directly toward him, explained at last,--an ox with a great bundle of
blazing fagots fastened between its horns, blinded, frantic with pain
and terror.

Sergius sprang aside, as the beast dashed by; but Decius, roused once
more to the possibility of independent thought and action, stepped
toward it and, as it passed, plunged his sword between its heaving ribs.

"What now, my master?" he said, flushing with shame at his fears of the
last hour--perhaps the bravest hour of his life.  "Does the lying
Carthaginian seek to terrify Quintus Fabius, the dictator, as he
terrified Marcus Decius, the decurion?"

"Yes, truly," replied Sergius, gloomily; "and he will succeed even
better.  No general, and, least of all, ours, would lead out his army
in the night against such a spectacle.  Come, it is necessary that we
should reach the camp," and, turning once again, they fell to running
in a more southern direction, where a dim glow in the sky seemed to
tell of the watchfires of an army.

At first no sound broke the stillness of the night, save the laboured
breathing of the weary runners and the strokes of their leathern
cothurni upon the hard ground; but soon other noises came to mingle
with these and, at last, to drown them: the lowing of thousands of
cattle, now scattered far and wide over the plain and hillsides, and
then the distant clash of arms and the cries of combatants.

Day began to dawn, just as the fugitives came in sight of the Roman
camp with the army drawn up behind its ramparts, waiting for they knew
not what.  Here and there upon the heights they could see small bodies
of legionaries who defended themselves against light troops of the
enemy, until overwhelmed by the Spanish infantry that scaled the hills
and cut them to pieces; while to every prayer that the dictator should
march out to their support, he returned one grim answer.

"They deserted their posts in the passes.  Rome needs not such
soldiers."

So, company by company, the guards of the defiles, terrified or lured
away to the ridges by the ruse of the cattle and the blazing fagots,
fell ingloriously before their comrades' eyes, as being men not worth
the effort to succour.  The rear-guard of the invaders had already made
its way through the pass, while the Carthaginian van was well on into
the valley of the Volturnus.  Now, too, the African light troops
disappeared, and, at last, the white tunics of the Spaniards, gay with
their purple borders, glittered for a moment on the hilltops, and then,
their work of death completed, sank away behind the ridges to fall back
and join their comrades in a march of new destruction through a new
country.




VIII.

DISGRACE.

While these things were happening, for the most part in the sight of
all, Sergius had been able to gain a moment's speech with the dictator.
Forcing his way through the crowd of tribunes and officers who thronged
the praetorium, he had found Fabius seated before his tent, and had
told his story in the fewest words possible.

Naked but for his torn tunic and his cothurni, covered from head to
foot with blood and mire, his left arm hanging useless, and his face
like the face of a dead man, neither his miserable plight nor his story
brought softness to the stern lips and brow of the general.

"You have come to tell me this?" he said, when the other had finished
speaking.  "Do I not know it _now_?" and he pointed to the heights.
Then he turned away and spoke with some one at his side, while Sergius
stood, with downcast eyes, swaying and scarcely able to keep his feet.

Among those around him his fate seemed hardly a matter of conjecture,
but a thrill went through the company when Minucius, who had been
vainly urging the dictator to support the guards of the passes, now
turned away in disgust, and, noting the disgraced officer, as if for
the first time, cried out in a loud voice:--

"What, my friend! have not the lictors attended to you, yet, for
venturing to play the man?"

Sergius felt the added danger to which the master-of-the-horse had
exposed him by using his insubordination to point such a moral to his
commander; but the face of the dictator gave no sign that he had even
heard the taunting challenge.  Calmly he gave his orders for cautious
scouting, for breaking camp, and for the army to resume its patient
march of observation, along the flank of the retiring foe.  Then, when
one after another had retired to fulfil his commands, he turned again
to the waiting tribune.

"I have been considering your fault," he said slowly, "and I had marked
you out as a much needed victim for the rods and axe.  Go to my
master-of-the-horse and thank him for your life.  His taunt was
doubtless meant to destroy you, in order that he might play the
demagogue over your fate.  I accept it as a challenge to my
self-control.  It is more necessary that I should show myself wise and
forbearing than that one fool should perish for his folly.  Go back to
Rome, and tell them that I have many soldiers who can fight, and that I
want only those who can obey."

Utterly exhausted, Sergius struggled vainly to withstand this last,
crushing blow.  His composure was unequal to the task, and, sinking
upon his knees, as the dictator turned toward the tent, he could only
stretch out one hand and murmur:--

"The axe, my master; I pray you, the axe."

Fabius paused a moment and eyed him grimly.  Then his rugged, weary
face softened slightly.

"I trusted you," he said.  "Could you not trust me for a little while?
But go to Rome, as I bade you--only there shall others go with you, and
you shall bear for your message, instead of that one, this: that there
is no room for wounded men in my camp."

"But I shall be well in two days--in one--I am well now if you say it."

Fabius shook his head slowly.

"Aesculapius has not been unhonoured by me," he said, "and he has told
me that you will be but a burden for many days.  For this reason go to
Rome, and for two others that you shall not tell of: one, for
punishment because you could not obey, and one, because the time will
come soon when Rome shall need even the men who can only fight."

Sergius saw the hopelessness of struggling against his softened fate,
bitter though it was.  Open disgrace, indeed, had been turned aside;
but, on the other hand, he was doomed to inaction during times when all
Rome longed only to strike, and he could not but feel that he had
fallen far in the estimation of his general.




IX.

HOME.

The Appian Way was still safe, even from the chance of Numidian foray,
and it was along its lava-paved level that the long convoy of sick and
wounded writhed slowly northward that afternoon.

Half reclining in the rude chariot, each jolt of which brought agony to
his injured shoulder, Sergius watched, with far deeper pain than that
of body, the last troop of allied horse winding up the pass toward
Allifae: the rear-guard of Rome's line of march.  Then he fell to
brooding upon his fate, while the night followed the day and the day
the night, and still the dreary, groaning caravan dragged on, resting
only during the heated hours.

On, over the Liris at Minturnae, upward, over the mountains behind
Tarracina and descending again into the Pontine plain; through the
shady groves of Arician ilex that crown the Alban Hills, down to
Bovillae, and then away across the Campagna to Rome--a marvel of deep
cuttings through the hills,--a marvel of giant superstructures over
valleys,--the Appian, the Queen of Ways.

There were long, green ridges now, swelling from the plain and breaking
away into little rocky cliffs tufted with wild fig trees: sluggish
streams wound down from the east where, far away, loomed the
snow-tipped summits of Apennine, while toward the west the sky
reflected a brighter light from the sea that glittered beneath it.

At last the eyes of the vanguard of weary wayfarers could descry,
through the morning mists, the crowned cluster of hills that was to be
a crown to all the world.  Nearer they came and yet nearer, through the
vineyards and cornfields of the Campagna--the southern Campagna teeming
with its herds of mouse-coloured cattle, whose great, stupid eyes were
only less stupidly beautiful than those of the rustics that watched
over their grazings.

And now wounds and sickness were, for the moment, forgotten, as man
pointed out to man this and that landmark of home: temples on this hill
and on that; Diana on the Aventine, the hill of the people; Jupiter
Stator on the Palatine; the grim mass of the citadel above the rock of
Tarpeia; the great quadriga that surmounted the greatest fane of
all--the house of Capitoline Jove.  To the right of these were the
clustered oaks of the Caelian Mount, while, farthest away, but highest
of all, the white banner fluttering from the heights of Janiculum told
them that the city was still safe, still unassailed.  They were passing
where the road was bordered by its houses of the dead; tombs of the
great families, above which the funereal cypresses bent their heads and
shed peace and shade alike over the dead and the living.  The hum of
the city came to their ears, and, as the convoy drew nearer to the
Capenian Gate, the throng, pouring out to meet them, grew thicker and
more dense, blocking the way until the cavalry of the escort cleared it
with their spear-butts.  Then the press divided, running along on both
sides of the carriages, in two fast-filling streams whose murmurs
swelled into a very torrent's roar of questions and prayers for news of
the general and the army.

"Was Hannibal beaten?  Had he been slain, or was he waiting in chains
to grace the Fabian triumph?  Was it true that he measured twice the
height of common men, and that a single eye blazed cyclops-like in the
middle of his forehead?  How many elephants would be seen in the
triumph?"

Such and a hundred queries, equally wild, assailed the escort and the
occupants of the wagons; for this was the rabble: poor citizens,
freedmen, slaves, for whom no story of Hannibal and Carthage was too
improbable.  Nevertheless Sergius imagined he could discern a spirit of
irony underlying much that he heard.

When they had reached the low eminence that, crowned by the Temple of
Mars, faced the city gate, he bade the attendants help him descend from
the army carriage, that he might wait the coming of his slaves with a
litter.  A messenger was soon found, and hurried off, charged with
necessary directions.

The crowd had rolled on through the gate, together with the convoy, and
the sick man was left alone save for the attendants of the temple in
whose care he had placed himself.  Day by day, as he had jolted along
his journey, he had felt the fever coming on--fever born of his injury
and the terrible strain to which he had been subjected: now it was only
necessary to reach his home and rest.  Last of his race but for two
older sisters who had married several years since, the spacious mansion
of the family of Fidenas was his alone, with its slaves and its
ancestral masks and its cool courts and its outlook over the seething
Forum up to the opposite heights of the Capitol.  There he would find
care and comfort for the body if not for the soul.

And now the patter of running feet sounded from the pavement below.
They were come, at last, with the litter, and Sergius, entering it, was
borne swiftly through the gate, on, between the tall houses that backed
up against the hills, turning soon to the left into the New Way; on,
past the altar of Hercules in the cattle market, past the Temple of
Vesta, along the Comitia, and into the Sacred Way by the front of the
Curia.  Thence they swung westward to the Roman Gate, the gate in the
ancient Wall of the City of Romulus that fenced the Palatine alone,--a
stately entrance, now, to the residence portion of the city most
favoured by the great families.  Near by stood the house that marked
the ending of the journey, bustling with its slaves and bright with a
hundred lamps; while the physician, an old freedman of the tribune's
father, stood upon the threshold to greet and care for his late
master's son.

Gravely shaking his head at the discouraging aspect of the invalid and
muttering to himself in Greek, for he was born in Rhodes, he led the
way back to the great hall between the peristyle and the garden.

"Here, master," he said, "I have caused your couch to be laid, at the
moment I learned of your arrival and condition.  You observe, the air
and light will be better than in your apartment, and the space better
calculated for those whose duty it shall be to minister to you, until
the divine Aesculapius and Apollo's self unite to grant success to my
efforts."

"It is well, Agathocles," said Sergius, wearily, "and I thank you."

His voice seemed to die away with the last words, and a sort of stupor
fell over him.  Agathocles watched him closely, as he lay upon the
couch, noted the heavy breathing, and drew his brows together with a
deep frown.  Behind him a group of the household slaves whispered
together and cast frightened glances, now at their master, now at the
disciple of the healing art; for Sergius had been brought up among
them, and the terms of their service were neither heavy nor harsh.
Then the surgeon set to work examining the shoulder, nodding his head
to observe that the bone had been replaced in its socket, but waxing
troubled again over the inflammation and swelling that told the story
of torn tendons and blood-vessels too long neglected, and of the
hardships of the journey.  Slaves were sent scurrying, in this
direction and that, to compound lotions and spread poultices, while
Agathocles himself proceeded to the ostentatious mixing of some cooling
draught calculated to ward off, if possible, the fever that was already
claiming its sway.




X.

CONVALESCENCE.

The many weeks of hovering between life and death that followed these
days were a dense blank to Sergius.  First, there was his injury, more
serious than he had imagined, and the fever that had followed it,
complicated again by the malaria of the marshes through which he had
journeyed in so vulnerable a plight.  Then came other weeks of such
lassitude that he had neither power nor desire to learn of the world to
which he felt himself slowly returning, as did Aeneas from the realms
of Pluto.  There were times when he had been vaguely conscious of
whisperings around his couch upon subjects that should have interested
him and did not.  Was it his fault? or had everything become
commonplace and of no account?

At last there came a time of convalescence.  His haggard face
frightened him when he looked at it in the bronze mirror; but the air
of the winter was fresh and keen, bringing health and life to the mind,
if not entirely to the body.  So, lying one day in the entrance hall
and gazing out over the Forum below, he turned to Agathocles, who sat
close by.

"And now you shall tell me," he began, "of the things that have
happened while I have lain here, helpless as a bag of corn in the
granary, and of even less importance."

"You mistake, my master," replied the physician, quickly.  "Surely you
must know that your condition has been a matter of deep anxiety to
many, both within and without your walls."

"Within, perhaps, yes," said Sergius, slowly.  "I treat them well, and
such of them as do not get freedom by my will would doubtless find
harder masters in Sabinus and Camerinus.  My sisters' husbands are
patricians of the old school.  As for without,--am I not a man useless
in times of action?--well-nigh disgraced?--"

Agathocles hastened to interrupt:--

"Ah! my master, you do not know.  Could you but see the crowd of
clients who have gathered at your door each morning, waiting for it to
creak upon the pivots, and, later in the day, such of your friends as
were not away with the army--ay," he continued, with a sharp glance at
the invalid, "and a pretty female slave who has come at each nightfall
and has questioned the doorkeeper."

The strong desire to hear of two things had come into Sergius' mind
while the physician was speaking.  He must learn about this female
slave who had inquired so assiduously, and he must hear of the army,
the war, the Republic; for these last three were really but one.  After
something of an effort, and not without a certain sentiment of
self-approval, he said:--

"Let me hear of friends later, my Agathocles.  Tell me now of the war."

There was a troubled expression in the physician's eyes, but he
answered volubly:--

"It progresses famously, in Spain, my master.  Oh!--ay--famously.
Their fleet has been swept from the seas, and Scipio slays and drives
them as he wills.  Doubtless by now they are all back in Africa--"

"Not of Spain," interrupted Sergius, as the narrator caught his breath.
"Tell me of Italy, of Hannibal and Fabius.  Have the standards opposed
each other?"

"They say Hannibal is in winter quarters at Geronium, and the consuls
watch him," began Agathocles, in more subdued tones.

"Tell me of Fabius.  Tell me of what has happened--all, do you hear?"
cried Sergius, raising himself impatiently on one elbow.  "If your
story seems to lack coherence and truth, I swear to you that I will go
down into the Forum at once and learn what I wish."

Thus adjured, the physician answered, but with evident reluctance:--

"Truly, my master, all things have not been as we might wish, and yet
they could easily have run worse.  When your dictator let the invaders
out of Campania, there was much complaint among the people that he was
protracting the war for his own advantage; but when he came to Rome for
the sacrifices and left Minucius in command, with orders not to engage,
and when the master-of-the-horse, as some say, evading the orders,
fought and gained an advantage, then, you may believe me, the city was
in a turmoil; nor were there wanting friends of Minucius and emissaries
from his camp to sound his praises as a general and decry the dictator
and his policy, not to say his courage and his honesty."

"I warrant," said Sergius, gloomily, "that every pot-house politician
from the Etruscan Street was declaiming on how much better _he_ could
command than could Quintus Fabius."

"Until at last," went on Agathocles, "Marcus Metilius--"

"The tribune?--a corrupt knave!" broke in Sergius.

"Surely; yes.  Well, this Marcus Metilius made a speech--"

"Full of rank demagoguery, I warrant."

"Surely, and saying that it was intolerable for Minucius, who was the
only man who could fight, to be put under guard lest he beat the enemy;
intolerable that the territory of the allies should have been given up
to ravage, while the dictator protected his own farm with the legions
of the Republic; and, finally, proposing, as a most moderate measure,
that Minucius, the victor, should be given equal command over the army
with Fabius the laggard."

"Unprecedented impudence!" murmured Sergius, "and what said the
dictator?"

"He did not trouble to go near the Comitia, and even in the Senate they
did not like to hear his praises of Hannibal and his troops, or listen
favourably when he spoke doubtfully concerning the magnitude of
Minucius' victory and claimed that, even were it all true, the
master-of-the-horse should be called to account for his
insubordination.  So, after he had lauded prudence and supported his
own policy, and after Marcus Atilius Regulus was elected consul, the
dictator departed for the army, in the night, and left them to do as
they pleased."

"They passed the law?" asked Sergius, bitterly.

"It hung in doubt for some time," went on Agathocles; "for, though many
favoured, few were disposed to advance such a measure, until Caius
Terentius Varro, who was praetor last year--"

"The butcher's son," commented Sergius.  "You know, my Agathocles, how
demagogues and tyrants crushed out the life of your Hellas.  We have
yet to see the same ruin fall upon Rome, and from the same cause:
first, an ungovernable rabble, stirred up by the ignorant and vicious,
and then a king, and then a foreign conqueror.  Flaminius lost one
army, Minucius will doubtless lose another, while Metilius and Varro
are well able to lose whatever may remain.  Pah!  Why did you not let
me finish my journey to Acheron?  This is no city for men whose fathers
were able to teach them about war and honour.  He whose tongue is most
ready to lie about the noble and the rich is counted on to wield the
sword best against an enemy.  Well,--speak on; and what happened next?"

"As you say," continued the physician, "the measure was passed; but
when Minucius desired that he and the dictator should command on
alternate days, Fabius would only consent to a division of the army."

"Gods!" exclaimed Sergius.  "Two legions apiece!  That must have been
rare sport for Hannibal."

"Truly, yes; but it resulted well, for, to shorten the tale, the
Carthaginian trapped Minucius through his rashness, and was about to
cut him to pieces, when the dictator, who had foreseen all this, came
up and saved what was left; whereupon the master-of-the-horse marched
to the general's camp, and, saluting him as 'father' and 'saviour,'
surrendered his equal command, after having directed his soldiers,
also, to greet the others as patrons--"

"That, at least, was well done," said Sergius, nodding; "worthy of a
man better born than Minucius.  I do him honour for learning from
experience.  Metilius or Varro could not have done it."

"And, now," continued Agathocles, "both the dictator and the
master-of-the-horse have given up their commands, the time of their
appointments expiring, and the army is in winter quarters under the
consuls."

"Servilius and Atilius?"

"Truly."

"And the elections?"

"Are falling due."

"Who sue for the consulship?"

Agathocles hesitated and placed his fingers upon the patient's pulse.

"I have told you enough for the day--"

"Who are candidates?" reiterated Sergius, leaning forward impatiently.

"They say that Varro--" began Agathocles.

But the tribune had sprung to his feet.  Then, as he swayed a moment
from weakness, leaning back against the couch, he raised both hands and
cried out:--

"Have they gone mad?  The butcher's son!--the bearer of his father's
wares, to command against Hannibal!  Do you think the Carthaginian a
bullock to stand still and stupid, while this soldier of the shambles
swings the axe?  Gods!  They will learn their error--only _we_ must pay
the price, together with the rabble that owe it.  Gods!  Was not the
lesson of Flaminius enough for these drinkers of vinegar-water?  This
will be great news for them on the Megalia."

Then, seeming to gain strength from his excitement, he strode up and
down the atrium, while the physician watched him anxiously but without
venturing to interfere.

It was the doorkeeper's attendant that broke in upon the scene, pausing
a moment in doubt, as his eyes followed his master's rapid strides.
Finally, approaching Agathocles, he plucked him by the sleeve and
whispered:--

"The woman desires to know of the health of my lord."

Before the physician could answer, Sergius had caught the words, and,
wheeling about, faced the boy.

"What woman and where?" he asked.

"The gray stole; the slave woman who inquires for you.  She waits her
answer at the door," said the boy, his tongue loosened by the question.

"Let her come to me," commanded Sergius, and he threw himself down upon
the deeply cushioned seat of a marble chair.  Agathocles stood at his
elbow, with an expression of anxiety on his face, and, in a moment
more, the girl entered.

Muffled almost to the eyes, she glided forward, and the voice that
addressed him was soft and musical.

"May the gods favour you, my lord! even as they have favoured me in
permitting a sight of your improved health."

"You have been here often," began Sergius, "and I wished to see you and
bid you bear my thanks to her who sent you."

Slowly the stole dropped from the eyes--very pretty eyes, that, joined
with an equally pretty mouth, took on an expression of hurt
astonishment.

"That _sent_ me?" she murmured, half sadly.  "Ah, well; doubtless it is
a matter of insolence for a poor slave girl to wish and ask concerning
the health of the noble Sergius."

The tribune watched her closely and with mingled feelings.  He had
settled in his mind, from the moment of Agathocles' mention of the
fact, that the slave woman who called must be sent by Marcia, and it
was not without a pang of very poignant regret that he relinquished the
idea.  That he could not place this girl--one of a class so far beneath
the notice of a Roman of rank--was not strange, and yet the face seemed
vaguely familiar to him, and--it was certainly little short of
beautiful.  A man flouted, or, still worse, ignored by a mistress at
whose shrine he has worshipped, might well be pardoned a feeling of
satisfaction that his well-being was a matter of interest to at least
one pretty woman.

Meanwhile the girl stood before him, her arms hanging by her sides, her
eyes modestly cast down, and her whole attitude indicative of detected
audacity and submissive despair.  Agathocles had transferred his
attention from his patient to the visitor, and his scrutiny seemed to
trouble her.

"So it was yourself alone who desired to learn of my welfare," said
Sergius, with a faint smile.  "Believe me, my girl, no Roman is too
noble to value the interest of beauty like yours."

There was just the suspicion of a laugh in the downcast eyes, but it
sped away as swiftly as it came, and she made haste to answer:--

"Truly, my lord does not measure his own worth.  There are many, as
much above me in beauty as they are in rank; many who cannot venture to
show the concern they doubtless feel.  What has a poor slave girl to do
with maidenly modesty--the plaything of any master who chooses to smile
upon her for a moment?"

She spoke bitterly, and Sergius, half frowning, half smiling, reached
out his hand.  The contrast between this girl's frankly spoken interest
and the courted Marcia's trivial indifference came to him more
powerfully.  What a fool a man was to waste himself on some haughty
mistress who exacted all things and gave nothing!  She had taken the
hand he held out, and now, suddenly, he drew her to him, and kissed her.

Then he found new occasion to marvel over the strange ways of women.
As if awakened from a dream or a part in a comedy, to some instant and
frightful peril, she wrenched herself from him and, wrapping her cloak
around her face, turned and ran like a deer through the hallway and out
into the street.

Sergius was dazed for a moment by the suddenness of it all; then he
rose.

"Quick, Smyrnus!" he called to the boy who attended on the porter.
"Follow, and bring me word where she goes."

The delay had been short, and Smyrnus was swift of foot, but when he
reached the street it was empty as far as he could see, and a dash to
each corner of the house gave no better results.  Inquiries, likewise,
were unavailing, and he returned slowly and with shoulders that already
seemed to tingle under the expected rods.

Meanwhile, Agathocles had essayed to exert his authority over the
invalid, and was protesting volubly against the latter's imprudence.
Sergius was in excellent humour, despite the escape of his conquest.

"Nonsense, my Agathocles," he began, half guiltily at first, but
gaining confidence as he pursued his justification.  "Do you not see,
all this has done me more good than a score of days spent in dull
reclining, with only nauseous draughts to mark the hours by?  I have
learned that I am a man again, with an interest in the Republic and
myself.  Surely such knowledge is worth a little risk.  To-morrow, mark
you, if the gods favour me, I shall descend into the Forum and see if
nothing is to be effected against this rabble in the matter of the
elections.  Had she not magnificent eyes, my Agathocles? not those of
the dull ox, as your Homer puts it, but rather of the startled fawn?"

"They seemed to me more of the fox," said the physician, dryly, "being
golden in colour and very cunning.  I doubt you fathomed her smile,
though wherefore she should seek--"

"Sacrilege! Agathocles," cried Sergius, gayly; "but here comes Smyrnus.
Well, boy, where is the lair of this fox of our good Agathocles?"

The terrified boy had thrown himself upon his face.

"I hastened with all speed, master," he protested.  "At your word I
flew, but she was gone, as if a god had snatched her up, nor was there
a passer-by who had seen aught--"

Sergius was frowning ominously; then his face cleared.

"Doubtless that was it, Smyrnus," he said.  "Your judicious piety is
quicker than your heels in saving your back.  If a god took her, he
showed excellent taste, and it would be utter sacrilege to punish you
for failing to learn her whereabouts.  Come, Agathocles, be not so
gloomy.  Do you think it is Aesculapius who has come to your aid?  He,
at least, is no spruce, young rival.  Be conciliatory, or I may,
perhaps, venture to try my fortune even against--"

"I am rather of the opinion that some cunning Hermes has tricked Eros
and Aesculapius and my Lord Lucius as well," said the physician.  An
expression of grim humour lurked in his face, and Sergius felt
strangely uncomfortable.

"What is a physician if he talk not in the language of oracles," he
said, querulously.  "Well, you may send me to my couch now, if you
will; but, mark you, to-morrow I go to the Forum."




XI.

POLITICS.

On the following day, Sergius, true to his purpose, ordered his litter
to be brought, and, reclining as his weakness compelled, was borne down
into the Forum crowded with its mass of turbulent and perspiring
humanity.  Nor was the temper of the rabble doubtful.  On every side he
heard arraignments of Fabius, and, through him, of all men guilty of
good birth or riches.  Under every portico, speakers were pouring forth
harangues whose ignorance was only matched by their coarseness and
surpassed by their reckless malevolence.  Once he bade his bearers set
him down, near where one Quintus Baebius Herennius, a plebeian tribune
and a relative of Varro's, was holding forth to a sympathetic crowd.

"Do you not know, ye foolish Romans," cried the orator, alternately
slapping his thigh, waving his arms, and casting up his eyes, "that
this Hannibal was brought into Italy by these very nobles, who are
always desiring war?  Can you not see how they are protracting the war,
when you consider that one man of the people, our own Minucius, when he
commanded the four legions, was sufficient for the enemy?  Behold how
this traitorous, this _noble_ Fabian schemed to expose the brave
Minucius and two legions of the people to destruction, and only rescued
the remnant that he might pose as their saviour and be saluted 'father'
and 'patron.'  There, indeed, was our Minucius at fault, as what
honest, poor man is not, when confronted by the wiles of those bred to
craft and trickery!  See, too, how the consuls have followed the same
dilatory measures, and can you doubt that it is all by agreement with
these traitor nobles?  Know well, now, that this war will have no
ending until a man of the people ends it--a real plebeian; a new man.
See you not that both consuls, by tarrying with the army, have set up
an interregnum, that the wicked nobles may the better influence your
choice?  But if you be true Romans, such as were those who camped upon
the Sacred Hill, you will remember that one consulship, at least, is
yours by law, and you will elect a man to fill it who is one of
yourselves and who will spurn the rich, as they now seek to spurn you
and me and all good men."

Sergius had listened to this harangue, and to the applause which
greeted it, with mingled feelings of indignation and sorrow--sentiments
to which was added surprise when he noted through the closed curtains
of his litter that several patricians passed by and smiled and nodded
to the speaker while he poured forth his diatribes.  Now, however, a
new commotion seemed to agitate the throng, who, turning suddenly, ran
pell-mell in one direction, almost overturning the litter--a
catastrophe from which it was only saved by a vigorous use of the
bearers' staves upon the heads of the nearest.

Sergius thrust aside the curtains and half raised himself to see the
cause of the disturbance.  The brightly fullered gown of a candidate
flashed before his eyes, and then he recognized Varro standing upon a
silversmith's counter, smiling this way and that, grasping the hands of
those nearest, kissing his own to the very outskirts of the mob, and
all the while crying out, to the promptings of his nomenclator:
"Greeting to you, Marcus!"  "Health, Quintus!"  "Commend me to your
brother, my Caius--yes, to be sure--when he shall return from the army.
Ah! friends, when I am consul, there will be a hasty returning from
such foolish wars.  You shall see the African fork-bearers winding
through the Forum."

"And that is the first word of truth I have heard from you, Varro, or
from your Herennius here," cried Sergius, who had risen and now stood,
pale and gaunt, beside his litter.  "With you and such as you to
command, we may well look to see the African fork-bearers winding
through the Forum--yes, and pillaging amid its ruins."

A roar of vituperation drowned whatever answer the candidate might have
made, as, with brandished clubs, cleavers, knives, styli--any weapon
that could be snatched up from the booths--the nearest score of the
crowd made a dash at the presumptuous noble.

The litter-bearers were sturdy fellows, and their staves were stout,
but the contest was far too unequal.  One had gone down with a deep
gash in the shoulder, and the others were quickly forced back upon
their master.

Sergius stood with his back to one of the square pillars of peperino,
with folded arms and pale face upon which hovered a smile of ineffable
scorn.  He recognized his peril: the fate that had befallen many noble
Romans in the election riots of the Republic; but his sentiment was
rather one of indifference than of perturbation, and he was about to
order his slaves to give up their hopeless defence, in order that the
crowd might let them, at least, go without further hurt, when an
entirely unexpected diversion brought him relief and safety.

Varro had viewed the attack upon his critic with a pleasure that he
scarcely tried to conceal.  He kept begging his adherents to be
moderate and abstain from violence, but in so low a voice that his
counsels could not be heard except by those immediately around him, and
were entirely inaudible to the howling assailants to whom they were
presumably addressed.  Another voice, however, a shrill, female voice,
came suddenly to Sergius' ears:--

"Would that my brother could come to life and command another fleet,
that the streets might be less crowded!"

Sergius recognized, in a rich litter that was tossed hither and thither
by the billows of the mob, the face of the sister of that Publius
Claudius who had lost for Rome the naval battle off Drepanum.  The mob,
too, recognized her, and the scornful speech bit deeply.  All around
arose a cry of--

"To the aediles with her!  To the aediles!  She has rejoiced in the
death of our brothers!  May the gods curse the noble!" and, in a
moment, Sergius found himself alone but for his bruised and bleeding
servants, while the tide of riot swept up the Forum, bearing the litter
upon its tossing crests, and the virago within continued to scream out
her defiance and contempt.

Varro remained, surrounded by a few friends, and, as Sergius
approached, he drew himself up, as if to reënforce his courage with a
sense of his importance.  The tribune was about to pass him without a
word; but the demagogue, emboldened by this seeming unwillingness for
an encounter, placed himself in his path.

"Did you hear the kindly wishes that the great express for the health
of their poorer countrymen?" he began, tauntingly.

"It is like your kind, Varro," replied Sergius, speaking slowly and in
tones of profound contempt, "to attribute to our party any intemperance
of a single opponent; but do you also credit us with the virtues of
individuals?  I might with better grace attribute the murderous attack
just made--and with your connivance--upon myself, to the party of the
people.  That I do not do so, you may lay to a moderation and
magnanimity that are not learned in the tradesman's booth or the
butcher's shambles."

Varro flushed crimson, and he looked from side to side, as if to call
upon his friends for new violence; but a company of young patricians
were descending from the Comitia, and his fellows were dull of
comprehension.

"Do you beware, though, Varro," continued Sergius, "lest, in striving
to attain power and place on the wings of calumny against those better
than yourself, or by the suggestion of false grievances to those who
are ignorant and weak, you may, by these things, incite one riot too
many.  Beware, above all things, lest you win."

Then, drawing his toga close, as if to avoid a contaminating touch, he
strode by to join the approaching band of young men, leaving his
opponent vicious to snarl, but powerless to bite.

After the usual greetings and inquiries concerning his health, they
walked on together toward the Curtian Pool, and Sergius' thoughts took
on a deeper colour from the despondent speech of his friends.  That
Varro would receive the votes of the centuries, beyond all doubt, was
unanimously conceded; and so great was the dissatisfaction with Fabius,
that their regret seemed only for the manner of the popular victory and
the man who was to gain it.  A few hot-heads dropped hints to the
effect that it might become necessary to reorganize the patrician clubs
and meet violence with violence, in which event there could be but
little doubt as to the result; but the sentiment of the majority was
adverse to such measures, and they viewed the possibilities with an
indifference that to Sergius seemed even more ominous than the frenzy
of the rabble and the worthlessness of its leaders.  His attempts to
defend the Fabian policy, speaking as one of its victims, were
hopelessly thrown away.  All Rome was mad for battle, even at the cost
of sending the butcher's son to command the legions; and, two days
later, the result of low chicanery and indifferent lethargy took shape.

The trumpet had summoned the army of the city to the Field of Mars, and
century after century had entered the enclosure to cast its vote for
Varro--for Varro alone, until no one of the noble candidates, who
received the half-hearted support of their fellows, got even enough
pebbles to be proclaimed elected to the second consulship.  To Varro
alone, cringing and insolent, was the oath administered; for Varro
alone was the prayer put up; for Varro was the declaration twice made,
according to the laws of the Republic, and into Varro's hands was
placed the presidency over the assembly that was to elect his colleague.

Then followed an exhibition of plebeian cunning.  There were among the
supporters of the consul those who realized what he himself could not:
his military incompetence and the terrible necessity that, at such a
juncture, there should be at least one soldier-consul.  Varro had won
on his merits as self-announced, on the strength of his own arraignment
of his adversaries' shortcomings.  He stood forth the incarnation of
party and class hatred; and now the victors, half dazed by the very
completeness of their triumph, paused in mid career to look for a
soldier with whom the army might be entrusted.  That he must be a
noble, was self-evident.  Even the rabble, now that its first outburst
had passed, was not so mad as to attribute military skill to any of its
wordy leaders.  The butcher's colleague must be a patrician, but he
must be such a patrician as would cast reproach upon his class, while
he supplied the one quality requisite to the plebeian situation.  To
whose political acumen first occurred the name of Lucius Aemilius
Paullus, no one seemed to know; but, once suggested, there was none to
deny its entire appropriateness.  Paullus was a veteran of several
wars, an experienced commander, a brave soldier; and there his merits
ended.  He had been brought to trial for misappropriation of the
plunder taken in the Illyrian campaign, and, as many thought, acquitted
by means as scandalous as the crime itself, while his less influential
colleague suffered for both.  Harsh and rude, no high-born Roman was
less popular; and his exaggeration of class insolence bade fair to
offer him as an illustration, ready to the tongue of every demagogue,
of what the people must always expect from patrician rule.

So, one by one, the five noble opponents of Varro were rejected, and
the word went out that, of their enemies, the people would have Paullus
and him alone.




XII.

BRAWLINGS.

More sick at heart, as he grew stronger in body, Sergius returned from
the final voting in the Field of Mars.  For some reason the popular
party, sated with triumph, had permitted the election, as praetors, of
good men who had experience in military affairs; perhaps that these
might, together with Paullus, make surer the victory that was to
redound to the honour of the darling of the mob and proclaim to all the
Roman world the superiority of the butcher, Varro, over Fabius, the
well-fathered.

As Sergius was borne along toward the Palatine district, he found the
streets crowded with a populace he had hardly known to exist in the
city.  Down from the lofty tenements of the Aicus, up from the slums of
the Suburra, the Gate of the Three Folds, and the Etruscan Street they
poured, drunk with joy and with hatred of all men who wore white togas
and had money to lend or lands to till.  At each corner a denser throng
was gathered around jugglers, tumblers, wrestlers that writhed over the
road-way, actors who danced Etruscan pantomimes and carried their
make-up in little bags slung around their necks, singers of medleys,
and would-be popular poets who spouted coarse epigrams and ribald
satires levelled at the thieving, the effeminate, the adulterous
patricians who thought to rule Rome and had named an Aemilius Paullus
to stand beside and check the generous, the fearless, the incorruptible
Varro.  Threatening looks and words were cast at Sergius and the
company of freedmen and clients that surrounded him, until he was not
ill-pleased to see the escort of another noble issue from a side street
and beat its way to where the exhausted bearers had set down the
tribune's litter, pausing to gain breath before attempting to push on
farther.  When, however, he recognized in the sturdy old man who strode
along in the midst of the new company, no more distant acquaintance
than the father of Marcia, he was conscious of a strong revulsion.
Better the continued buffeting with an obstreperous mob than the
embarrassments he foresaw in such a rencontre; but it was too late to
avoid it: the interests and perils of the two parties were too nearly
identical, and he heard the gruff voice of his old friend crying out:--

"Back, exercisers of the whip!  Back, colonizers of chains!  To the
cross with you all!  Is this Animula or Rome, where rude clowns do not
recognize their betters?"  Then, for the first time, perceiving
Sergius: "Greeting to you, my Lucius!  May the gods favour you better
than they have the Republic this day."

At that moment, a big, hulking fellow thrust himself forward in the
path of the advancing patrician and hiccoughed out:--

"May you meet with a plague, master!  Truly there are to be no betters
or worsers in Rome--now that the noble Varro is consul and--"

The staff of Torquatus felled him to the ground, where he lay
shuddering and drawing up his legs, while a yell of rage and menace
broke from the crowd.  Scarcely changing a line in his grim face, the
old man calmly trussed the folds of his toga about his left arm, freed
his right more fully, and drew a stylus of such size as to suggest a
dagger much more than an instrument for writing: such a weapon as was
born of the election brawls of earlier days, innocent under the law,
yet equally efficient as pen or sword.

Daunted at his aspect, the foremost assailants held back.

"Are there not more vinegar drinkers that wish to learn from an old
Roman the manners of old Rome?" asked Torquatus, sneeringly.

How the fight, once begun, would have ended seemed hardly uncertain,
for the crowd filled all the neighbouring streets: half were drunk, and
nearly half were provided with arms of some sort, many of them such as
were warranted by no pretext of law, save the knowledge that Varro was
consul, and the belief that he would protect his adherents in whatever
breach might please them.  The dangerous front of Torquatus and his
company might have sufficed to check those who would have to lead a
rush, but they, unfortunately, had the least to say on the subject of
giving battle.  Already the mobs, pouring in from the side streets at
the first scent of a brawl, were pushing the forlorn hope, all
unwilling, to its fate; three or four had already gone down with broken
heads, and a freedman of Torquatus had been stabbed in the side, when,
above the tumult, rose a voice crying:--

"Make way for the Consul, Paullus!  Way! way!"

The matter, truly, was becoming serious, thought the outskirts of the
mob--all of them who could hear the shout.  A brush with the fiercest,
the most hated, the most hating aristocrat that had been borne behind
the fasces for many a year, would mean punishment with a heavy hand.
The pressure was at once relieved, and though those in front saw no
sign of consul or lictor--saw only Sergius who had descended from his
litter and was leading his company in a vigorous attack--yet they were,
for the most part, only too glad to escape from the glaring eyes of
Titus Manlius and the broad sweep of his weapon.  The old man was
puffing hard from the unwonted exertion when Sergius reached his side
through the fast-scattering assailants.

"The gods have punished my blasphemy with kindness," began Torquatus,
"in sending my Lord Paullus in such timely fashion."

"Say, rather, my father, in sending his name into the mind of one
Lucius Sergius," said Sergius, laughing.

For a moment the other frowned with a puzzled look; then his face
cleared, with as close an approach to a smile as it could wear.

"And our rescue is not due to the consul, then?" he asked, still slow
to fully grasp the ruse.

"To the consul's name and to the favouring cunning of Mercury," said
Sergius, bowing.

"Truly, you should command," exclaimed Torquatus.  "A general so ready
in craft as you are might hope to match the African--and, by the gods!
no one else seems able to.  Come, let us go on to my house."

Though harshly said, and in tones that one less acquainted with the
speaker might well have mistaken for sarcasm, Sergius knew that the
compliment was genuine.  The aged patrician had turned and strode away,
as he finished speaking, and etiquette left to the younger man no
choice but to pay to the elder the reverence of his escort.  That he
had asked what he might well have looked for as a matter of course, was
something of a condescension, according to the strict ceremoniousness
of the ancient usage; therefore Sergius hurried on and overtook him,
offering his litter, at which the other sniffed contemptuously.

"May the gods grant me to lie at rest by the Appian Way, before I
require such feet!"  Then, as his sharp eyes noted the flush upon
Sergius' face, he added: "Fever, wounds, and death may pardon
effeminacy; and, truly, I would beg you to accompany me as you came,
were it not that a climb up the Palatine should bring new health to one
who could run ten miles with a broken shoulder.  Believe me, my friend,
the dictator thought better of you than he spoke, and would have
regretted the axe.  Jupiter grant that it be yours to justify his
opinion!"

No stimulant could have given such strength to the convalescent as did
these words, and from such a source.  The dictator had not condemned,
then; he had even spoken well of him.  The knowledge of it put to
flight the embarrassment he had felt when he realized that he was going
perforce to Marcia's house--perhaps into her presence; and he found
himself standing straighter and stepping out with longer and bolder
strides.

"Good words are better than bad ones for a good man," mused Torquatus,
wagging his head sententiously, and darting at his companion a
comprehensive glance, behind which lurked a grim smile.  "If women
could ever learn as much, they might govern us the more readily--which
the gods forefend! as I doubt not they will."

Then the company halted.  It was many months since Sergius had stood
before that door, and he could not, without grave discourtesy, refuse
the invitation to enter.  Well, what mattered it?  Marcia cared
nothing; why should he?  Then, too, the stimulus of the dictator's
approval was still upon him, as the warning cry of the porter bade
those nearest stand back while the door swung out.  Most of the party
took their leave here, but several followed into the atrium for adieus
more appropriate to their station.

At last all had departed save Sergius, who, having given orders that
his attendants should await him in the street, passed on into the
peristyle with his host.

There, beside the fountain, spinning, as he had so often seen her--as
he had seen her through all the days and nights of the campaign--sat
the lady Marcia.  Two of her maidens were assisting: one who glanced up
at Sergius and smiled tauntingly; and another who turned her face away,
and seemed to be trying to hide it in the close inspection of a great
bunch of fleece.  But both the forwardness of the one and the
bashfulness of the other were wasted upon the visitor.  As a matter of
fact, he was so lost in wonder at his courage and self-control as to be
well past observing the idiosyncrasies of slaves; and, if his own
attitude was acceptable, even to himself, his admiration for that of
his hostess amounted to absolute bitterness.  That she, a mere girl,
should rise and come forward with so conventional yet friendly a
greeting, that neither her lip should tremble nor her cheek flush, was
little short of intolerable.  Nevertheless it helped to brace his own
resolves yet more firmly.  Such poise, after all that had been between
them, could have its source only in the most absolute indifference.

"Health to the noble Lucius!  Let him believe that there is no one of
his friends who thanks the gods more fervently for his recovery."

On its face the speech was cordial--much too cordial for love that has
quarrelled; therefore he bent his head and answered:--

"Were it not impiety, the noble Lucius would thank his well-wisher for
her words, more, even, than he thanks the gods for his recovery."

"Ah!" she replied lightly, "then he must scatter his thanks yet more
broadly, for there cannot be a defenceless woman in Rome who does not
rejoice that so brave a defender is spared to the State."

Sarcasm for sarcasm, he thought bitterly, but he answered as
carelessly:--

"In that case, I shall not bear my thanks beyond the gods; for if my
health be no greater care to you than to all the white stoles in the
city, I think I can measure its value."

An expression of almost infantile surprise and reproach crossed her
features.

"You are either very forgetful or very ungrateful," she said.  "If
Venus has healed so faithful a votary, surely mortal women have not
been lacking in their sympathy; nor, if report tells truly, has the
noble Lucius been lacking in gratitude--until now."

That shaft struck home, and, for a moment, Sergius could find no
answer.  He could only remember the episode of the girl who had come to
him, and wonder which one of his household could have borne treacherous
word to Marcia of his weakness and his discomfiture.  Meanwhile she had
turned carelessly and dismissed her women, and one had gone, throwing
back laughing glances, the other, with her face still buried in the
wool with which she had filled her arms.

Torquatus had been standing near, somewhat puzzled by what he felt to
be a battle of words between his daughter and his guest, but a battle
whose plans of attack or defence he found himself at a loss to fathom.
Feeling at last that it was incumbent upon him as host to break in upon
badinage that bade fair to become embarrassing, he spoke briefly of his
encounter with the mob and of Lucius' timely aid and clever ruse.
Marcia listened closely, nodding her head from time to time, but her
colour had deepened and her hand was clenched tight when the story was
finished.

"Who will be safe in Rome, father!" she burst out.  "The rabble elect
their magistrates, and the magistrates, in return, let them do as they
please.  When it comes to attacking you; a consular--a Manlius!  We
must sleep no more in our houses unless the household be in arms and on
guard."

Sergius gazed in astonishment.  A Marcia spoke whom he had never known;
but the old man smiled grimly.

"It is the blood," he said.  "She is truly 'Manlia,' though called,
against custom, for my dead Marcius.  When Claudians change the toga
for the paludamentum, and Ogulnians cease to babble of Greek
philosophy, then shall a Manlian be lacking in the spirit of our
order--ay, and in the courage to act."

Marcia did not seem to hear his words.  Her brows were drawn together
in what Sergius considered a very pretty frown.  She turned toward him.

"They have gotten their butcher for consul," she went on; "now let him
lead them.  How long before they will be begging for the swords they
have despised!  Let them alone!  Let Hannibal work his will; then we
shall stand forth, like the exiled Camillus, to defend a Rome purged of
its black blood--a Rome worth defending--"

But Sergius had recovered from his surprise, and his face was serious,
as he interrupted the torrent of words.

"Patrician and plebeian must stand or fall together, my Marcia," he
said quietly.  "It is the Republic that we shall defend, and defend the
more bravely because it is, in a way, defenceless.  If a time of
madness come upon a parent, do we not guard her the more tenderly who
cannot guard herself?--ay, and even against the foolish acts she may
herself attempt?"

"And you--you--a Sergius, will serve under this Varro?" she exclaimed.

"Truly," he said bowing, "I am a Roman, and the barbarians are in
Italy.  When they are gone, I will fight Varro on the rostra, in the
Senate.  Perhaps I shall even lead my clients to drag him, stabbed,
from his house."

She was gazing at him with great, round eyes in which the contempt and
anger began to give place to a softer look--a look which no man might
hope quite to interpret; then she threw her head to one side and
laughed, but the laugh was short and nervous.

"I congratulate your eloquence and patriotism, as I sympathize with
your unpropitious gallantry.  May Venus make happy your next pursuit of
a pretty slave."

Again she laughed, and this time her laugh was unfeignedly malicious.
Sergius flushed crimson; Torquatus looked scandalized and stern; but
before either could answer, she was gone.

"You will return to the army, then?" said the old man, hurriedly and as
if to cover his annoyance.  "How soon will your strength be sufficient?"

"I shall set out to-night," said Sergius.  The flush had gone from his
face, and he was very pale, while his voice sounded as if from far
away.  "By so doing I shall journey by easier stages, and shall avoid
accompanying the consul; nor will he reach the camp before me."

"There is talk of new levies," said Torquatus, vaguely.

"Yes, and there will be fighting soon."

"Flaminius fought."

"May Jupiter avert the omen! and you will forgive me, my father, if I
bid you a too hasty farewell?  I had not determined to go so soon--but
it is best.  And there is preparation to be made."

Torquatus followed him silently to the door, and watched the light of
his torches till it died out below the hill; then he shook his head
with a puzzled, sad expression.

"Yes, truly," he said; "let the omen be lacking."




XIII.

THE RED FLAG.

The red flag fluttered in the breeze above the tent of Varro.

Months had come and gone since the plebeians had triumphed in the Field
of Mars; months of weary lying in camp, months of anxious watching,
months of marches and countermarches.  Contrary to the expectations of
Sergius, neither of the new consuls had gone straight to the legions,
and the pro-consuls, Servilius and Regulus, remained in command.
Paullus had busied himself in preparing for the coming spring, levying
new men and new legions, and directing from the city a policy not
unlike that of Fabius; while Varro, on the other hand, as if maddened
by his sudden elevation, rushed from Senate House to Forum and from
Forum to every corner where a mob could congregate; everywhere rolling
his eyes and waving his hands, now shrieking frantic denunciations
against the selfish, the criminal, the traitorous nobles who had
brought the war to Italy and sustained it there by their wicked
machinations and contemptible cowardice; now congratulating his hearers
that the people had at last taken the conspirators by the throat and
had elected a fearless consul, an incorruptible consul, an able consul,
one who would soon show the world that there were men outside of the
three tribes.  Then he would fall to mapping out his campaign--a
different plan for each cluster of gaping listeners, but each ending in
such a slaughter of invaders as Italy had never seen, and a picture of
the long triumph winding up the Sacred Way, of Hannibal disappearing
forever within the yawning jaws of the Tullianum.  At times, when his
imagination ran riot most, he went so far as to depict with what
luxuriance the corn would grow on the farm of that happy man whose land
should be selected by the great consul, the plebeian consul, the consul
Varro, for his slaughter of the enemies of the Roman people.

To these harangues Paullus and the nobles listened in wonder and
disgust--even in terror; and when, at length, the consuls set out to
take command of the greatest army Rome had ever put into the field, the
story was passed from mouth to mouth of how Fabius had spoken with
Paullus and warned him that he must now do battle against two
commanders: Hannibal and his own colleague; and of how Paullus had
answered in words that told more of foreboding than of hope.

Even the Senate seemed to have fallen under the coarse spell of this
mouthing ranter.  News had come that Hannibal was at Cannae, had seized
upon the Roman stores in the citadel there; that, strongly posted, he
was scouring the country in all directions; that the allies could not
be expected to stand another season of ravage; and so, when the consuls
set out to take command of the legions, it was with the express
direction of the fathers to give battle on the first favourable
opportunity.

Still, there was room left them for some discretion, and when Paullus
had viewed the country along the banks of the Aufidus, level as it lay
and open to the sweep of cavalry, his soldier eye told him that the
opportunity was not here, and that, with a short delay, the enemy must,
in the lack of safe forage, retire to more favourable ground.

Then followed quarrels and denunciations and furious mouthings; but
Varro did not neglect to use one day of his command to lead the army
forward to a point between the Carthaginians and the sea, whence it
would be impossible for Paullus to hope to withdraw them safely in the
face of the foe.

It was on the first of Sextilis that Hannibal offered battle; but this
was Paullus' day, and he had lain quiet in camp, "Sulking," as his
colleague exultantly put it, "because a plebeian's generalship had kept
another do-nothing patrician commander from running away."  Then the
next morning broke--Varro's day--and the red flag fluttered from the
spear above Varro's tent.

A group of men were gathered before the quarters occupied by certain of
the special cavalry: mounted volunteers, for the most part of rank, who
served out of respect to the consul, Paullus.  Fully armed, with horses
held near by, they were already prepared to ride out at the word, and
they listened to the din of preparation going on on every side, and
watched the crimson signal of battle that now flapped lazily in the
wind and again hung limp against its staff.

"The butcher has his way at last," remarked a youth who had scarce
offered up his first beard; but the man he addressed, Marcus Decius,
growled in reply:--

"Wait, only wait, my little master, and we shall see who is the butcher
and who is the fat steer."

"But," put in another of the company, "have you not heard that our camp
beyond the stream had no water yesterday? that the Numidians cut them
off from it?  Doubtless we are to cross over to its relief."

Decius rose from his buckler, upon which he had been resting, and swept
his arm out across the country.

"All one," he said; "water or blood; this bank or that!  Look!  No room
for our infantry to spread out; level ground for their horse to sweep
clean.  You have never been close to the Numidians, my master?" and he
pointed to the scar across his forehead.  "They ride fast and strike
hard--when the country pleases them."

The boy laughed carelessly, but said nothing, while he who had spoken
third hesitated a moment and frowned.  Then he said in a lower voice:--

"You are an old soldier, Marcus,--a head decurion once,--and you would
do better than try to terrify men of less experience."

Decius ground his teeth, and his eyes flashed, but he lowered his voice
when he replied:--

"I thank you, Caius Manlius, for the reminder; and I also may recall to
you that I am neither the only nor the highest officer who is serving
as volunteer to-day, because Varro must have legions commanded by
butchers and bakers and money-lenders.  I, too, am a plebeian, and I
cast my pebble for my order (whereat the infernal gods are doubtless
now rejoicing); but I am also, as you say, an old soldier, and hold the
camp to be no place for the tricks of the Forum.  As for frightening
recruits, if words and the sight of old scars will frighten them, they
had best ride north to-day hard and fast."

Manlius' face flushed at the reminder of his own lost command, and, as
if by consent, both men glanced over at another who stood near them,
leaning on his spear.  Drawn by the centred attention of the two,
Lucius Sergius turned from his inspection of the rising mists, beyond
which lay the Carthaginian forces, and looked silently and sadly at his
friends: Manlius, the brother of his mistress, parted from him for a
while by petty embarrassments and diverse duties, but, for the last
days, closer than ever in kindred service and fellowship; and Decius,
the sturdy comrade of the Campanian raid, the man who talked, now like
Ulysses, now like Thersites, but who always fought like Diomed; the
very Nisus who had saved his life.  It seemed, too, as if the others
understood the import of his glance, for Decius turned away
ostentatiously, and sought to arrange the leathern straps of his
corselet skirt, while Manlius strode over and grasped Sergius' hand.

"The butcher showed us better favour than he intended, when he put
others in our commands," he said gayly.  "We shall fight side by side,
and perhaps my sister may be pleased to play the siren no longer.
Besides, I am well satisfied to be free from any of the
responsibilities of this day."

"Marcia is no songstress of the rock, my Caius," said Sergius, half
sadly, half playfully; "unless her heart be the rock from which she
sings--a rock to me; but the gods have given men other things, when
women do not choose to love:--things that will serve to stir us today.
Afterward we shall be still."  Then, noting that the young man who had
first addressed Decius was now watching their talk with troubled face,
he raised his voice cheerfully.  "Tribune or volunteer, it is all one
to me.  Do we not serve under Aemilius Paullus and his Illyrian
auspices?  After this day, friends, we shall see no more pulse-eaters
in Italy."

Suddenly, a blast of trumpets rang clear, above the noise of
preparation; lieutenants dashed hither and thither, their legs bent
along their horses' sides; several cohorts marched past, to man the
rampart nearest the foe, while from behind came the louder rattle of
arms, and the earth shook under the tread of the legions, pressing on
through the porta dextra, and spreading out in three great columns that
plunged down the slope into the Aufidus, and rose again, and pushed out
into the plain on its southern bank.  Hastati, principes, triarii--they
marched in order of battle, ready to face about at the moment of
attack, while, as they deployed, the famished Romans across the river
swarmed down, under shelter of the protecting lines, and, lying thick
in the turbid water below, drank as if their parched tongues and lips
would never soften.

The morning mists were clearing.  Strange sounds and rumblings came
also from the south and west, and the red flag hung limp upon the spear.

Still the legions streamed on, but no orders had come to the special
volunteers, and Sergius began to wonder whether they were to be left to
guard the camp, as an added indignity to their rank.  He ascended the
rampart, with Manlius and Decius, and strove to pierce the distance in
the west.  Now and then a broad flash of light seemed to shine before
his eyes, and ever there came to his ears the rumble of tramping
thousands; the dust, too, was thickening, to take the place of the
scattered mists, and the wind blew it up in blinding clouds into the
face of Rome's battle.

"Gods! what is Terrentius Varro doing!" cried Decius suddenly, and the
three turned at his voice.  A nodding forest of crests, red and black,
rising a cubit above the uncovered helmets of the legionaries, seemed
to fill the eastern plain and extend almost to where the Adriatic beat
upon the shingle.  "Look at his front!  Look at how closely the
maniples are crushed together!  Gods! they are almost 'within the
rails' already."

Sergius looked, and the frown upon his brow deepened.

"Eighty thousand men," he muttered; "and we shall scarce outflank their
forty thousand.  Does Varro wish to cast aside every advantage!  Gods!
what gain is there in such depth? and he might--"

"Evidently you do not understand the strategy of great commanders who
have studied war."

The voice that interrupted was cynical and scornful, to a degree that
men hated the speaker even before they saw him; and, when the three
wheeled quickly, his face gave nothing to dispel the bad impression.  A
tall, gaunt man, in plain and somewhat battered armour; a face
sharp-featured, very dark, and deeply lined wherever the wrinkles lay
that expressed pride and contempt and violent passions; lowering brows
from beneath which shone little beady, cunning eyes that opponents
feared and distrusted: this was Lucius Aemilius Paullus, the conqueror
of Illyria, the man who had barely escaped conviction for his
peculations, the colleague of Varro the butcher, a patrician of the
bluest blood in Rome, a knave in pecuniary matters, selfish and
ungoverned, but a brave and wary soldier from cothurni to crest.

"You seem to be criticising a Roman consul: even my brother, Varro;" he
said again, for the three had only bowed in reply to his former speech.
"Are you not presumptuous?--you, Lucius Sergius; and you, Caius
Manlius--boys in war--and you, Decius, or whoever you may be--a man of
Varro's order, if I mistake not?"

"Yes, my father, I criticise," replied Sergius, at last, for the others
said nothing.

"Perhaps you were thinking that he has extended his front too far?"
said the consul, and there was infinite sarcasm in his tones.

Sergius grew crimson under the taunting voice and the little, shifty
eyes.

"I have ventured to say," he replied haughtily, "that the consul,
Varro, is not using our numbers as he might.  As you have noted, the
front _is_ contracted, where we might easily lash around their flank
like the thongs of a scourge.  Nevertheless had I known that the noble
colleague of the general was near me, I would have restrained my words."

"Ah! then you have doubtless grown more respectful of commanders since
you disobeyed your dictator in Campania;" but now the anger in Sergius'
face told the speaker that the limit of endurance had been reached, and
his tone became less offensive.  "That is in the old days, though, and
you _did_ run twelve miles with a broken shoulder: you see I know
all--only I am sure that you are not realizing how deeply your general
has studied the Punic wars, or perhaps you do not know how necessary is
depth to the battle that would stand against the great war-beasts.  It
is possible, barely possible, that our most scientific commander has
forgotten that the enemy has no elephants here; but what is that to a
great genius?  He has learned that Carthage wars with elephants, that
these are best met by deepening the files, and that we are about to
fight Carthage; therefore he deepens the files, though the last
elephant in Italy died two years ago in the northern marshes.  If you
are beaten, you will at least have the satisfaction of being beaten
while fighting most learnedly."

As Sergius noted the bitterness and agony in the voice that spoke, he
found his resentment giving place to pity for the hard, grim man who,
powerless to avert, yet saw clearly every cord of the snare into which
he was being driven.

"Do we guard the camp, my father?" he asked, gently, when Paullus had
finished.

The latter started from the gloomy stare with which he was regarding
the fast-forming lines.

"I have been offered the command of the camp," he said, almost
fiercely.  "I have refused it.  Escape to the north would be too
easy--and I do not wish to escape.  What do you think the centuries
would do if I came home beaten?  I who escaped so narrowly before?"  He
leered cunningly at his listeners; then his face grew set, and his
voice cold and even.  "I have solicited command of the Roman cavalry.
We shall fight on the right wing, beside the river, and I do not think
many of us will ride from the battle.  Varro commands the cavalry of
the allies on the left, and the pro-consuls"--he hesitated a
moment--"the pro-consuls market their beeves in the centre.  You will
cross with me now.  My volunteers ride about my body.  It is time.  It
is time."

The breeze from the southward freshened every minute, and the red flag
lashed out angrily toward the sea.




XIV.

CANNAE.

The cavalry trumpets rang out their clear notes, and Sergius and his
companions threw themselves upon their kneeling chargers.  Then they
rode out and down the bank, behind the consul who, with head hanging
upon his breast, had turned his rein the moment he had given the word.
What if the dust did swirl up in blinding sheets from the south?
Before them lay the Roman battle, horse and foot--such an army as the
city had never sent forth.  What if its masses were somewhat cramped?
its front narrow? its general an amateur?  They were to fight at last,
and how should a mongrel horde of barbarians, but half their number,
stand firm against the impetus of such a shock.  A moment's hush; then
measured voices rose in calm cadence--the voices of the tribunes
administering the military oath to each cohort, "Faithful to the
senate, obedient to your imperator."  What Roman could doubt that the
voice of victory spoke in the thunderous response!

And now the clangour of cymbals and the roll of drums came up on the
breezes from the south, and, with them, a strange uproar of barbarous
shouts and cries.  Then it was that the Roman legionaries began to
crash their heavy javelins against their great, oblong shields until
the din drowned everything else, and the thunder of Jove himself might
have roared in vain.

Sergius had ridden up the bank, almost at the consul's rein, and his
eyes wandered eagerly over Varro's array.  Eight full legions with
their quota of allies seemed welded into one huge column: Romans on the
right, Italians on the left.  The sun was well up, and its rays played
upon a very sea of bronze from which the feathered crests rose and
shivered like foam.  Far beyond the column, on the extreme left, he
could make out squadrons of allied horse, and then he turned to take
his place amid the cavalry of the city: young men well born, burning
with courage and ardour and wrath.  Despite himself his heart rose with
a leap of triumph.  A moment later he caught the little, beady eyes of
the consul looking through him, as it were, while the thin mouth
beneath writhed itself into a sneer.

"You hope?  That is well," said Paullus.  "Young men fight better and
die better when they hope; but I will show you how a Roman soldier can
give up his life for naught.  I would wish," he added with lowered
voice and speaking as if in self-communion, "that more of our horsemen
had adopted the Greek arms.  Reed spears and ox-hide bucklers will not
stand long against heavy cavalry.  A temple to Mars the avenger, if I
had but a front of Illyrian horse!  See now!  There are the scum!"

His voice rose eagerly at the last words, and Sergius turned from the
dark face now flashing with a sudden animation, and looked southward
over the plain.  For a moment the dust was too thick; then it seemed to
clear away, and the Carthaginian army burst into view.

Undulating like the open sea and rolling steadily on like the long,
slow sweep of billows upon a level shore, the glory of barbaric war
drew near.  On their left, resting upon the river's bank, rode the
Spanish and Gallic cavalry, strengthened here and there by a horse and
man in full armour like those of the Clinabarians; and the face of
Paullus clouded again when he noted what opponents he must meet: men,
horses, arms--all heavier than his own with the exception of a few
turmae newly equipped in the Greek fashion.  Beyond them, thrown back
in echelon, marched Africans in little squares of sixteen front.  These
had substituted for their own equipment the Roman spoils of Trasimenus
and Trebia.  Then, and again somewhat in advance, came alternate
companies of Gauls and Spaniards spread out in long thin array; the
former stripped to the navel, their hair tied up in a tufted knot, and
bearing their great swords upon their shoulders; the Spaniards
glittering in their purple-bordered tunics of snowy linen.  The waving
pikes of phalanges told of more Africans who seemed to lie in echelon
beyond, while far away, toward the low hills overgrown with copsewood
that formed the eastern horizon, clouds of swift-moving dust, amid
which shadows darted hither and thither at seeming random, marked the
presence of the wild riders of Numidia who were to face the horsemen of
Italy and of the Latin name.  In front of all, the plain was dotted
with naked men advancing at regular intervals and bearing small
bucklers of lynx-hide--the famous Balearic slingers that always opened
the day of battle for Carthage.  The heart of Sergius swelled within
him, beating hard and fast under the tension of the moment.  Only a few
minutes more, and those magnificent armies would crash together, not to
part until the plain should be heaped with corpses that were now men;
until the gods should adjudge the sovereignty of Italy.  Then he grew
calm, calm as the consul himself, and gazed enraptured upon the
picture, as if it meant no more than art and show--only the wind came
fresher from the south, and the fine dust, ground up by marching
thousands, smarted and blinded his eyes.

Nearer and nearer they drew, with steady, slow advance, while Rome
stood still and awaited their coming.  And now a commotion seemed to
start from the far distant south: the roar of voices, the blinding
flash of the sun on tossing swords, a cloud of dust distinct upon the
plain, a clump of horse-head standards rising amid it, and a group of
riders urging their galloping steeds along the invaders' front.  Rich
armour of strange pattern shone among them, and, a length ahead of the
rest, Sergius could see a white stallion with close-cropped mane, and
hoofs and fetlocks stained vermilion, that danced and curvetted and
arched its proud neck under the touch of a master.  He was not an
over-tall man, but his figure as he rode seemed well knit and graceful.
His armour was of brown-bronze scale-work, rich with gold and jewels,
while a white mantle fringed with Tyrian purple hung from his
shoulders; a helmet of burnished gold, horned and crested, gleamed like
a star upon his head, while, even at the distance, even through the
swirl, of dust, Sergius saw the crisp curled, black beard, and dreamed
that he caught the flash of dark, deep-set eyes.  There was no need of
the beating of weapons against shields, no need of the roar and howls
and shrill screaming in a score of tongues to tell the stranger's name.
Most of the soldiers kept ranks, but here and there a Gaul would bound
forward, dancing with strange leaps and whirling his sword about his
head, to throw himself prone before and beneath the vermilion hoofs
that never paused or swerved in their gallop.  Not a movement, not a
glance of the rider gave sign of acknowledgment or recognition; not a
look was cast upon the grovelling form, safe or hurt or maimed--only
the soldier's comrades howled their plaudits, mingled with laughter and
rude jeers whenever the devotee lay still or writhed or rose staggering
from some stroke of the vermilion hoofs.

But when the horseman drew bridle before the extreme left of the
centre, and, with eyes shaded by his hand, gazed long and earnestly at
the Roman array, the plaudits that had greeted his passage died away
into low murmurs and then silence.  "The general is studying the enemy.
Be silent!  Who knows but he would commune with Baal and Moloch?  Be
silent!"  So the word ran around and through the African squares.

Suddenly peals of laughter broke from the group of Carthaginian
officers that had ridden behind and who now clustered around him.  The
calm that no devotion, no suffering, no danger of men could move, was
gone; the schalischim had turned from his measuring of the enemy to
smile and jest with his friends.  Thereupon they threw back their heads
and laughed loud and long; and then the Africans noted it, and hoarse
cries of joy broke from their ranks.  "The schalischim must be sure of
victory.  Praise be to Melkarth!"  Sergius saw a captain of one of the
squares run out and touch his forehead to the earth before his
commander; but no Roman heard the man's words pregnant with fate.

"Now, my father, let The Lion's Brood lead the beasts of all the fields
to their feast.  We hunger, father, we hunger!"

And Hannibal had made answer, pointing northward toward the
plume-crested sea of blazing bronze, "Lo! friend; there are your meat
and wine."

Then a new roar of acclamation broke upward and rolled away to the
east.  Two richly armed riders parted from the group and dashed off:
Maharbal, light and slender, bending far over his horse's neck, rode
headlong in Numidian fashion to his Numidians; Hasdrubal, erect and
dignified, galloped to head the Gaulish and Spanish horse upon the
banks of Aufidus; trumpets, drums, cymbals, crashed out in mad,
barbaric discords; and, with their horse-head standards tossing amid
the forest of spears, the Carthaginian line drove forward to the attack.

Running fast before the line of battle, Sergius could still make out,
even through the dust, those same naked men with lynx-hide bucklers,
dotting the plain at regular intervals, and each man's right arm seemed
always whirling about his head.  The Roman light troops had pushed on
to skirmish, and now they began to fall back, though no arrow or
javelin could have reached them--could have flown to the foe.  Sergius
watched in surprise their confusion and terror as they sought to plunge
among the legionaries or hide themselves behind the horsemen; nor had
they fled unscathed.  Here a man ran by screaming and clasping his
shattered hand to his breast; then another staggered up, with arm
hanging broken at his side, while the big drops of blood fell slowly
from his fingers; and yet a third appeared, pale and helpless,
supported between two companions.

Sounds, too, now dull and heavy, and again ringing and metallic, seemed
to punctuate the roar of the advancing host.  Sergius saw a horseman
near him clap his hand to his forehead and plunge headlong to the
earth: horses reared and snorted, some fell with ugly, red blotches on
their breasts and throats; the clangour and the thuds came
faster--faster; for now the clay and leaden bullets of the slingers
fell in showers, like hailstones, and it was good armour that turned
them.

Manlius had leaped down to aid a friend who was reeling helplessly,
with both eyes beaten out, and, a moment later, he approached Sergius,
holding up a slinger's bullet.  The red had sunken into the lines of
the stamped inscription, and displayed them in hideous relief, "This to
your back, sheep!"

"That is always the way with barbarians," sneered Marcus Decius.  "No
blow without an insult--look!  They shall have blows themselves, soon,
that will need no insults to piece them out."

Paullus had watched with eagerness, with anxiety, for the signal to
advance.  Varro seemed to hesitate, while the great masses of Rome,
lashed by the bitter rain of the slings, writhed and groaned in anguish
and rage; the light troops had disappeared, and the Balearians, now
close at hand, leaped and slung without let or hindrance.  Then it was
that Paullus, waiting no longer, made a sign to his trumpeters.
"Scatter me that rabble!" he cried, and the cavalry clarions raised
their voices in one long, swelling peal of sound.

"Close! close!" rose the shout of battle, and the Roman horse dashed
forward into the dust cloud--forward upon the slingers that suddenly
were not there, had vanished, as it were, into the earth itself.

The straight trumpets and curved horns of the legions were ringing
behind them, stirred to life at last, but the horsemen did not hear.
What were those looming up ahead?  Not naked slingers--armoured
cavalry!  Hasdrubal with his Gauls and Spaniards were before them--upon
them; and all sense and volition were lost in the terrific shock.

Line after line went down, as if at touch, while fresh lines poured on
over the heaving mass of men and horses, until those who were face to
face seemed to fight upon a hill.  Fiercer grew the pressure, tighter
and more dense the throng; horses, crushed together, powerless to move,
snorted and tossed their heads in terror, while the riders leaned
forward and grappled with those opposite.  Weapons first, then hands
clutching at throats were doing the deadly work, and the dead, man and
horse, stood fast amid the press, unable even to fall and become merged
into the hideous, purple thing beneath their feet.

Mere weight, though, was beginning to tell.  The human ridge that had
marked the joining of battle seemed far back among the enemy, and
squadron after squadron, in close array, breasted its top and plunged
down to mingle with the living or take their places among the dead.
The Romans were giving ground, slowly, stubbornly, but unmistakably,
and still, above the shouts and shrieks, the trampling and the clash of
weapons, the groans and the hard, short breathing, they could hear the
harsh voice of the consul, Paullus, urging his men to make battle
firmly.

Backward, steadily backward; and now, in one of those mad rushes, in
which men who seemed immovably wedged were swirled about like the water
in a maelstrom, Sergius found himself close to the consul, with Manlius
but a few paces in front.  The thin, cruel lips had writhed away from
the white teeth, the helmet was gone, and the scant, black hair was
dabbled with blood that flowed from a slight cut upon the general's
brow; the snake-like eyes sought those of the young patrician with a
look wherein exultation and despair were strangely mingled.

"To the earth! to the earth, all!" he cried, at the same moment
plunging his sword into his horse's throat, and lighting firmly on his
feet, as the animal sank suddenly down.  "We _must_ stand.  Gods! where
are the legions?  Clashing shields and waving javelins, while we are
cut to pieces!  Gods! they shall pay for it!"  Then he drew close to
Sergius' ear and whispered as calmly as if in the praetorium: "Learn,
now, a lesson of war, my son.  Hannibal destroys us piecemeal, choosing
where he is strong and we are weak, while Varro allows _his_ strength
to stand and rest and wait for its turn to come.  Down! down all!"

Outnumbered, outarmed, borne down and back, the Roman cavalry still
fought, but the press had grown looser, the mass less dense; and now,
at the word of the consul, all that could hear his voice obeyed the
order of despair, ancient as the day of Lake Regillus.  Man after man
sprang to earth.  Here was freer swing for weapons, here was surer
foothold, better chance to stand fast, and, for a moment, the thronging
foe seemed to recoil before the determined onslaught.

But it was not recoil.  It was only the devouring of the foremost by
that red monster underneath.  Who could recoil, with the squadrons
still pouring on, over the hill of corpses behind?  Beaten, a man could
but die in his place, and that much they did.  Many, too, had followed
the Roman example, leaping from their steeds and fighting hand to hand,
till the cavalry battle had changed into a thousand combats of man
against man.

It was here that Caius Manlius fell.  Sergius was but a few feet from
him when he saw the youth sway gently, and, bowing his head, sink down.
He had made an effort to push to his side, and then the front of the
enemy seemed to receive some new impetus and surged forward over the
spot.  What mattered it?  He had seen the red spear point peeping out
between his friend's shoulders.  He was dead, as they would all soon
be, and the couch was purple and kinglike.  At that moment, he felt his
arm gripped hard, and turned to look into the consul's face.

"Do you not see it is over?" said Paullus, sharply.

"How?"

"We are falling back--_forced_ back--faster and faster.  We are where
we first stood.  Do you see that sapling by the river?  I marked it
before we rode out.  Soon we shall break; come!"

"Where?" asked Sergius.

"Where there may yet be hope, if the gods will it,--if they strike down
Varro: the centre, the legions.  I do not believe they have fairly
advanced their standards yet."

"Do we fly?" and, as he spoke, Sergius frowned darkly.

"Fool!  We _fight_.  Later, perhaps, we shall die, but not here.  In
the _centre_--"

As he spoke, a new, swirling rush seemed to carry them away, still
together, first with furious violence, then more slowly.

"Ah! it has come," said the consul, quietly.  "This way.  The dust is
blinding, but I think the sun is behind us."  Pushing on and striking
right and left as he went, Aemilius Paullus fought a pathway through
flying and pursuing men.  Sergius followed and once, when he saw the
consul cut down the boy who had stood near and talked to them that
morning, he stopped still and shuddered.

Paullus paused and laughed at him over his shoulder.

"A flying man in the path of a general is much worse than a dead one,"
he said.  "Besides, none of them can save his life in that
direction--so it is nothing."

At that moment, indeed, the prophecy that no man of the Roman cavalry
would escape, seemed fair for fulfilment.  Few fought on, and these
were soon ridden down, while Gauls and Spaniards thundered upon the
rear of such as sought safety of the rein, and slew them with steady,
measured strokes.  Only the consul with perhaps a dozen others were,
for the time, safe.  They were clear of the rout; within the protecting
reach of the great, legionary column, that was but just beginning to
move, and they turned, gasping for breath, and, with dazed eyes,
watched the flight and pursuit sweep by along the river bank.




XV.

"WITHIN THE RAILS."

It was then that Sergius first realized that Caius Manlius, his friend,
the brother of Marcia, was indeed dead; but the time for such thoughts
ivas short.  Clenching his teeth in a paroxysm of anger, he again
turned to follow Paullus and Decius, who had passed into the ranks of
the legions and joined themselves to the personal volunteers of the
pro-consul, Servilius.

The great column was moving now, steadily gathering impetus, and there
was little speech between the generals.  Servilius gazed with gloomy
brows at the consul and the half dozen men that remained to him, and no
question as to the fate of the right wing was asked or answered.

"How fight they on the left?" asked Paullus, after a moment's pause.

"The allies skirmish with the Numidians," replied Servilius.

"You mean that the Numidians skirmish with them," said Paullus.

That was all, and the two soldiers turned to their task.

The slingers' bullets fell no longer, or only scattering ones, dropping
from above, told that these hornets had fallen back and sought refuge
behind their lines; but the roar of battle rolled furiously from the
front.

"It is the standards that oppose at last," commented Paullus.  "The
ranks are not too close--yet.  Let us go forward."

Servilius protested, but the other waved him back.

"Here is _your_ place who command, my Servilius," said the consul; and
a smile, sad rather than bitter, lit up the harsh lines of his face.
"It is I, having no command, who can justly ply the sword."

Sergius followed, and in a few moments the increasing pandemonium told
that the front was not far ahead.  The dust filled their eyes, and they
could see nothing beyond; but the signs were for the veteran to read.
Soon there was no more headway to be made through the dense mass; the
corpses of the slain were thick beneath their feet, half-naked Gauls
and Spaniards in white and purple mingled with the dead of the legions,
and still the column pushed forward and still the slain lay closer.

"They give ground.  We are driving in their centre," gasped Sergius.

Paullus had been frowning grimly, but now he turned to Marcus Decius
and showed his wolfish teeth in his old-time smile.

"What do you say, decurion?" he asked.

"We drive them, surely; but--"

"Yes, truly, _but_--do you hear those cries on the flank?  We drive
their Iberians, their Celts; it is the Africans that let us plunge on
like one of Varro's stupid bulls: then they put the sword in our side.
Could you fight now?  I tell you we are already driven within the
rails.  If the gods keep Hasdrubal slaying my runaways, there may be
hope; if he be a general, there is none."

And still the column's headway seemed hardly checked, though the cries
and the clashing of arms resounded, now, from both flanks as well as
from the front, while, in the depths of its vitals, men were crushed
together till they could scarce breathe.  A rumour, too, like those Pan
sends to dismay soldiers, ran quickly from heart to heart, rather than
from lip to lip.  It was that Hasdrubal had circled the rear and,
falling upon the allied cavalry, had scattered the left wing as he had
the right; that the Numidians pursued and slaughtered: but where now
were the cavalry of Gaul and Spain, the winners of two victories?  A
sullen roar from the far distant rear seemed to answer; but the
language was one that few could read--few of that host.  Oh! for an
hour of the veterans that slumbered on the shores of Trebia and
Trasimenus!  Oh! for an hour of Fabius, who lingered at Rome, powerless
and discredited.  Who were these that wore the armour, that wielded the
ponderous javelins of Rome's legions?  From under the bronze helmets
gorgeously fierce with their great crests peered eyes--stupid,
wondering eyes dazed by the uproar, blinded by the dust; eyes wherein,
while as yet there was little of fear, still less was there of the
knowledge of danger to be met and overcome; eyes that had but lately
watched sheep upon the Alban hills, eyes that were used only to the
flour dust when their owners kneaded dough behind the Forum.

Ahead, around, the standards were tossing as if upon the billows of an
angry sea.  Was that a silver horse's head that flashed far to the
right?

"Look!" cried Sergius, striking Decius with his elbow.

"You can see better now," muttered the veteran.  "The flour is bread,
and the bread of battle is mire kneaded of dust and blood."

The eyes of Paullus were turned upward in strange prayer.

"Grant me not, O Jupiter, my life this day!"

It needed no eye of veteran to read the sentence that was writ.
Driven, at last, within the rails, as went the saying, there was no
room in all that weltering mass to use the sword, much less the pilum.
On every side the barbarians of Africa, of Spain, of Gaul raged and
slew--for even advance now was checked, and the Celts had turned and
lashed the front with their great swords that rose and fell, crimson to
the hilt, crimson to the shoulder, crimson to every inch of their
wielders' huge bodies.  The Spaniards, too, were stabbing fast and
furiously, while all along both flanks the African squares, between
which the weight of the column had forced its narrow length, thrust
with their long sarissas and rained their pila upon the doomed monster
in their midst: a war elephant, wounded to the death, with sides hung
with javelins and streaming with blood, rocking and trumpeting in
helpless agony.

Sergius watched the dull, hopeless look deepening in the eyes of the
young soldiers.  They reminded him of the beeves in the shambles of the
elder Varro.  Even the voice of Pan could not wake such men.  Were they
not there to die for the traditions of Rome?  It was true that every
path leading to Pan's country bristled with spears, but only a few
could fully know this, and these awaited their turn with the rest.

The press seemed to loosen somewhat.  Perhaps the assailants had drawn
back to gain breath for a final onslaught; but, instinctively, the
staggering lines of the Roman column opened out into the space
afforded, and its four faces writhed forward bravely, pitifully.  It
was then that Sergius saw the consul for the last time.  He had turned
back from where he had forced his way to the head of the column; his
arms were battered and blood-stained, and he reeled painfully in his
saddle, for Paullus had mounted again, that he might the better be seen
by the legionaries.  His wandering eyes took in every detail of their
hopeless plight; the last sparks of fire seemed to die out in him, and
his head drooped upon his chest.  Then, slowly, he dismounted, having
ordered his horse to kneel, and the beast, unable to rise again, rolled
over on its side.  Paullus watched it with almost an expression of
pity, and then dragged himself to a flat rock and sat down.

Decius had sought to aid him, but the other thrust him rudely back.
"It is only the smaller bone," he said.  "One of their accursed
stingers hit me."

At that moment a rider covered with foam and dust and blood dashed up
to the group and, reining his steaming animal to its haunches, leaped
to the ground.

Paullus raised his eyes.

"It is time for you to escape, Cneius Lentulus," he said.  "You have a
horse."

"It is for you, my father; that this day be not further darkened by the
death of a consul.  My horse is good, and there are still gaps between
their squadrons.  Ride to the east--"

"And you?"

"I am but a tribune."

"And a young man, my Cneius.  Where is Varro?"

"Fled."

"And the pro-consuls?"

"Both fallen."

"And you would have it said, my Cneius, that the Republic degenerates?
that not one of this year's consuls dares die with his men, while both
of last year's were Romans?  Truly, it would be a much darker day
should I escape with Varro than if I die with Regulus and Servilius;
besides, I have no humour for further charges and trials, in order that
the rabble may vindicate their favourite butcher.  But do you go,
Cneius, and tell them that you have seen me sitting in my colleague's
shambles."

There were tears in Lentulus' eyes, and he still strove to persuade his
general to accept the horse, but, at that moment, new shoutings and
clashing of arms announced what must prove the final attack.

"They come again, my father," said Decius calmly.

The roar of battle swelled up, all about the doomed column.  In front
and flanks, Africans, Gauls, and Spaniards charged in unbroken lines,
and soon forced the deploying but weakened maniples back into their
weltering mass; in the rear, the attack was less continuous, for
Hasdrubal's horsemen were exhausted with slaying, and he hurled them in
alternate squadrons, now on this point, now on that, wherever the Roman
line showed relics of strength or firmness.  So the front worked back,
driven by sheer weight in the direction where the pressure was least.

Paullus still sat, with drooping head, faint with fatigue and loss of
blood, while Decius, Sergius, and Lentulus stood by him, helplessly
awaiting the end.  A rush of fugitives swept by and almost overwhelmed
the wounded man; but Decius passed his arm around him, and the press
slackened.

"It is time for you to mount and ride, Cneius Lentulus;" and the consul
raised his head again, while the old-time spirit of command flashed in
his eyes.  "You shall be my envoy to the fathers.  Bid them fortify and
garrison the city; go--"

A new rush broke in upon his words,--a rush, in which the whole front
was borne back a spear's length beyond them.  Sergius was thrown down,
but some one raised him, dazed and stunned, and seemed to bear him
along.  A moment, and he found himself standing once more upon his
feet.  Cneius Lentulus and his horse were gone; Paullus and Marcus
Decius were left alone far beyond--no, not alone.  He saw the tunics of
the Iberians, now all as purple as their borders, thronging around; he
saw his general and his comrade give their throats to the sharp,
slender swords; and then he saw, far ahead, amid the Carthaginian
syntagmata, a swarthy, smiling face with crisp, curling beard; he saw
the brown-bronze corselet rich with gold, the meteor helmet with
ostrich plumes floating between its horns, the snowy mantle bordered
with Tyrian purple; and he saw the white head of the horse whose feet
needed now no dye of art to stain them vermilion.  All the fury of
battle, all the madness of revenge overwhelmed him in an instant;
despair was gone, thoughts of past and future were swept away by the
surge of one overmastering idea: he must reach that man and kill him.
He looked around at the scattered, reeling maniples.  A standard bearer
was lying at his feet, striving with his remnant of strength to wrench
the silver eagle from its staff, that he might hide it under his cloak;
but the death rattle came too quickly.  Sergius picked up the standard.

"Come," he said, "there is the enemy."  And then, without a glance to
note whether his appeal was regarded, he rushed blindly forward.

It was a discipline inspired by tradition rather than taught by drills
and punishments that came to the Roman recruit, and now it played its
part.  These peasants, these artisans whose eyes had seen naught save
unaccustomed horrors through all the day, turned at once to answer the
summons of the eagle.  Sergius heard the feeble shout of battle that
rose behind him, heard the scattered clanging of sword and shield, and
when he struck the long pikes of the first square, it was with the
force of half a dozen broken maniples welded into a solid mass.

Still the sarissas held firm.  Perhaps two lines went down, but the
pila rained their slant courses from the rear; the feeble rush was
stopped, and the legionaries struggled helplessly upon the spears.
Sergius saw nothing but the dark, bearded face among the
squares--scarcely nearer than before.  Had he not read in a little book
written by one, Xenophon, a Greek, and purchased, at great cost, at the
shop of Milo, the bookseller in the Argiletum, how Oriental armies won
or lost by the life or death of their leaders?  He would kill Hannibal!
Would to the gods that Paullus had fallen in the Cinctus Gabinus!
Paullus, too much of an infidel to think of such old-time immolation;
but there was yet one last appeal.

Seizing the tough staff of the standard almost at the end, he whirled
it around his head and let it go at full swing; the silver eagle
flashed in the light of the setting sun, as it described great arcs,
and plunged down amid the hostile ranks; a hoarse cry went up: the very
deity of the legion was amid its foes! no Roman so untried as not to
hear its call.  The short swords hacked and stabbed among the spears;
the first square swayed and rocked, shivered into fragments, and,
hurled back upon the second, bore it, too, down in the mingled rush of
pursuers and pursued.  On every side of the dwindling band of
assailants, front, flanks, and rear, the pikes dipped and plunged, the
Gallic swords hissed through the air, the Spaniards ravened and
stabbed; but, to the Romans, flanks and rear were nothing: it was the
front, the Libyans, the lost eagle.

And now, at last, it was won; the advance had been checked by the
closer welding of the syntagmata, half his men were down; but Sergius,
still unhurt, had stooped and raised the standard, kissing its crimson
beak and wings.  Then he looked up.

Half the space between himself and the bearded horseman had vanished,
and the latter was no longer talking carelessly with those about.  His
steady gaze was fixed upon the young Roman, as if studying the exact
measure of strength that remained to him.  There was nothing else for
it.  Again the great staff described great circles through the air, and
again the crimson eagle soared and stooped, and the white stallion
reared and snorted, as it struck the earth before him; again the
shattered fragment of an army hurled itself, wounded and weary and
bleeding, among the ever thickening spears; yes, and forced its way a
quarter, half the remaining distance, until Sergius, whose eyes had
never for a moment forsaken those of the Carthaginian, saw them grow
troubled, saw the black, bushy brows draw together.  Then his enemy
turned and spoke a few hurried words to an attendant, gesticulating
freely, until the man whirled his horse about and drove back through
the throng.  When Sergius looked into the face of the general again, it
wore a disdainful smile--the smile of a Zeus that watches the sons of
Aloeus pile mountain on mountain in the vain effort to storm Olympus.
Again Hannibal was careless and unconcerned; again he laughed and joked
gayly with his attendants; his soldier's eye had set the limit of
Rome's last paroxysm, and it fell short of the spot where he sat--not
by much, but enough.  All that remained was for the arrows of Apollo to
do their work, and now he had set these to the string.

Wearily and yet more wearily the wolves bit and tore their way; then
they came staggering to a stand, three spear lengths from the lost
eagle, and then the pressure behind seemed to slacken, and the serried
spears in front bore them slowly backward.

All was over.  Sergius' eyes, dim and bloodshot, wandered, at last,
from the contemptuous smile that had held them, and rested upon the
score of men, for the most part wounded, that remained about him.  For
an instant the spears and swords ceased their work, and the dense mass
of lowering faces that surrounded the last of the legions rolled back.
Lanes appeared between the syntagmata; a chorus of wild cries swelled
up--swept nearer, and the furious riders of the desert came galloping
through every interspace.  To them had been granted, for a mark of
honour, the ending of the battle.  It was only a single rush, a
brandishing and plunging of javelins retained in grasp, a little more
blood spattered upon the horses' necks and bellies.  No legionary was
standing when the tempest had gone by, and there, among his men, with
face turned from the red earth to the reddening sky, lay Lucius Sergius
Fidenas, in slumber fitting for a Roman patrician when the black day of
Cannae was done.




PART II.


CHAPTER I.

THE QUEEN OF THE WAYS.

There was much bustle and confusion throughout the little inn at
Sinuessa.  August was just closing, and the midday summer sun beat down
too fiercely to permit of comfortable travel save toward morning or
night.  The inn-keeper had hurried out and stood in the roadway, bowing
and wreathing his face with smiles of welcome, while, behind him, were
grouped his servants, each bearing some implement of his or her
calling--a muster well calculated to impress the wayfarer with the
assurance of comfort and good cheer.

The occasion of all this demonstration was a party that had halted,
apparently for refreshment and the customary traveller's siesta; a
rheda or four-wheeled travelling carriage, closely covered and drawn by
three powerful horses yoked abreast.  Two armed outriders, one
apparently a freedman and the other a slave, made up the company, the
former of whom, a stout, elderly man with gray hair and beard, had
reined in his horse before the obsequious host, while the other
remained by the carriage wheel, as if to aid the driver in guarding the
rheda's occupants from intrusion.

The innkeeper, short and fat, was breathing hard from the haste in
which he had sallied out, but his words came volubly:--

"Let the gentlemen alight and enter--or, if they be ladies, so much the
better.  They shall make trial of the best inn along the whole length
of the Queen of Ways.  Such couches as they have never seen, save,
doubtless, in their magnificent homes, fit for the gods to lie
upon!--such dishes!--such cooking! guinea-hens fed and fattened under
my own eye, mullet fresh from the water with all greens of the season,
and such wine as only the Massic Mount can grow--"

Here, however, he paused to take breath, and the freedman succeeded in
interrupting the flow of words.

"By the gods! will you be silent?" he said.  "Perhaps we shall try your
fare, if you do not take up the whole day in telling us about it.
First, however, it is necessary for us to learn certain things.  How
many miles is it to Capua?"

The innkeeper's face took on a grieved look in place of the beaming
smile of a moment since, but he answered promptly and humbly:--

"The matter of twenty-five miles, my master."

"At what hour do they close the gates?"

The innkeeper glanced back at the group of domestics with a frightened
expression.

"That is a military question," he said.  "How can I answer it in these
times?  It is dangerous to talk about such things."

"Not dangerous for you," insisted the other, rather scornfully.  "Since
you Campanians have become pulse-eaters, not the wildest Numidian would
dare disturb you.  The cruel one is very tender of you all--_now_; but
wait till Rome shall fall, then you will know what his tenderness is
worth--when you are all busy grinding corn for Carthage--"

"By all the gods! speak lower--if you must say such words," whispered
the innkeeper, white with terror.  "If one of my servants should betray
me!  Like enough the gate is closed at all times.  It is said that
Hannibal enters the town to-night."

"Hannibal in Capua to-night!" came a voice from the rheda--a woman's
voice, softly and delicately modulated, yet deep and rich in its tones.
At the same moment the curtains were drawn aside, and she looked out,
beckoning imperiously to the would-be host.  "Come near, my good man, I
wish to speak with you more closely."

The innkeeper stood as one dazed, with open mouth and bulging eyes.  He
had looked upon great and beautiful ladies before, for many such
travelled by the Appian Way, but the beauty and the nobility of this
face seemed to him more than mortal.  With all the grace, all the
freshness, all the radiant charm of the girl Marcia, were now joined
the calm and deep-eyed crown of womanhood.  The perfect lines that
could so perfectly respond to playful or tender emotions were still
unmarred, and yet sorrow that had left no other trace had endowed them
with new possibilities of devotion and high resolve.

"Come," repeated Marcia, and the little inn-keeper trotted up to the
rheda and stood watching her with an expression of canine wonder and
subservience in his big, dull eyes.

"Did I not hear you say that Hannibal was to be in Capua to-night?
Have these false Campanians indeed carried out the treachery rumoured
of them?"

The man had forgotten all his fears of a few moments since, nor did the
slur upon his race rouse aught of indignation.  Held fast under the
spell of the dark eyes before him, he made haste to answer:--

"The rumour, madam, that a traveller left with me some hours since is
that Marius Blossius, praetor of Campania, has led all Capua out to
meet Hannibal, who is to feast to-night at the house of the Ninii
Celeres, Stenius and Pacuvius--"

"But how was this done?" she interrupted.  "It was said at Rome that
some few evil spirits, like Vibius Virrius and Pacuvius Calavius, were
ill-disposed, but surely the senators of Capua are faithful?"

"I do not know as to that," said the fellow, with the stubborn dulness
of a peasant; "but I know it is hard to see your property and goods
destroyed and to hold fast to allies who do not protect you--and a
Roman garrison at Casilinum all the time.  They say this African is
kind to his friends, and then, too, he sent home my son without ransom
when the young man was prisoner in the north--some battle by some lake
that I forget the name of--"

"Such talk is well enough for the poor-spirited rabble," cried Marcia,
impetuously; "but was there none of noble blood in the city?  None who
could compel duty?"

A look of cunning crossed his face as he answered:--

"Pacuvius Calavius took care of that.  He cooped up the senate in the
senate-house, by telling them the people sought their lives.  Then he
went out and spoke against them to that same people, and offered to
surrender them for death, one by one; and then, when they had given up
hope, he made a clever turn and persuaded us to forego their just
punishment.  So it is said in Capua that Pacuvius Calavius bought the
senators for his slaves, and not one but runs to do his bidding.
Senators, you see, do not like the rods and axe any better than humbler
people like the sword and the torch."

Marcia eyed him with disgust.  Then her brow cleared.  "What could be
expected from such a man," she thought.  "Surely not exalted patriotism
or high ideals--especially when the class question had been brought
into play against public faith and public honour.  Mere stupidity would
yoke him to the side that seemed to promise the most immediate
exemptions or rewards.  It was possible, though, that the situation
might not be as bad as it was painted; that there might still be
faithful men in the second city of Italy--men who, while at present
held down by the skilful plotting of their enemies or the hopelessness
of open resistance, were yet waiting, vigilant to seize upon the first
promising opportunity to recover the lost ground.  On the other hand,
innkeepers were apt to be a well-informed class, as to public
happenings, and this man told his tale with parrot-like precision.  At
any rate, there was nothing to do but reach Capua as soon as possible;
for, the Carthaginian commander once within the walls, no one could
tell what precautions and scrutiny might be established at the gates."

She turned to the freedman.

"There is no time for resting and refreshment, Ligurius.  We must not
lose the chance of entering the city before nightfall;" and to the man
who rode at the wheel: "Come, Caipor.  A little weariness will not hurt
us."

The driver's whip curled about the horses' flanks, and they started
forward; but the disappointed innkeeper laid hold of one of the poles
that supported the covering of the rheda and gasped and sputtered as he
ran:--

"What now!  Would you die of the heat?  Am I to lose my custom because
I am good-natured and tell the news?"

Caipor turned in his seat and raised the thong used to urge on his
animal; but Marcia, hearing the clamour, thrust the curtain aside again
and, motioning the slave to restrain himself, threw several denarii to
her would-be host.  At the same moment, the horses suddenly quickened
their gait, and the pursuer, keeping his hold, was jerked flat upon his
face.

"Be cautious!" shouted Caipor.  "There is silver in the dust you are
swallowing," and they hurried on, unable to distinguish whether the
half-choked ejaculations that followed them were thanks or curses.

There was a short silence punctuated by the cracking of the whip, the
clatter of hoofs, and the crunching of wheels along the pavement; then
the curtains once more parted slightly, and Caipor, watchful to serve,
saw Marcia's beckoning hand and drew closer to the rheda.

"Bend down," she said, and, as he obeyed, she whispered:--

"You were my brother's servant, Caipor, and you bear his name.  Will
you help me to avenge him?"

The slave's eyes flashed, and he straightened himself on his horse.
Then he lowered his head to hear more.

"Ligurius," she continued, "will be brave and faithful to my family in
all things.  I want one who will be faithful to what is greater and to
what is less--to Rome and to me.  I seek safety for the Republic; and I
seek revenge for those who are dead.  Will you help me when Ligurius
halts?"

"The cross itself will not daunt me," he said simply.  "Whatever you
shall do, lady, I will be faithful to the death."

"For me, perhaps, to the death, Caipor," she answered; "but for you, if
the gods favour me, to life and to freedom."

His cheek flushed with the rich blood of his Samnite ancestors, and, as
Ligurius glanced back from his post at the head of the party, the young
man made his horse bound forward, lest his attitude and perturbation
might bring some suspicion of a secret conference to the mind of the
old freedman.

So they descended within the hemicycle of hills.  The heights of Mount
Tifata began to fall away on the left, the rough, precipitous line of
crags, sweeping around toward the east, seemed to dwindle into the
distance, even as they drew nearer, while the low jumble of Neapolitan
hills, beyond which towered Vesuvius with its fluttering pennon of
vapour, rose higher and higher upon the southern horizon.  A turn of
the road, a temporary makeshift, led them around Casilinum, whose
little garrison lay close, nor opened their gates to friend or foe.
There, at last, in the midst of the level plain that stretched down to
the sea, lay Capua, gleaming white and radiant beneath the brush of the
now descending sun.

Gradually the great sweep of city walls grew lowering and massive.  It
still lacked an hour of sunset, and the travellers had not urged
themselves unduly through the midday course.  The foam, yellowed and
darkened by dust, had dried upon the horses' flanks save only where the
chafing of the harness kept it fresh and white.  Marcia leaned far out
of the rheda and gazed eagerly at the nearing town, Caipor seemed
scarcely able to restrain his eagerness to dash forward, while Ligurius
shaded his eyes with his hand and viewed the spectacle like a general
counting the power of his approaching foe.  Even at this distance they
saw, or began to imagine they saw, some indescribable change,--not a
flurry of motion or excitement,--they were too far away to note that,
had such been present.  It was as though above, around every tower and
battlement hung an atmosphere of hostility and defiance; yet this was
the friend of Rome through days of weal and days of woe,--the second
city of Italy.

Nearer and nearer they drew.  The horses threw their heads in the air,
and, presaging rest and provender, quickened their pace, without
urging.  Suddenly an exclamation burst from the lips of Ligurius.

"Look!" he cried.  "It is true.  They are indeed here."  Marcia and
Caipor strove to follow his hand.  "My northern eyes, old though they
be, are better than yours of the south.  Do you not see them--one, two,
three!  Gods!  They are thick on the walls."

"What? in the name of Jove!" exclaimed Marcia, impatiently, and then
Caipor started.

"I see!  I see now," he cried.  "Ah! mistress, they are the standards
of Carthage; the horses' heads, yellow, with red manes.  Gods, how they
glitter!  Gold and blood--gold and blood!"

"Drive on," said Marcia, for they had all drawn rein, half
unconsciously, and she lay back, behind the curtains of the rheda.




II.

THE GATE.

A harsh cry of command or warning rang out ahead, and the rheda stopped
short with a jolt.  Ligurius had thrown his horse upon his haunches and
then backed him so as to take post at that side of the vehicle
unprotected by Caipor; but, a moment later, the rush of a dozen tall
figures thrust them both away, the curtains were torn aside, and Marcia
looked out into savage faces and great, staring, blue eyes.  Three or
four overlapping circlets of iron just above the hips seemed the limit
of these men's defensive armour, and the skin of some animal was thrown
about the brawny shoulders of such as had not replaced their barbaric
mantles with the Roman military cloak; the hair of each, black or red,
but always long and indescribably filthy, was caught up in a knot at
the top of the head, whence it streamed away, loose or matted, like the
tail of an unkempt horse; their feet were bare, and their legs were
covered by linen breeches bound close with leathern thongs.  It needed
not the great broad-swords slung about their shoulders to tell them for
Hannibal's Gauls--creatures scarcely half human, whose name brought
terror to the Roman maiden of the days of Cannae, as the sight of them
had carried death or slavery to her less-favoured sister of the blacker
days of the Allia.

But Marcia showed little of womanish weakness.  To the jargon of a
dozen voices--a jargon that sounded like the yelping and barking of a
pack of dogs--she opposed a cold and dignified silence.  A dozen hands
reached out to touch her, as they would touch something strange and
admirable; but she drew back, and the rude hands and staring, blue eyes
fell before the flash of her indignation.

At that instant, a man strode forward, hurling the soldiers from his
path to right and left, or striking them fiercely with his staff.
Taller by almost half a head than the others, his richer vesture and
arms, but, above all, the gold collar about his neck and the gold
bracelets upon his arms, marked the chief.  Standing by the rheda, he
met Marcia's look of proud defiance, for a moment; then his eyes
shifted and seemed to wander; but, cloaking with martial sternness the
embarrassment of the barbarian, he spoke in Gallic:--

"Who are you?"

Unable to understand the question, much less to answer it, she turned
away and ignored both the man and his words.  Again the look of
indecision and embarrassment returned to his face; but, glancing round,
he saw Ligurius struggling in the hands of his captors, and caught some
words of Gallic in his half-throttled remonstrances.

"Bring him," he said shortly, with a motion of his staff, and the
freedman, who had been roughly pulled from his horse, was thrust
forward, his clothes hanging in tatters, and his face bruised and
bleeding from his efforts to break loose and guard his mistress from
intrusion or insult.

"Who is _she_, and who are you?" asked the chief, sternly; for his
eyes, now that they looked into those of a man and an inferior, had
regained all their wild fierceness.

Ligurius hesitated, partly from lack of wind and partly from a doubt as
to how much or what it would be wise to tell.

"Speak!" cried the other, impatiently.

Marcia threw aside the curtains which had been allowed to fall back in
their place, and leaned out.  The scene looked critical; the Gaul's
face was working with nervous irritation, while his followers, scarcely
recovered from his sudden onslaught, stood around in a ring, some
fingering their swords, and with expressions whose wonder and stupidity
seemed fast giving place to the lust of blood and plunder.  Caipor had
been knocked senseless at the beginning, and the driver was in the
hands of several soldiers.

Ligurius looked inquiringly at his mistress.

"He asks who we are," he said.  "What shall I say?"

"Ah! you plot to deceive me," cried the Gaul, losing control of his
temper, and, before Marcia could answer, he struck the freedman down
with his staff.  One of his followers shifted his sword belt, and, half
drawing the great weapon, stepped forward; but Marcia had sprung from
the rheda, and stood, with clenched hands and flashing eyes, above her
prostrate attendant.

"Bandits!  Murderers!" she cried.  "Does your general permit you to rob
and kill travellers that seek to enter a friendly city?"

Understanding the act rather than the words, the soldier halted, and
the chief's eyes began again to shift nervously; but soon an expression
of mingled lust and cunning came into them.

"You are beautiful," he said.  "You shall not die, you shall dwell in
my hut."

Marcia shuddered at the glance and change of tone.  He reached out his
arms, tattooed in blue designs, and made as if to advance.  She drew a
dagger from her girdle.  Infuriated by the sight of what he took to be
a hostile weapon, the barbarian's sword was out in an instant.  Then he
perceived that the dagger was directed not at his breast, but at the
woman's.  The point of the great sword, already half raised, dropped
slowly to the ground, and a new look of embarrassed amazement took the
place of the momentary glare of savage fury.

How it would have ended never transpired, for a commotion at the gate
attracted the attention of all.  A small detachment of soldiers was
advancing, at a leisurely pace, headed by a young officer whose arms
blazed with gold and silver.  No Hannibalian veterans these.  As they
came near, even Marcia could note the sleek, soft look of the men, and
their listless, muscleless gait; while their leader's hair and person
literally reeked with perfumes.  His eyes turned slowly from the huge
Gaul to the woman; then a flash of animation lent them light.

"How is this?" he asked.  "Why this tumult?  Who are these people?"

The Gaul shook his head defiantly, as if ignorant of the speech of his
interrogator, while his followers began to nudge each other, pointing
out the round limbs and fresh complexions of the Capuans, and laughing
scornfully.

The young officer flushed, and, turning to Marcia, repeated the
question.

"I am a Roman.  Do you not understand my tongue?" she said.

He glanced fearfully at the Gauls.  Then, reassured by their evident
failure to comprehend, he regained his assurance and answered:--

"Surely, lady, an educated Capuan cannot fail to understand all
languages, civilized or barbarous.  I speak the Greek, the Roman--all;
only permit me to beg you to be less frank in naming your city: 'Roman'
is a dangerous word to use here.  What has led one so beautiful and so
accomplished to run the risk of such a journey?  Do you not know that
Hannibal and his men are in Capua?  That is why these beasts have been
able to disturb you; but fear not," he continued, as she was about to
speak, "_I_ also am here to protect you," and he accompanied the words,
with a glance that left the nature of the protection offered more than
equivocal.

Suppressing her mingled feelings of disgust and amusement, Marcia
answered haughtily:--

"May Jove favour you for your offer; but has it come that the expected
guest of Pacuvius Calavius needs protection at the gate of Capua?"

Amazement and deference were at once apparent in his changed manner.

"Ah!" he said slowly, as if trying to gather his wits; "that is
different--very different.  It is a double regret that these vermin
have troubled you; but you are safe now."

Marcia found herself wondering whether he would allude to the Gauls so
scornfully had they been able to understand his words.

The Capuan turned to the Gallic chief, who, together with his
followers, had drawn nearer.

"Make way!" he cried.  "Loose the slave that drives."  Then to his own
men, "Raise up the two that are hurt;" and to Marcia, "And you, lady;
will it please you to return to your carriage?"

But the Gauls, although evidently understanding the nature of his
orders, showed no disposition to obey them.  On the contrary, at a few
words from their chief, they pushed closer yet, and some of them even
began to jostle the soldiers of the Capuan guard.  A light blow or a
sharp word bade fair to precipitate a conflict that, despite the
numerical equality, could hardly be doubtful in its outcome, when a
sharp, commanding voice rang out behind.

All swung around, as if to meet a blow, and the press opened.  A rider,
glittering in arms of simple but rich design, and mounted upon a black
horse, was advancing from the gate.  Two Spaniards, who rode several
spear lengths behind him, were his sole escort; but, alone or at the
head of a legion, it was all the same: no eye of Gaul or Capuan saw
aught but the one horseman; and yet it was not easy to tell wherein the
force lay.  He was a young man, probably twenty--possibly twenty-five,
for life advanced quickly under the sun of Africa.  His figure was
slender and boyish, his face thinly bearded, a lack which was
accentuated by the beard being divided into two points.  Yes, now they,
saw; it was his eyes that had dispelled the boast and swagger of the
Gaul, the superciliousness of the Capuan, and whatever of brawling
boldness had been in either.  These eyes were black and large and
flashing with courage and energy and the pride of noble birth.  No
detail of the scene seemed to escape their first glance, and he asked
no question, as he rode into the crowd.

"Ardix," he said, addressing the Gaul in his own tongue, "back to your
gate! and you," turning to the Capuan officer and changing his language
with ready ease, "it would be wise for you to consider the unwisdom of
quarrelling with our veterans."

There was just enough of contempt in the inference of the last word to
check the flow of explanation and complaint that was rising to the lips
of the young exquisite.  The newcomer had turned his back.  The Capuan
saw his followers slinking away with Ardix and his Gauls.  It was hard
to lose a chance of talking with a great man, and surely a few of the
words he could choose and speak so well would compel the Carthaginian
to value him at his worth.  Still, there was something that impressed
upon him the unwisdom of speech, and, after a moment of embarrassed
indecision, he turned and strode away after the rest, seeking to
conceal the humiliation of his retreat by the swagger of his gait and
the fierceness of his expression--which there was no one to see.

While this little comedy was passing, he, whose advent had been its
occasion, was regarding Marcia fixedly; but he now looked into eyes
that neither quailed nor wandered before his own.  At last he spoke,
and in Latin:--

"I am Mago, the son of Hamilcar.  What brings a Roman woman to Capua in
these days?"

This youth, then, was the famous brother of Hannibal; the commander of
the ambush at the Trebia.  His voice was cold, harsh, and metallic, and
in his eyes there was none of the rude lust of the Gaul or the polished
licentiousness of the Capuan.  They burned only with the fires that
light the souls of patriots and leaders of men.

"I come," said Marcia, slowly, "for several reasons, and believing that
Carthage does not make war upon women."

The eyes lost nothing of their cold scrutiny at the implied compliment
or the covert reproach.

"And what reasons?" he asked sharply.

"For the one," replied Marcia, and she was conscious of an effort in
holding her voice to its steady inflection; "that my house is bound in
hospitality to that of Pacuvius Calavius--"

Mago's brow cleared for an instant.

"Our friend," he said.  "He is married to one of your Claudians."  Then
it darkened again as he continued: "Well, and you seek him for what?
To tempt him back to Rome?"

"I seek him," said Marcia, boldly, "because I am wise.  Have I not seen
the narrowing of Rome's resources? the quarrels of the factions?  I
have come from there, and I tell you that, if Hannibal have patience
until the spring, it is Rome that will beg him to take her.  What part
has a woman with a man who cannot protect himself!  Let her look for a
new defender, if she be wise."

An odd look had come into the Carthaginian's face as she spoke, a look
more scornful but less threatening.

"You speak true woman's philosophy," he said.  "That is the philosophy
of these times.  I am convinced that there _were_ days, and women--but
pah! now it is only glory that is worthy to be a man's bride.  Come, I
will lead you to the house of Calavius."

Ligurius had recovered sufficiently to remount his horse, while Mago's
attendants had laid the still senseless Caipor in the rheda to which
their master now assisted Marcia.  Then he rode on, by the wheel of the
carriage.

As for the daughter of Torquatus, not even the consciousness of her
purpose, and of the high and bitter motives that had shaped it, could
drive the touch of shame from her cheeks.  It galled her when she
considered how she must appear to this man--a mere youth and a
Carthaginian, and it galled her the more that she should care for his
opinion.  That she had inspired only his contempt, was quite evident;
and she, whose glances had always gone straight as the arrows of Love
to the hearts of men, now found herself more annoyed by the
indifference of an enemy than she had been by the dangers from which he
had rescued her.  She was not certain whether it was with a desire to
gain in his sight, or only in the pursuance of her plans, that she
spoke again.

"Does my lord think worse of me for what I have said?"

"I thought you a woman; now I know you for one," he replied, carelessly.

"Ah! but my lord did not ask as to my other reasons for seeking the
camp of Carthage."

"That is a matter for Calavius to look to.  If you come as an enemy--so
much the worse for him."

"And if I come as a woman who would escape a hated marriage--to seek a
lover who has won her heart afar off?--"

"Calavius?" laughed Mago, the boy in him suddenly flashing out.  "They
say even the old men here are hunters of women.  Have a care of the
Claudian, though.  She may bite."

Marcia flushed crimson.  Mago was not an easy subject for female
influence.  Besides, she began to realize that the respect she could
not help feeling for the attitude of the young soldier might hamper
whatever efforts she could put forth to ensnare and control him.  His
closeness to Hannibal, however, would make his conquest as advantageous
as it seemed difficult, and it was some such thought as this that
prompted her next words.

"Happy the leader and brother that has so single and so firm a
counsellor!"

She spoke as if half unconsciously, but Mago shot a sharp glance
straight into her eyes.  Then he answered, carelessly:--

"My brother is the captain-general of Carthage, and I am only a young
soldier.  Doubtless he is wise to ignore my opinions; and yet, had he
harkened to Maharbal and myself at the close of the day of Cannae--had
he let us press on with the cavalry and followed, with such speed as
the gods could grant,--I am convinced that within five days he had
supped in the Capitol."

His tone changed, as he spoke, to one of fierce enthusiasm, and his
listener shuddered.  Then, sinking his voice, he went on, as if
speaking to himself:--

"Even now--even now--before the winter closes in, there might be a
chance.  Later, they will recover strength and courage, and we--we
shall become--Capuans."

Marcia hid her agitation behind the curtains of the rheda.  She was
terrified by his vehemence and by the justice of his reasoning.  Here
was the man whose whole influence would be pitted against the purpose
of her journey; and her woman's intuition told her that no argument or
allurement could turn his mind.  It was with a feeling of relief that
the halting of the vehicle before the porch of a stately house checked
the unwise retort that trembled on her lips.  Later, she could oppose
him better than if, yielding now to an impulse to controvert his views,
she had aroused suspicion.




III.

PACUVIUS CALAVIUS.

The house of Pacuvius Calavius was well situated, near the centre of
the town, accessible to the Forum, and upon a street of considerable
width.  The porch of the ostium was supported by four columns
delicately fluted and painted, the lower half in dull crimson, the
upper in ochre.  A porter, in costume much richer than those worn by
most free Romans, lounged on a stool set upon the mosaic pavement, and
roused himself lazily to shuffle down and inquire why the rheda had
halted before his door.

"Ah!  It was a lady"--and he smirked with insolent meaning--"who
desired to see his master?"  He threw out his hands with a deprecatory
gesture.  "The gods were, in truth, very friendly to Pacuvius Calavius;
but then he was very old--a complaint which few could guard against.
Oh!--"

Mago had signalled to one of his horsemen, and the soldier's lash
whistled and wound itself about the slave's neck.  All the fellow's
laziness and insolence vanished, and he fell upon the pavement,
writhing and whimpering.

"Lash the hound till he does his office," said Mago, quietly; and the
short hand-thong rose again.

But before it descended a second time, the porter had rolled and
scrambled to his feet, and was rushing to open the door.  He vanished
with wonderful speed, and, a moment later, there appeared a man
somewhat above middle age, with a close-curling, white beard, and clad
in a robe so heavily embroidered with gold as to leave the ground
colour a matter of conjecture.  With keen eyes that shifted nervously,
he hurried down toward the rheda.  Then, noting Mago, and that he was a
Carthaginian of rank, he paused, uncertain, and his salutation savoured
somewhat of over-respect.

"A lady?" he said hesitatingly;--"a lady who desires to see me?"

Marcia parted the curtains and leaned out, smiling.  The newcomer
stopped short and gasped in astonishment.

Mago glanced sharply from one to the other, and his lip curled.  He
signed to his attendants, and, with an obeisance that had in it
haughtiness rather than courtesy, he rode away.

Glancing cautiously up and down the street, Calavius approached the
rheda.

"And is it the lady Marcia who is to honour my house?" he began, in
words that carried more welcome than did the tone.  "A dangerous
journey, in these days, and a dangerous destination.  Surely you are
welcome--and who was the young man that rode with you?  Did he know
anything of your name and birth?  I trust you were cautious?--"

Marcia laughed.

"Do not fear, father;" Calavius frowned slightly at the venerable
title, and shook out his robe that the odours might permeate the air.
"Do not fear but that I was as cunning as your Campanians.  I told him
I was a Roman--wherefore not?  For the matter of that, he divined it.
He is Mago, the brother of Hannibal--"

"And he brought you here?" cried Calavius, trembling now in good
earnest.  "Surely it was done to ruin me; but whose plot?--whose plot?"

"It is not necessary I should be your guest," said Marcia, with
well-feigned indifference.  "Doubtless there are inns; but he guided me
here because I asked for your house, imagining that my father's friend
would have a welcome for my father's daughter."

Calavius instantly recovered his composure.

"Ah! dear lady," he began, in a voice from which all the tremor had
vanished, "and do you dream for a moment that you should taste of other
hospitality than mine?  Will you not descend--nay, I will help you--and
let us enter quickly.  These are indeed troublous days, and every door
creaks a warning; troublous days, with each man's hand against his
neighbour, plotting by necessity, often, rather than by preference.
What! your attendants are hurt?"  Again his voice shook.  "A brawl?
that is bad; but come within.  It is there you shall tell me of it all."

So speaking, he assisted Marcia to descend, and, summoning his
servants, gave the rheda and its guardians into their care.  Then he
led the way into his house, carefully fastening the street door behind
them, for the porter evidently had not halted in his flight, short of
the slaves' apartments upstairs.

Marcia followed, wondering at the magnificence of the decorations.  She
passed through passages lighted by hanging-lamps of gold and silver and
bronze; past walls rich with frescoes in black and yellow and red;
panels and pictures such as Caius Fabius Pictor could never have
dreamed when he ornamented the Temple of Safety; frescoes that so far
surpassed the work of Damophilus and Gorgasus upon the walls of Ceres,
as these had surpassed the art of Pictor himself.  Then came courts
surrounded by rows of fluted columns, set with fountains that threw
light sprays of scented water over the flowers and the garments of the
passers; then more passages, with paintings of even greater merit and
delicacy of execution, mingled, here and there, with scenes where the
delicacy was of the execution alone, and that brought hot blushes to
her cheek.  Amid all, were scattered richly carved pedestals bearing
beautiful statues done in marble or bronze, or great vases, black or
terra-cotta, with intricately composed groups of figures in the
opposite tint.  It came like a veritable revelation to one who had
known nothing but the crude art of the Etruscans and the cruder
handicraft of her own people, tempered, as they were, by the taste of
such Greek artists as fell so far short of their native ideals as to be
willing to waste their skill upon barbarians.  She had heard of the
wealth and luxury of the Capuans, but it had never entered her mind to
imagine that the luxury of Capua could demand, or the wealth of
Campania purchase, pictures whose distance and proportions were true to
life itself, and statues that seemed veritably to live and breathe.
Her eyes were big with wonder and admiration, when her guide and host
turned sharply to the right and ushered her into a small room that
looked out through a row of slender pillars into a portico beyond, and
thence into a garden that seemed a very forest of small rose trees.
Around the walls ran a shelf upon which were set a number of circular
boxes, while lying upon the table were several bulky rolls of papyrus,
in parchment wrappers stained yellow or purple.

"My library," said Calavius, in a careless tone, but with a wave of his
arm that showed his pride in its possession.  "Three hundred and
eighty-nine works--the best, and of the most excellent authors:--poets,
philosophers, historians, rhetoricians--all that is worth reading.  No
man in Capua has a better show of literature--unless, perhaps, it be
Decius Magius," and his voice sank, as if the name had brought him back
to a realization of circumstances.  "Here I can read without
disturbance, and here we can talk without fear of interruption or
listening ears.  There are slaves always stationed at both ends of the
portico, to insure quiet."

"And you are the man who has dared to turn Capua over to the enemies of
Rome!  Truly, I cannot understand."

Marcia could not restrain the words, and Calavius flushed.

"Do not condemn me for timidity," he said quickly.  "These are
dangerous seas for a man of mark to steer his craft upon.
Carthaginians and other barbarians are not citizens of Capua--no
refinement--no civilization.  Much has happened to disturb me--to
unsettle my nerves.  Decius Magius has been parading in the Forum,
defying our friends,--and who with him but my own son, Perolla, casting
discredit on my plans, and danger on himself!  It was with the utmost
difficulty I could drag him away--and then, what does the Carthaginian
do but fly into a rage, and demand an audience of the senate, with a
view to punishing Decius.  Nothing but my influence and that of Virrius
and the Ninii have persuaded him to forego his purpose for the time;
and that, only, by pleading the joy of this day, and that it should be
given to nothing save festivity and feasting.  Truly, my mind misgives
me.  Still, they have sworn that no Carthaginian shall have any power
over a Campanian, and--was not that a noise in the portico?"

He rose and, gliding out to the row of pillars, looked up and down.
Marcia regarded him with contempt and pity.

"And yet," she said, "it is for this terror and distrust that you have
betrayed Rome.  Were there none of our soldiers and citizens in the
town?"

"Do not speak of it," whispered Calavius, growing even paler;--"a most
frightful misfortune!  They were taken in arms, or at their
business--what matters it which?--and confined in the baths for
safe-keeping."

"And then?" said Marcia, for he paused.

"And then some evil-disposed persons turned on the vapour."

"They were killed?" she cried.

"Not so loud!--not so loud! for the love of all the gods!  It was a
mistake, a terrible mistake!"

"Ah! guest-friend of my father," said Marcia, sadly; "I fear it is a
mistake that Rome will exact a heavy price for.  You say truly that it
matters not how they were taken."

"But I swear it was no will of mine!" he cried, and then, fearing lest
he had committed himself too deeply, he went on.  "In fact, lady, they
say too much, who set this revolution at my door; who say that I was
the mover of all.  Was it not Vibius Virrius who first suggested it?
Was it not Marius Blossius, the praetor, who led out the people to meet
the Carthaginians?--and see how my son is still with Rome!  No, by
Bacchus! there are many here a thousand times more guilty--if it be
guilt, and on whom the rods and axes must fall first if there be
justice under the gods.  You can bear witness at Rome to that."

"There will be rods and axes enough for all," said Marcia, grimly,
filled with horror and disgust for the deeds told of, and with contempt
for this garrulous, timid plotter of treachery and murder.  Then,
suddenly, she noted a sinister glitter in his eye, and, at the same
time, remembering her mission, she checked her words and went on, "Rods
and axes enough for all who are so feeble as not to take the
sovereignty of Italy when it lies within their grasp."

"What--what is that you say?" he said eagerly, and the threat fled from
his face.  "The sovereignty of Italy?  Ah! it is a great prize!  Who
shall deny it to us?  Are we not the second city?  Have we not allies
the strongest in the world?--a general the greatest? and when all is
over, who so fitting to rule as the first man of the first city?--for
Rome will be no more.  Ah!  I will deal with them gently, though; I
will conciliate--unless I be opposed too obstinately.  You shall tell
them that.  Are they meditating surrender?  Do they not see that we
must prevail?--but," and his tone changed again to distrust, "I have
forgotten to ask, amid my anxiety about matters of state, why you have
come to Capua--a Roman--at such times?"

Marcia laughed.  She was ready for her part now, and this adversary, at
least, she despised,--perhaps too much, for he was a cunning man, in
his way, and when the matter demanded only chicanery against other
cowards.

"Ah! my Pacuvius, a politician like _you_ asks me that?" she exclaimed
gayly.  "Is it for a woman to remain in a ship buffeted and rocking in
the storm? a ship that must founder soon, if it be but left to itself?"

"Is that truth?" he asked eagerly, but with a tinge of suspicion in his
voice.

"Surely, it is truth: as it is truth that I, with many other women,
have gone out to such cities where there are friends of our
houses--cities friendly to the new powers, friends strong enough to
give us shelter and protection.  It is my happy fortune to have found a
city and a friend the strongest of all."

Calavius smiled complacently and stroked his beard.

"Yes, you have done well," he said slowly.  "I am not without interest
with the captain-general of Carthage, and there may be yet greater
things in store for me.  I will go now and send female attendants to
you, that you may seek the bath and your room, and have such
refreshment as you desire.  I will talk with you again later, but
to-night there is the banquet at the house of the Ninii.  Ah! it will
be the greatest feast that Capua has seen--a banquet to Hannibal and
the Carthaginian leaders.  Farewell."

He turned to go, but she rose quickly and laid her hand upon his robe.

"You have not heard all, yet," she said, casting down her eyes and
speaking in halting phrases.  "Do you truly believe that it is _only_ a
woman's fears that have brought me to Capua?  You have not questioned
me closely.  That is not worthy of your wisdom.  It is hard for a woman
to tell all things unless they be drawn from her."

He stared with eyes full of wonder.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Then, throwing her head to one side, she laughed, so that Sergius
himself would scarcely have known it from the laugh of the
free-hearted, jesting Marcia of other days.

"Oh, my father, you a Capuan and a man learned in the ways of women!
It is pitiful--this littleness of your knowledge.  Come, tell me now,
as to a pedagogue, what is it that leads a woman to all places, through
all dangers?"

"Surely, my child, it is love," said Calavius, vacantly.  Then his face
took on an expression, first of furrowed surprise and then of gratified
vanity, an expression that brought the hot blush to Marcia's cheek,
even while she struggled to restrain her contemptuous mirth.  His
manner changed at once to one of insinuating gallantry, which she
hastened to check before he should commit himself.

"What is it," she went on again, glancing down that he might not see
and read her eyes; "what is it that makes women love men?  What, if not
strength and courage?  I am a Roman, my father; but Roman men are no
longer fit mates for Roman women.  Where but in the camp of Carthage
shall I find one worthy of my beauty?  It is there I seek my lover."

Disappointment lowered on the face of Calavius.  He had noted her
beauty, long before she had referred to it; but now he noted it with a
more distinct desire, and the words, "my father," which she had used,
though but a customary term of respect, grated the more harshly upon
his ears.  Still, controlling himself, he asked:--

"And which man of our allies has the lady Marcia chosen to bless with
the love that is too high for an humble Italian?"

She looked the siren herself, as she answered:--

"Surely, my father would not learn the secret of his daughter!"
Calavius winced.  "Believe, only, that he who has been loved at a
distance is noble and powerful.  However, if so be that my lord would
learn the truth, let him take her to this banquet.  I have heard often
that much liberty is allowed to the women of Capua; why not, then, to
the guest of the noblest of the Capuans?"

The mind of Calavius had been divided.  With the first rebuff to his
rising passion had come the impulse to avail himself of his power and
of the helpless position of his guest to gratify his spite or his
pleasure as she might choose to make it.  Then, at the suggestion that
she loved and had come to seek a Carthaginian of rank, he thought of
the disfavour--even peril he might incur by such a course should an
enemy or a slave learn the facts and expose him; and, finally, he fell
into a cunning casting up of the influence he might gain over the
lover, whoever he was, to whom he should be instrumental in
surrendering such perfect beauty.  Again he winced at the thought, but
then, what more likely than that her silly, woman's vanity aspired to
the captain-general himself? and he, Pacuvius Calavius, might hope to
be the confidential go-between.  What profit and influence might not be
found in such a relation!--so personal, so beneficent!  After all,
there were many beautiful women--even among his slaves, and what was
the difference between woman and woman compared to the dream of Italian
sovereignty that hovered before his eyes!  He knew well that no wife or
daughter of a Capuan would be present at that banquet--only the most
beautiful of the city's hetairai--but what of that?  This girl was a
Roman--an enemy; the claims of hospitality between his people and hers
would be shivered in the coming crash of arms.  What mattered it if to
gain a point--a great point--he wrenched loose his personal obligations
a few days sooner?  Yes, Marcia should go to the banquet, and, if
Hannibal desired her, then he, Pacuvius Calavius, would surrender her
into his arms.  He knit his brows and spoke:--

"What you ask, my daughter, is truly difficult to compass, nor do I
know that any women or of what class will be present.  Trust, however,
that all my power shall be at your service to gain any wish of your
heart,--and, as you know, I am not powerless,--only remember that it is
your will that I am doing.  I will send a servant who shall lead you to
your chamber.  Rest, prepare, and expect my return before the third
hour.  Farewell."

Marcia did not detain him.  She noticed the wealth of odours that his
fluttering gown had left behind, and her contempt and disgust deepened.




IV.

THE HOUSE OF THE NINII CELERES.

The rustle of garments aroused Marcia from a sleep wherein had been
more of bitter revery than of rest; and, glancing up, she saw, at the
entrance of her apartment, two girls, evidently slaves.  They had
knelt, with arms crossed upon their breasts and downcast eyes.

"Will my mistress be pleased to place herself in the hands of her
servants, that she may receive refreshment and whatsoever she desires?"

The girl's voice was soft and musical.  Marcia rose, and, with a slight
inclination of the head, indicated her acquiescence; then she followed
her new guides through new halls and rooms, around and through the
colonnade, to a part of the house beyond the garden.  Here were the
apartments of the bath, and, under the skilful hands of her attendants,
she felt the fatigue and blights of the journey passing from her.  No
such artists of luxury were known at Rome as were these slave women of
Capua; new refinements were revealed at every step--refinements that
seemed to culminate when the hair-dresser began her work.  First came
the anointing with the richest odours deftly combined from a dozen
vials of ivory or fine glass; then the crimping and curling with hot
irons, the touch of which served also, as the attendant explained, to
consume whatever coarseness clung to the perfumes and to bring out
their finest and most delicate effects.  Meanwhile the Roman simplicity
of Marcia's wardrobe and jewel-case had been thoroughly explored, not
without some scornful side glances on the part of the Capuan women, and
she who was in charge of the tiring announced their contents to be
quite inadequate to dress a lady for a banquet of state--an
announcement which brought more smiles than blushes to Marcia's face.
Still, despite her half-veiled contempt, there was nothing to do but
resign herself absolutely into the hands of such competent authorities,
and, besides, she could not say that she found the process altogether
displeasing.

The elaborate structure of curls and frizzes had now been confined in
place by a net of fine gold thread, in which were set, at regular
intervals, pearls remarkable for their colour and perfect spherical
form; then a dozen long pins with carved gold heads were passed through
the net, and above and around all was bound a diadem of thin-beaten
gold ornamented with intricate open-work tracery.  Finally, the
hairdresser, having bade Marcia behold herself in the polished silver
mirror which she held up, retired with an expression of serene
self-approbation upon her face, and gave way to other attendants.

One of these bound the smallest of jewelled sandals upon feet that were
too small, even for them; another produced a long palla or sleeveless
tunic of apple tint ornamented with feather patterns, and fastened it
with amethyst brooches at the shoulders.  Last, the head tirewoman
herself came to perform what was, after the hair-dressing, the most
delicate of all these operations--the adjustment of the cyclas or
over-robe, a garment of the finest texture and of a shade known as
wax-colour, through which the tint and ornamentation of the palla
produced an effect of inimitable beauty.  A slender, vine-work design,
embroidered in gold, bordered the cyclas, and it was in arranging so
that the course of this would form harmonious lines, wherein the skill
and difficulty of the task mainly lay.

A final appeal to the mirror followed, and then, with Marcia's
approval, the work was over.  She was robed, indeed, for a Capuan
banquet, and in a manner her simple Roman taste had never dreamed of.

As yet Calavius had not returned.  She sat in the portico of the
garden, awaiting him, and time was now afforded her to think of her
plans, the risk she ran, and the objects to be gained.  Not since the
resolve had first found place in her mind had she wavered and feared as
now, and an intolerable repugnance began to possess her.

Darkness had veiled the city for several hours, but it was the darkness
of a southern night and of a city in festal mood.  The stars seemed to
stand out from the blue-gray vault above, as if reaching down to the
earth--whether in pity or anger, she could not tell.  Around the city
itself hung the luminous aura of its lights; the cries of revellers
sounded from the neighbouring streets,--even the rush of feet,--while,
to the eastward, the glow of the Carthaginian watch-fires seemed to
reach upward to meet the rays of the stars.  Yes, these were hostile to
the invaders!  She knew it now.  They were the glittering points of
Roman pila descending upon the foe--pila driven by the hands that
mouldered amid the red mire of Cannae.  Surely those men approved of
what she was about to do!  Was not Sergius among them, and would he not
will her to make good, by her beauty, what the sacrifice of his own
strength had failed to accomplish?  What interest had he, now, in her
as a woman, as a mistress, as a wife?  Greater thoughts must inspire
the shade that was once her lover: their common city, its life and
power, the destiny of the world that depended upon the preservation of
both of these; and still she could not banish the feeling of doubt, of
disapproval.  Perhaps Calavius would not return, or perhaps he might
not be able to gain for her permission to attend the banquet?

A commotion at the street entrance, the sound of approaching footsteps,
and the rustle of a gown seemed about to answer her question.  The next
moment, her host stood before her and surveyed with astonished approval
the appearance she presented.

"You are very beautiful," he said slowly and as if thinking with regret
that he was surrendering such perfection for mere influence and power.
"I have spoken of you and your wish, and Stenius and Pacuvius--the
Ninii Celeres--consent to your presence.  The litters await us in the
vestibule, and it is time that we set out."

Marcia rose, and he led her back through the halls and courts.

"Who will be there?" she asked, as they approached the street door.

"All of especial note, except Vibius Virrius and Marius Blossius.  They
are away, busied about matters of state.  Mago also has just departed
on a mission to Carthage.  There will be no Campanians save our hosts,
myself, my son, Perolla, and Jubellius Taurea, the bravest of our
horsemen.  Of our good allies, you shall see Hasdrubal, Maharbal,
Hannibal-the-Fighter, Silenus the Sicilian, who is to write the history
of the wars, Iddilcar the priest of Melkarth, and the great
captain-general himself--"

"Come, let us hasten," said Marcia, quickly, as if fearful lest her
resolution might forsake her while there was yet chance to withdraw.

A moment later and Calavius had assisted her into a gorgeously
caparisoned litter.  She hardly noticed the rabble that thronged round
the door as she passed out, and whom the slaves of her host seemed to
keep back with difficulty.  Still, she was conscious of nudgings,
looks, and gestures that made her blush, though the words that
accompanied them were unintelligible.  Calavius was furious and paused,
as if to give orders for harsher repression.  Then a voice called out
in coarse jargon--half Latin, half Campanian:--

"She is pretty, my Pacuvius!  Venus grant her to restore your youth!"

With an effort, he twisted his features into a smile.

"May the gods favour your wish, my friend!" he said.  Then, plunging
into his litter, he clapped his hands, for the bearers to proceed, and,
lying back among the cushions, ground his teeth in rage.

"Ah! I must play to them--now.  Later I shall remember and know how to
avenge.  The lump of filth!  Who knows, though, but that he spoke
wisdom?  Perhaps I am truly giving up the hope of my youth to others."

Meanwhile the bearers were running swiftly through the streets; that
is, as swiftly as the crowds and their condition and humour permitted.
Torches gleamed everywhere, and, from time to time as the curtains
parted slightly, Marcia caught glimpses of the scene.  The city had
abandoned itself to the wildest debauchery--a debauchery that had about
it more of the desire to drown unpleasant thoughts and haunting fears
than of spontaneous exultation or mirth; and their drunkenness seemed
but a garment, thrown over the head to shut out the approaching spectre
of Roman retribution.  All Capua presented to her the spectacular
results of a turbulent democracy exalted to power; for the vagaries of
the Roman plebeians seemed as nothing beside the unbridled insolence of
this populace.  Here was Pacuvius Calavius, who had triumphed by their
aid over a senate more than half in sympathy with Rome; and now,
recognizing his litter, they thronged around it, calling out familiar
greetings, or even sheer vulgarities, pulling the curtains aside,
kissing their hands to him, and, from time to time, compelling his
bearers to pause while they slobbered drunken kisses upon his garments
and person.  No sign of true respect greeted their leader; it seemed as
if the mob recognized him only as the creature of its whim, to be
upheld as a facile puppet or cast down by the first savage gust of
discontent.

As for Calavius himself, he, too, fell readily into the part assigned
him.  His face was wreathed in a constant smile, his lips spoke only
compliments, his hands waved greetings, until, at last, Marcia lay
back, and, closing her eyes, refused to see more of her host's
degradation.

Suddenly the litter-bearers paused and set down their burdens.  In
distance the journey had been short, but the many enforced halts had
made it seem as if the whole city had been traversed.  They were now
before the porch of a house that was, if possible, even more
magnificent than that of Calavius.  Every column was twined with
garlands, flowers hung in festoons from the architrave, incense steamed
up from brazen tripods set on either side of the entrance.  In front
and around the entire insula, the streets were packed dense with a
seething crowd, save only for a small space before the vestibule, where
was stationed a guard of Africans equipped in the manner of Roman
legionaries.  These were rude, wiry soldiers, scornful of civilians and
their fancied rights, but, above all, contemptuous of the soft
Campanian mob that arrogated so much and could command so little.  At
first the populace had tried to browbeat and play with them, and the
soldiers had sallied out into the street and killed a couple of the
most talkative, wounding half a dozen more.  Now the cowardly Capuans
stood back in awe, giving passage whenever the strangers called for it,
and hardly daring to whisper among themselves as to what manner of rule
they had invited to destroy them.  Were it not for this summary
treatment it is doubtful whether any of the guests would have been able
to gain the entrance--least of all Calavius, who was looked upon as
their peculiar creation and mouthpiece, and at whom a hundred
complaints were volleyed (in low voices, be it said) as he made his
slow way through the press.

Glad to escape at last from a position at once embarrassing and
dangerous, he now made haste to escort Marcia between the files of
foreign guards, into the atrium, where the Ninii Celeres--smiling
hosts--had stationed themselves to receive the guests that had been
bidden to so important a festivity.  Thence he led her, muffled as she
was, to a vestiarium opening to the left side, where were already some
half-dozen women, whose attendants were adding the finishing graces to
toilets disarranged in the litters.  One of these latter was assigned
to Marcia's aid, but a few touches to her hair and a slight
readjustment of the cyclas were all that was needed.

Meanwhile, the Roman was watching, with deep interest, the group in the
court of the atrium.  She had taken a position from which she could
have an unobstructed view through the doorway, and her attendant had
evidently informed herself as to the identity of the strangers, and was
anxious to win approval by communicating her knowledge.

"That is he, most beautiful lady; the one with the long, white tunic,
at the right of my masters.  Is he not poorly dressed for so great a
man?  Who would imagine him of any consequence at all?"

While the girl spoke, Marcia was regarding earnestly, and for the first
time, the chief of Carthage, the conqueror of Trebia and Trasimenus and
Cannae--of Sempronius and Flaminius and Varro.  She saw a man slightly
above the middle height, well built, with strong, aquiline features and
thick, black, curling beard and hair, though the latter was worn away
at the temples by constant pressure of the helmet.  It was a face that
combined deep thought, immeasurable pride, and absolute self-poise and
inscrutability--a face that would have been handsome but for the
disfiguring effect of the eye lost in the marshes of the Arnus.
Perhaps it was this that lent it something of its prevailing expression
of sadness; perhaps it was a realization of responsibilities met and to
be met and a premonition of the inevitable end.  His dress was, as the
maid had so scornfully commented, plain in the extreme--a striking
contrast to the celebrated magnificence of his armour and military
equipment.  Now, a simple, white, tunic-like garment, relieved by a
narrow border of gold, descended to his feet, while a slender gold
fillet was his sole ornament in addition to the seal finger-ring and
heavy earrings, which he wore in common with his companions.

The latter formed a group hardly less interesting than their leader,
and the girl pointed them out, one by one, and made her approving or
slurring comments.  There was Hasdrubal, coarse-featured, middle-sized,
and corpulent, whose garments gleamed with purple and gold, and whose
ears, fingers, and neck glittered with a profusion of jewels.  Him
Marcia's informant evidently regarded with admiration approaching to
awe, although his skill as manager of the commissariat, and his
exploits as a soldier when occasion demanded, were probably unknown to
her.

Maharbal, slight and agile, with plain, dark robe and few jewels, with
hair dressed high, diadem of plumes, and beard worn forked in the
Numidian fashion, attracted but passing comment.  He was doubtless a
savage from the desert and of little wealth.  Another of the generals,
however, seemed to arouse more positive sentiments: a giant in size,
with scarlet tunic, and loaded with gold chains and rings and gems, his
dark, ferocious face towered above the heads of his companions.  The
woman's voice sank to a whisper as she said:--

"That is the one they call Hannibal-the-Fighter.  They say he never
spares an enemy, and that he eats the flesh of those he kills.  May the
gods grant that my masters shall wean him to-night from the love of
such hideous, barbaric fare!"--and yet, with all her horror, Marcia
almost smiled to note how the girl looked upon this brute with more of
woman's feeling for man than she bestowed upon any of his better
favoured and more famous compatriots.

From these four the Roman's eyes wandered to a fifth Carthaginian, who
seemed to complete the tale of guests of that nationality.  Her
informant had passed him by in silence, and had gone on to point out
Jubellius Taurea, Pacuvius Calavius, and his son, Perolla--the only
Campanians present besides the hosts of the occasion.  When the
category was completed, however, she called the maid's attention to the
omission.

"He?" said the latter, lightly; "the man in the violet tunic?  He is
nothing--a priest of one of their gods whom they call Melkarth."

He was a tall, gaunt man, and he stood directly behind Hannibal, and
kept his eyes fixed upon the pavement, as if studying the intricacies
of its mosaic pattern.

Silenus, the Greek rhetor, made the last of the group.

And now, at a signal from the hosts, the company turned and followed
them in single file toward the rear of the house.

"They will send for you when they have reclined," said the attendant,
in answer to a glance of inquiry from Marcia; and, a moment later, the
summons came.

Walls, floors, ceilings, every part of the house through which they
passed, seemed covered with roses clustered, festooned, and superlaid.
Suddenly they found themselves at the entrance of the great banquet
hall, where two triclinia were set facing each other, with room for the
servants to pass between and minister to the wants of the feasters.

At the table to the east--that of honour--reclined Stenius Ninius, in
the middle place of the middle couch, with Hannibal himself at his
right, the place of honour above all.  Marcia was led to the head of
the lowest couch, next to the Carthaginian leader, where she found
Pacuvius Calavius reclining below her, as the phrase went; while on the
couch directly opposite lay the priest of Melkarth in the lowest place,
and Perolla in the highest.  The other places, below Pacuvius, between
Stenius and the priest, and between the priest and Perolla, were
assigned to the women, while the other table, over which Pacuvius
Ninius presided, was arranged in similar fashion.




V.

THE BANQUET.

Marcia had felt an instinctive shrinking when she saw that the women,
also, were to recline, after the manner of the dissolute Greeks,
instead of sitting, as she had been taught to consider the only decent
posture for a Roman maid or matron.  Then the thought of her mission
brought the blush surging to her cheeks, whence it receded, leaving
them pale with a sterner resolve.  Was not love of country the greatest
virtue?  It was time to school herself, to shrink at nothing in that
cause.  As she took her place, she noticed that the priest of Melkarth,
who lay directly opposite, had been regarding her fixedly.

She could see his face now, and it was not a pleasing one.  The Semitic
features, fine and noble in their best form, but capable of greater
depths of degeneration than those of any other type, were in his case
exaggerated to an extreme degree of coarseness.  The mouth was large
and badly formed, the forehead low, the small eyes peered out snakelike
from under heavy, puffy lids.  The nose alone was cut with any measure
of fineness, and that projected, wide-nostrilled, and aquiline as the
beak of a bird of prey.  It would have been difficult to imagine a face
more gross and sensual in its lines, and the look of low admiration and
eagerness which it now wore, was well calculated to bring out the
sensuality in its most repulsive form.  Marcia felt her cheeks burning
under the fixedness of the man's gaze, and, looking down, she struggled
to compose herself by a close study of the gorgeous coverlid of the
couch,--a fine Campanian texture, dyed scarlet, and heavily embroidered
with figures of birds and beasts and flowers, worked into an elaborate
design.

Even then, his eyes seemed to burn through her hair, through her brain,
down into her heart, and she found her will revolting more violently
than ever against the possibilities involved in her mission.

The voice of Hannibal, addressing some conventional compliment to
Stenius upon the perfection of the arrangements, came as an intense
relief, for the others all turned toward the speaker, and, a moment
later, the slaves passed around with silver basins and ewers, pouring
scented water upon the hands of the guests and drying them with dainty
flickings of filmy napkins.  Vessels of gold and silver and fine
earthenware burdened the tables, while at each end of the garden stood
a butler in charge of several large amphorae.  Those at the north end
were half buried amid imitation mountains, peaked with real snow
wherewith the wine was to be cooled, while those at the south were
surrounded by more than tropical verdure, with the braziers and vessels
of hot water beside them, ready for mixing the warm draughts.

And now the slaves hurried hither and thither, bearing costly dishes
with elaborately dressed viands: dormice strewed with honey and poppy
seeds; beccaficoes surrounded by yolks of eggs, seasoned with pepper
and made to resemble peafowls' eggs in a nest whereon the stuffed bird
was sitting; fish floating in rich gravies that spouted from the mouths
of four tritons at the corners of the dish; crammed fowls, hares fitted
with wings to resemble Pegasus, thrushes in pastry stuffed with raisins
and nuts, oysters, scallops, snails on silver gridirons, boar stuffed
with fieldfares, with baskets of figs and dates hanging from his tusks,
sweetmeats, cold tarts with Spanish honey--these and a hundred other
dishes, strange or costly, followed each other in quick succession,
and, all the while, the carvers flourished their knives in time with
music, now of instruments, again of choruses of boys and girls.  The
butlers, too, had not been idle, and the cups were constantly
replenished, first with the warm and, later, with the cold mixtures.

Yet, though both men and women ate greedily and drank deeply, a gloom
seemed to hang over the feast.  The Carthaginians, whether influenced
by native dignity or by a real or simulated contempt for their hosts,
were reserved and silent, while the Capuans seemed, at one moment,
forcing themselves into strained merriment, and, at another, cowering
before the cold eyes that watched their efforts with scarcely veiled
indifference.  With fear on the one side and distrust upon the other,
the chances for hilarity and good fellowship looked scanty enough, and
yet Stenius Ninius was too much a man of the world to yield readily to
untoward social conditions.

Clapping his hands, he cried out, as the head butler bowed before him:--

"Now, my good Cappadox, let us have no more of these native vintages.
Good though they were, they but serve to cultivate the taste for the
wines that cement friendships such as ours.  Henceforth pour for us
only the Coan, Leucadian, and Thasian, and see that you select those
amphorae whose contents are toothless with age."

A rough laugh rolled up from the other table, and the voice of
Hannibal-the-Fighter broke out with:--

"It is well said, host.  Truly I was wondering if we had been drinking
from the famous cellars of Capua.  We washed our horses with better
wine in the north."

Stenius flushed.  Then he smiled.

"And, Cappadox," he went on, in an unruffled voice, "do you send what
remains in my cellar of the vintages we have been drinking, to the
horse of my worthy guest."

At the giant's discourteous words, Hannibal himself had started from
the mood of thought in which he had seemed well-nigh buried.  A quick
glance shot from his eye, and his brow furrowed.  Then the courtly
answer of Stenius relieved the situation, and he turned to his host.

"You must pardon rough words to rough soldiers, my friend.  We of
Carthage have had but slender chances to avail ourselves of Greek
culture and urbanity.  We are mere merchants and warriors--not men of
letters or of social manners."

The hulking savage grew purple and trembled under the rebuke of his
chief.  Twice he essayed to speak and then discreetly gulped down the
words, for Hannibal's face, though calm and courtly, showed a hardening
of its lines which meant much to those who knew him.

As for the Campanian, he raised his hands in voluble deprecation of the
apology.

Did _he_ not realize that but for soldiers and merchants, letters and
social manners would never have come into being?  It was the privilege
of so brave a warrior as Hannibal-the-Fighter to say what he pleased,
and when and where.  Ordinary rules were only for little men.  Besides,
the best of Campanian wines were truly all too poor for heroes whose
souls were already attasted to the nectar of the gods.

The suppressed fury and shame of the offender melted away under the
balm of these honeyed words, and, laughing loudly but with some
constraint, he tossed off to his host a cup of the wine last brought.

And now Hannibal seemed to shake himself loose from the bonds of
silence and thought, though his conversation still showed the trend of
his mind.  He turned to Calavius.

"Thirty thousand foot and four thousand horse form an excellent array,
and yet I should imagine that the second city in Italy could do even
better--in case of need."

The attention of hosts and guests became tense at once, though Marcia
could note that the motives were diverse.

Calavius seemed nervous and flustered.

"There was a time when that was undoubtedly so, my Lord," he said
hastily; "but, now, many of our young men have fallen in the wars, and
many are serving with the enemy, unable to escape and doubtless in
serious danger--"

"Three hundred horsemen," interrupted Hannibal, dryly, "and my spies
inform me that they are likely to continue serving Rome--by choice, as
would doubtless many of your well-born at home--like this fellow,
Magius," and his brow darkened ominously.

The Campanians moved uneasily on the couches.

"Magius is a traitor and will be dealt with in due season," said
Stenius.  "It is friends and festivities first with us, and enemies and
punishments later."

"Yes, Magius shall be dealt with," echoed Hannibal; but the
acquiescence brought no relief to his hearers.  Why should he feel it
necessary to supplement their assurance so significantly?  Did not the
treaty between Carthage and Capua provide that Capuan laws and
magistrates should still govern all Capuans?  Why should he speak so
markedly of their military power?  Did not the treaty expressly state
that no Capuan was to be called upon for military duty except by his
own rulers?

Calavius had been signalling vigorously to his son, Perolla, who had
reclined silent and gloomy, but who now seemed about to speak.
Disregarding his father's warning, the young man broke in:--

"It is idle to deny that the Campanian horse serve willingly with Rome
and will continue so to serve.  As for Decius Magius, there are many
good men here who hold with him, but who lack his boldness."

For an instant every one held his breath in terror of the coming
outburst, but those whose angry or frightened eyes first ventured to
glance toward the captain-general saw his face wreathed in smiles, and
his wine cup raised toward the daring speaker.

"Happiness to you, flower of Campanian youth! and know that there are
two things that Hannibal prizes most among men: a friend who was once
an enemy, and a friend who dares to speak the truth."

Calavius had recovered his composure during this speech.

"I would not have you imagine, my Lord," he began, "but that my son
speaks as he believes and in order that you may have full information;
yet, he is ill to-day in body and mind, and, even were it not so, I am
older than he and know more of men.  That Decius Magius has
sympathizers, it is vain to deny; but that they are many or
influential, I, who know the Capuans, aver is not the case.  As for our
horsemen, it is easy to see that their safety demands an apparent
friendship for Rome.  It is not wise for three hundred to revile thirty
thousand."

Hannibal had continued to keep his gaze upon Perolla, scarcely
listening to his father's words.  In the young man's face something of
surprise had mingled with his half-defiant, half-moody expression.

"I do not ask of you, my son," pursued the general, "that you whose
heart was but lately with our enemies, should love and trust us at
once.  That were the part of a hypocrite, and I honour you, both for
the filial piety that threw down your preference before your father's
will, and for the slowness with which your heart follows your act.
Grant me but this: that you judge us fairly by our deeds, and if we
prove not better friends than Rome, return to them in peace and safety.
Meanwhile there is a horse with crimson mane and feet that shall be led
from my stable to yours in the morning.  Ride him, and remember that
Hannibal honours courage, filial obedience, and truth--all in like
measure."

Subdued applause from both tables followed these words, but the face of
Perolla lost but little of its stubborn hostility.  Hannibal turned
away, and Calavius and Ninius sought to cover by eager talking the
young man's ungracious reception of such signal favour.  The faces of
the Carthaginians remained for the most part impassive; only their dark
eyes seemed to sparkle, either with wine or suppressed passion.  Marcia
still felt that one pair was trying to look through her, and she was
conscious that Silenus, the Sicilian Greek, was making eager and
indecorous love to one of the women at the other table.  Another of the
latter had just ventured on some light badinage with the chief guest,
in whose face smiles had chased away all the abstraction of the earlier
hours.  He answered her as lightly, but with indifference, and turned
to Marcia.

"And what says our Roman beauty?" he asked.  "She has come boldly and
far to see her enemies.  Who knows but she has a boon to beg."

Again Marcia noted disturbance under Calavius' smile.  He was wondering
at the general's knowledge.  Then he realized that Mago's report must
be its basis, and his face cleared.

"Yes, truly, I _have_ a boon to ask," replied Marcia, fixing her great
eyes upon the bearded front, stern through its smiles.  "It is that you
will spare one house in Italy from ravage and destruction."

"And where may this house be?" he asked in bantering tones.  "We shall
leave many standing, but this one most surely of all."

"It is upon the brow of the Palatine Hill--" she began, and then a
burst of applause gave notice that the compliment had struck home.  "It
is my father's," she concluded, blushing.

Calavius was in ecstasy over the graceful tact of his protégé.  No
Capuan or Greek could have done better.  Hannibal eyed her with a
curious expression, half admiring, half doubtful.

"I grant the boon--freely," he said.  Then, fixing her with his gaze,
he went on, "And when will you claim it?"

"The son of Hamilcar knows best," replied Marcia, casting down her
eyes, and again she felt the approval of her host and his friends.

That Hannibal was pleased and flattered was evident, and yet there was
a certain reserve in his manner.  Possibly he suspected that she wished
to provoke an announcement of his plans; perhaps an even deeper insight
led him near to a fuller conception of her purpose.

"Yes, it is truly for us to say," he said loudly, glancing around the
board; then, turning quickly to Marcia: "I understand that you
counselled delay until spring to my brother, Mago.  Why?"

So frank a question, so different from all that had been told of the
more than Oriental craft of the Carthaginians, and one that went so
straight to the motive of her presence, threw Marcia into some
confusion.  Calavius noticed it, and, fearing lest she might say
something to do away with the impression of her former tact, he came to
the rescue.

"Surely we shall not insult my Lord Bacchus by a council of war in his
presence?" but Hannibal waved his hand toward him and looked fixedly at
Marcia.

"Goddesses may speak on all subjects, at all times; and the gods smile."

"That my words," she began, with eyes still cast down, "were deemed
worthy to be borne to my Lord, is too much honour.  That he should deem
them worthy of thought, is beyond the dream of mere woman."  Then,
glancing up and smiling wistfully into his face, she went on: "Know,
that whatever of judgment born of knowledge of the place and the men
has come to me, a girl,--that and more is for the service of the great
general of Carthage,--the benignant liberator of Italy."

"Why do you advise delay?" asked Hannibal again, and the eyes of
Maharbal glittered, as he leaned over from the other table.  "There are
those who say I have delayed too long already."

"For this," replied Marcia, boldly; "that you may save your soldiers
and your allies; that they may lie in rest and luxury, and that, ere
springtime, the cities of the Latin Name, yes, truly, and the very
rabble of Rome, shall come to you on their knees for leave to bear the
horseheads along the Sacred Way, up the Capitoline slope--"

"If in the spring, why not now?"

Maharbal and Hannibal-the-Fighter made a clucking sound of assent;
Hasdrubal and the other guests seemed indifferent, but the Capuans were
hanging on Marcia's words.

"Because the time is not ripe--" she began.

"Words!" cried her questioner, cutting off her speech; "I asked, _why_?"

Frightened at his vehemence, but put to it of necessity, she answered:--

"Because there are strifes and bickerings--at Rome--throughout the
Latin Name--that must soon bear fruit of civil strife.  The nobles
grind and hold to their privileges; the commons serve and starve and
look to Carthage for aid.  How shall these things grow better, while
you hold the garden of Italy--while the Greeks of the south and the
Samnites and the men of the soil gather behind you on one side, and the
Gauls and Etruscans muster in the north?  The water is eating at the
mole; soon the waves will lash up and sweep it from its foundations."

Hannibal eyed her closely for a moment.  Then he said: "There are those
at Rome and among the Latin Name who tell me otherwise.  They are good
men, and they know.  Perhaps I have been even too cautious.  You are
young and beautiful.  Hold fast to matters suited to youth and beauty,
and leave the conduct of wars and statecraft to men."  Turning to
Stenius, he went on, "If this Leucadian wine of yours, my Stenius, were
let into the veins of those who lie dead at Cannae, they would be fit
to rise and do battle again."

Stenius bowed and smiled; Marcia grew red and then pale with shame and
vexation, seeing how her plots were like to fall and crush her; but, at
this moment, the voice of Hannibal-the-Fighter rose from the other
table.  Flushed with wine, he was boasting of his slain.  "Four at
Trebia," he cried out, "seven at Trasimenus, eighteen at Cannae--but
all men.  It is better to slay the wolves' whelps, if only to teach
women that it is no longer wise to bring forth Romans.  I--I who speak
have already killed eleven boys--ah! but you must wait till we enter
Rome.  Then will be the day when they shall build new cities in Hades!"

The Carthaginians heard him with indifference; the Capuans, all save
Perolla, applauded nervously; and Marcia grew sick at heart and mad
with a rage that could almost have strangled the giant as he reclined.

"And now," began Ninius, mildly, when there was a moment's silence,
"that we may the better enjoy what is to come, there are baths and
attendants; and the red feather will make way for new feastings at the
end of two hours."

Slaves had run in to assist the diners from their couches; the Capuans,
with dreams of relief, refreshment, and re-repletion; the
Carthaginians, bored, but striving to be polite and to follow the
customs of their entertainers.  Even Hannibal, while his smile was half
a frown, permitted himself to be led away.

Filled with disgust and despair, Marcia felt herself all unfit to begin
a new revel--one that was to be made possible by loathsome practices,
as yet unknown at Rome, and which bade fair to end in aimless and
hideous debauchery.  The women were but warming to their part, when the
summons of Stenius Ninius had proclaimed a truce with Bacchus and
Venus--a truce with promise of more deadly battle to be joined.  She
had seen glances hot with wine and lust, claspings of hands, loosened
cyclas, and more lascivious reclinings.  The gloomy Perolla had yielded
a little to the soft influences, and even Hannibal seemed to force
himself to toying, if only in the name of courtesy; while, through it
all, and more and more as the light of day advanced, Marcia felt the
eyes of Iddilcar, priest of Melkarth, burning into her soul.  He at
least gave no heed to nearer blandishments, and terror and loathing
filled her in equal measure.

A faintness--a sudden weakness born of her recent journey--served for
excuse, which Calavius seemed not unwilling to voice, and, surrounded
by a guard of slaves, her litter bore her back to his house, through
streets littered with drunken men and fluctuant with the figured robes
of courtesans.




VI.

ALLIES.

Night had come again, before Marcia could arouse herself from the deep
sleep with which exhaustion of mind and body had overwhelmed her.  She
remembered the scenes of the banquet as the phantasms of a
dream--strange and terrible; for her thoughts were slow to gather the
threads and weave the woof.  Only a feeling of failure, of fruitless
abasement, was ever present.  Hannibal had admired her, but, proof
against any controlling attraction, he had put her words aside with
little short of contempt.  A dread, even, lest the strange acumen of
this wonderful man had pierced her mask, and that her very motive and
mission were already suspected, was not lacking to add dismay to
discouragement.  Such thoughts were but wretched company, and they
brought with them a vague conception of her own vain egotism in
imagining the possibility of other outcome.  She tried to sleep again,
but could not.  What mattered it though, by some shifting of hours, her
day had become night and her night day!  She must arise and talk with
some one, if it were only the host whom she so heartily despised.

Attendants entered at her summons, and the refreshment of the bath and
the labour of the toilet were once more passed through.  Then,
dismissing the slaves, she walked out alone into the garden and sat
down on a softly cushioned seat of carved marble.  A fountain plashed
soothingly in the foliage near by, the stars were shining again, while,
from without, the jarring sounds of the city came to her ears.

How long she sat, awake yet thinking of nothing, dull and dazed, she
could not tell.  Then she was aroused by a sandalled step upon the
pavement.  A man was standing before her, whose face, despite its
youthful contours, was deep-lined and melancholy.  He was short of
stature and slenderly though gracefully built, and his black curls
clustered over brow and eyes that seemed rather those of a poet or a
dreamer than of a man of action.  In the sombre, dark blue garments of
mourning, without ornaments or jewels, so different from the gay
banqueting robes in which she had last seen him, Marcia gazed a moment,
before she recognized Perolla, the son of Pacuvius.

"You are not pretty to-night, Scylla," he said tauntingly, "though you
left us early.  There are dark circles under the eyes that looked
kindly at the enemy of your country."

Marcia flushed crimson, and he went on: "Yes; I watched you smiling and
ogling, but it will take greater traitors than you to snare him.  He is
like Minos, in that he did not reach out to take from your hands the
purple lock shorn from your father's head: he is not like him
otherwise: he is not just, and he will not give honourable terms."

"You, at least, are faithful to Rome?" said Marcia, slowly, and
ignoring his insults.

"Can you ask?" he answered; "is it that you wish to betray me?  Well,
then, know truly that I have betrayed myself to your heart's content.
Do you not see the mourning garments I wear for my city's faithlessness
and for her coming ruin?  Have you not heard how my father dragged me
from the side of Decius Magius in the market place that I might attend
the banquet?--ah! but you have not heard how I had planned to startle
them all."

Marcia began to wonder whether she was talking with a madman.

"Shall I tell?"

She made a sign of assent.

"It was toward evening--they have but just risen from the tables now.
Then, it was to seek the red feathers for the third time; but I led my
father back among the rose bushes and showed him a sword which I had
girt to my side, beneath my tunic.  'This,' said I, 'shall win us
pardon from Rome.  Look you, when we return, I will plunge it into the
Carthaginian's breast.'"

Marcia bent forward eagerly.

"And then," he went on, "my father bound my arms to my sides, with his
own around me, and wept and talked of our recent pledges to these
foreigners.  'Can they outweigh our ancient pledges to Rome?' I
answered.  So he pleaded how the attendants would surely cut me down,
and mentioned Hannibal's look, which he affirmed I would not be able to
confront; but I laughed and made little of these things.  Then he spoke
of the hospitable board, which I admitted had something of reason; and,
finally, when he had declared that the sword must reach Hannibal only
through his own breast, then, at last, from filial duty, mark you, I
threw the weapon from me, telling him that he had betrayed his country
thrice: in revolting from Rome, in allying with foreigners, and, now,
in turning aside the instrument of escape.  Then we returned to the
banquet, but my father trembled, and ate and drank no more.  There,
now, is a story to tell your city's destroyer.  If you betray me,
perhaps he may yet love you."

Marcia viewed him sternly.

"Truly your father was right, when he said you were ill in mind."

"Yes, ill in mind and in heart."

"How, then, do you not recognize one whose heart is sicker than your
own?"

Perolla looked at her inquiringly, and she went on:--

"You have a city that has been false to itself, and is in danger of
punishment--a father, too, if you will.  _My_ city has already suffered
every evil but destruction: my brother and he to whom Juno was about to
lead me have been killed by these pulse-eaters.  Are such things the
benefits that go to make friendship and love for the slayers?  Say,
rather, hate and the craving for revenge."

"Yes," said Perolla, moodily; "they are indeed evils, but less than
mine, in that they are passed--"

"And is Rome safe, do you think?" she asked quickly.

"Rome will conquer," he said doggedly, "unless there be many more
traitors like you."

"Fool!" she cried, grasping his wrist.  "Can you not see--you who claim
to be a philosopher and to have Greek blood?--you, at least, should
have understood my words."

He gazed at her vacantly, and she began to regret her vehemence.  It
came to her mind that this was not altogether a safe man to trust with
her secret.  Faithful he was, no doubt; but a fool might be even more
dangerous than a traitor.  Still, she had said too much to be silent,
and she felt the need of some ally to whom she could talk--upon whom
she could at least pretend to lean when the weight of her burden was
heaviest.

"I have told you what I have lost--what I dread to lose.  Now learn
what I am here to gain.  For many days after the black news of Cannae,
I heard them talking in my father's house--talking of the advance of
the insolent victors and of the paltry defence we could oppose, the
certain destruction that awaited us.  Still they were brave--old men
and boys.  The soldiers were dead, but we set to work training
new--shaping them alike out of youth and age and bondmen; and the
slayers of our citizens delayed, and we gained strength and courage.
In every temple of the twelve gods it was the same prayer by day and
night: 'Grant us delay.  Grant us that the winter may find him in the
south!'  At last came the news that he was advancing to Capua, and
rumours of a Carthaginian party in the city.  From Capua, seized with
all its engines of war, was but a few days to Rome.  Then I took a
resolve and made a vow: tell me, am I beautiful?"

"Beautiful as Venus."

"Know, then, that I have dedicated this beauty to her, that she may
guard Rome and avenge me upon Rome's enemies."

He shook his head stupidly.

"Minerva does not favour me, lady," he replied; "for I do not
understand your words."

"Listen!" she went on, with the earnestness of desperation,  "He shall
_love_ me--he or one who can sway him--and they shall play the laggards
here, until the winter gives us time--and time brings safety."

He understood her now, but still he shook his head.

"If you speak truth," he said slowly, "you speak foolishness as well.
Hannibal will love no mistress but Carthage, and there is no man living
who shall sway him by a hair's breadth.  _Now_ I see why you spoke to
him of plots at Rome and of the wisdom of delay.  Ah! a woman to make
game of _him_!" and he threw back his head and laughed.  "Do you
imagine he has not divined your plot?  Give him your beauty if you
will.  He will take it, doubtless, if he have time, and march north
forthwith, after you have confessed your little plottings beneath the
hot tweezers.  Only one thing shall stay him--steel,--and in the hands
of man--not blandishments in the mouth of a girl."

Marcia was in despair.

"And is there no help," she cried, "for me, a Roman woman, from you, a
friend of Rome?  Surely we shall be stronger together, even if our
plots are different.  Two plans are better than one."

Before he could frame his answer they heard footsteps coming toward
them, and then a man, enveloped in the brown cloak of a slave, pushed
aside the foliage and glided out into the moonlight.  Perolla, wheeling
about, had half drawn his sword, while Marcia shrunk back into the
shadow.

"Put up your sword, my Perolla," said the newcomer, speaking in low
tones and throwing aside his mantle.

"Decius Magius, by all the gods!" cried the young man; "but why are you
disguised?"

"Because, my friend," said Magius, slowly "Capua is no longer free;
because spies of the Carthaginian and of our senate are watching my
house, making ready to seize me.  Decius Magius can no longer walk in
his own city, clad in his own gown, and to-morrow, doubtless, he cannot
walk at all.  Therefore I wish to speak with you, and I have put on
this disguise in order that I might gain your house unobserved, and
that your father might not die of fright, learning me to be here."

"But how did you enter? how find me?"

"I entered, my Perolla, because your porter, like every slave in Capua,
is drunk to-night, and because the boy whom he left to keep the gate
was only enough awake to mumble that you were in the garden."

Perolla frowned.  Then, suddenly, he remembered Marcia, concerning whom
his suspicions were not yet entirely removed, and he raised his hand in
warning.

"There is a woman here--a Roman woman, who tells a strange story," he
whispered.  "It is better to be discreet."

"The time for discretion is past for Decius Magius," said the other,
wearily.  "Let him at least speak freely upon his last night of
freedom."

Marcia came forward.

"Is it permitted a Roman maid to honour a Campanian who is true to his
city's faith?"

"Assuredly, daughter," replied Magius, quietly.  She could not see his
face except that it was stern and gray-bearded; but, kneeling down
beside him, she took his hand and poured out the story of her life, her
sorrow, her resolve, and its prosecution.  Here, at least, was a man
upon whose faith and judgment she could rely, and his manner grew more
gentle as she made an end of speaking.

"So you doubted her truth, my Perolla," he said softly.  "That is
because you have not felt her hand tremble, and because you are too
young and too much of a philosopher to judge of the honesty of a
woman's face.  The same instinct that tells me, doubtless warned
Hannibal also that this was not a courtesan, much less an immodest
woman well born, and, least of all, a coward who would flee her city,
or a traitress who would betray it.  You will know more of such things,
my Perolla, when you learn to study them less."  Then, turning to
Marcia, he went on: "What you have designed, my daughter, is noble and
worthy of your race--and yet, while I commend, I am slow to encourage.
Are you strong to carry your sacrifice to the uttermost?"

Marcia shuddered.

"Yes, if there be need," she said, in a low voice; "I look to no
marriage now.  Is not the Republic worthy of our best?"

"It is a hard thing," he said, doubtfully, "for a woman well born and
modest to belong to a man she hates."

"But it is easy to die, my father, as died Lucretia."

Decius Magius looked at her.  Several times his lips moved as if about
to speak, and, once, he turned away sharply for a moment, as if to gaze
up into the night.

"Tell me, my father," she said earnestly, "do you give me no hope?  Is
not my beauty worth the purchase of a few paltry months?  And then
comes the winter, bringing safety."

Still Magius said nothing for several minutes, and when he spoke, it
was in harsh, quick tones.

"Yes, it is all possible, as you say it."

"Hannibal to surrender his plans for a woman?" cried Perolla,
scornfully.  "Surely, my Decius, you jest.  Do you not know him--that
only the gods can turn him from his purpose?"

Marcia had wheeled about with flashing eyes and faced the last speaker.

"You have shown me the way," she cried.  "It is the gods who _shall_
delay him."

Perolla gazed at her in astonishment, as at one gone mad, but Magius
nodded and frowned.

"It is the best chance," he said slowly, "the only one."

"Still Minerva does not favour me," said Perolla, shaking his head; but
Marcia went on in a high, nervous voice and with a gayety that made the
older man draw his cloak up to his face in pity:--

"Come, my philosopher, you are indeed stupid to-night.  If you did not
observe it at the house of the Ninii, you should have heard me just now
when I told the story of the banquet to my lord Decius.  It is
Iddilcar, the priest of Melkarth, who shall bring his god to be my
ally--Rome's ally: Iddilcar, who could not so much as take his eyes
from me, through all their feasting.  There is the man who will prefer
my beauty, even to his god's favour; and surely your Hannibal will not
wage war against the auspices."

The face of Magius was still shaded by his cloak, and he said nothing;
but over the features of the younger man came strange expressions:
first amazement, then horror, then a look which had something of horror
but more of yearning.  He held out his hands in supplication.

"No--no," he cried.  "You shall not do it.  You are too beautiful.
First I hated you, when I dreamed you to be but a courtesan traitress.
Now--now--O gods favour me!  Listen! you shall not do it.  It is I who
will kill him--yes, and you also first," and, turning suddenly away, he
staggered.  Then, as Magius raised his hand to support him, he shook
himself free and ran furiously into the house.

Marcia turned to Magius in astonishment, and he smiled sadly.

"Even philosophers are not proof," he said; "and you are very
beautiful--and he is young--and half a Greek."  She blushed, and the
grim senator took her hand.  "May the gods grant, my daughter, that
your sacrifice be not for nothing.  You have spoken wisdom; but he--he
is a madman.  As for me, I am as one who is dead.  Farewell."

He dropped her hand, and she felt, rather than heard or saw him go;
only her voice would not obey her when she strove to detain him, if but
for a moment: the only man in Capua whom she could honour--upon whom
she could rely.  Surely he would not desert her thus?--yes, truly, he
was _gone_.

Then she ran several steps in the direction he had taken, and called,
though she dared not call his name, until a female attendant came
hurrying to answer her.

"My lord, Perolla," said the girl, "had but just rushed out into the
street, as if possessed of a daimon.  As for a strange slave, she had
observed no one; but if such there was, doubtless he had slipped by the
porter's boy--who was worthless."

Marcia groped her way to her sleeping apartment, harshly brushing aside
an offer of aid.  Once alone, she threw herself down upon the couch and
burst into a torrent of moans and sobs.

The girl, who had followed hesitatingly, listened in the hallway,
nodding her head with conscious satisfaction.  "And so the Roman women
loved, for all they were said to be so grand and stern.  What a fool
this one was, though, to prefer the son to the father, who was much
richer, and who, being old, would doubtless realize the necessity of
being more generous."

And she went back to the slaves' apartments, laughing softly to herself.




VII.

"FREEDOM."

The morning air of the Seplasia reeked with perfumes, more, even, than
was its wont; for Carthaginian and Capuan revellers had been carousing
there, and several of the shops had been broken open.  The gutters
streamed wine with which were mingled all the essences of India and
Asia.  Flowers, withered and soaked with coarser odours than their own,
floated on the pools and drifted down the rivulets.  Inert bodies,
drunk to repletion, lay scattered about, helpless, unable to drink
consciously, but absorbing the wasted liquor through every pore.  A
dead citizen, his head crushed in by a single blow, sprawled hideously
in the middle of the street; while his murderer, a gigantic Gaul, was
embracing the corpse with maudlin affection and whispering in its ear
to arise and guide him back to camp.  Those who passed, from time to
time, paused to join the soldier's comrades in laughter and rude jests
and suggestions of new methods of awakening his friend.

And now, down the street, extending from wall to wall, came a line of
young men, their faces flushed, their garments disordered or cast
aside, and their brows crowned with what had once been chaplets of
roses.  Three or four courtesans, with gowns and tunics torn from their
white shoulders, were being dragged along, half laughing, half
resisting, and wholly possessed by Bacchic frenzy.

In front of the company marched a slender youth with dark, curling hair
and delicate features.  In his hand was a thyrsis, and his eyes blazed
with the madness of the wine.

"Evoe! evoe!" he shouted.  "Comrades!  Bacchantes! there is no water in
Capua to mix with wine.  Equal mixture for poets and fools; undiluted
wine for victors and lovers!"

"Perolla is a good Carthaginian to-day," shouted one of his fellows.
"Behold how Bacchus has answered our prayers!  Kiss him, Cluvia, for a
reward."

Pushed forward, the courtesan fell upon the young man's neck, almost
bearing him to the street and overwhelming him with drunken caresses.
A moment later he freed himself from her arms.

"What is Roman beauty to our Capuan?" he hiccoughed.
"Marcia--Cluvia--all are one.  All are women, and we are Capuans;
braver than Romans, wiser than Carthaginians.  Listen, friends! when my
father rules Italy, you shall all be kings and queens.  Evoe! evoe!"

Shouts and shrieks of drunken joy greeted his words.  Several sought to
embrace him, and, staggering back, he stumbled over the Gaul and the
dead Capuan where they sprawled in the street.  Mingled laughter and
curses rose all around.  Blows and kisses were given and received, and
the mad company rolled on through the Seplasia and into the Forum.

Here, too, were intoxication and debauchery, but they were restrained
within some manner of bounds.  The fact that grave events were taking
place, seemed to exert a sobering influence on the populace, and they
gathered in a dense throng around the Senate House, whence ominous
rumours pursued each other in quick succession.

"The Senate was in session.  Hannibal was before them.  Decius Magius
had been arrested at his demand."  So ran the talk.

Guards of Carthaginian soldiery were posted at several points, but
especially at all the entrances to the chamber in which the fathers of
the city discussed--or obeyed; and against these lines the waves of the
rabble surged and broke and receded.  Men offered the soldiers money
for free passage or news; women offered them kisses for money; and the
soldiers took both and gave nothing but jeers and blows.

Perolla and his drunken company had but just poured out to swell the
tide of this ocean of popular passion, when a commotion of a different
character began at the other end of the Forum.  The closed door of the
Senate House swung open, and a man in the garb of a senator, but
chained and shackled, issued forth and stood on the steps, beneath the
porch.  Surrounded by a guard of Africans, it was fully a moment,
before the mob recognized Decius Magius, the partisan, of Rome.  Then a
chorus of howls and curses rose up.  Insults were hurled,--the grossest
that the minds of a licentious rabble could suggest, fists were shaken,
women spat toward the prisoner,--even a few stones were cast, and when
one of these happened to strike an African of the guard, he turned
quietly and cut down the nearest citizen.  Then, with their heavy
javelins so held as to be used either as spears or clubs, the soldiers
descended into the Forum, and, with the captive in their midst, began
their progress toward the street and gate that led to the Carthaginian
camp.  There was no weak delay in this progress, no requests for
passage; the escort clove through the mass of the people, as a war
galley dashes through the breakers of a turbulent sea.  A spray of
human beings that strove to escape but could not, boiled up about the
prow; a wake of bodies, writhing or senseless, fell behind the stern,
while, at either side, the stout javelins rose and fell like the
strokes of oars, splashing up blood for foam.

The taunts and threats that had assailed the prisoner died away amid
shrieks of terror or pain and the deep rumble of the mob.  Stupid with
drink, drunk with the exultation of ungoverned power, they wondered
vaguely, as they crushed back, why their new friends should strike,
merely because they,--the Capuan people,--allies of Carthage, strove to
punish a traitor and a common enemy.  The prisoner's lips were seen
moving, as his captors hurried him along; but no speech from them could
be heard, until the Forum had been nearly traversed.  Then, on the hush
born of surprise and efforts to escape blows, the words of Magius were
audible, at least to those nearest.

He was protesting against this violation of the treaty.  He was
speaking of himself; a Capuan, than whom no one was of higher rank,
being dragged in chains to the camp of an ally who had sworn that no
Carthaginian should have power over a citizen of Capua.  At the mention
of his rank, malice and envy lent to some of the cowed rabble courage
to jeer once more.  Then he had asked, how they expected that an ally
so careless of recently sworn obligations would respect his vow that no
Capuan would be compelled to do military service against his will;
whereupon, some of those who heard looked serious, for this seemed
reasonable, and brought the possibility of evil unpleasantly home to
them.  Finally, he congratulated them upon this marvellous, new-found
freedom which the Carthaginian alliance had brought, and which they had
been celebrating so earnestly.

Perolla and his companions had found themselves crushed against the
portico of the temple of Hercules, in which, only the day before, had
been established, also, the worship of the Tyrian Melkarth, out of
compliment to the new alliance.

At first they had realized but little of what was going on before and
around them.  They had listened vacantly to crazy rumours of how the
statue of Jupiter in the Senate House had bowed to Hannibal as he
entered, and how the Senate had forthwith saluted him as a god and
declared him the patron and protector of the city; and, again, to other
rumours even more wild of how the wives of all the Capuans had been
decreed to be given to the Carthaginians, in return for which the women
of Rome were to be surrendered to the Capuans by their victorious
allies.

When Decius Magius was led out in custody of the soldiers, Perolla was
trying to think whether, after all, he would not prefer Marcia to
Cluvia.  Then followed the passage through the crowded Forum, straight
toward the exit beside the temple of Hercules, and Perolla found
himself within a spear's length of his captive friend, whose words of
protest and warning fell upon his ears like molten lead, and whose
reproachful eyes gazed into his own, piercing through them to his brain
and dissipating the fumes of intoxication as sunlight melts the fog.
Decius had not spoken to him, for he was mindful that such speech might
bring suspicion upon the younger man, but his look had said all that
his tongue refrained from saying, and Perolla realized his degradation
and his shame.

He started forward and cried out:--

"I was mad, my father; _mad_! do you hear?  It was because I knew
suddenly that I loved her, and that she would never love me! and then I
rushed out and met others who were drinking, and we feasted and drank
until I knew nothing.  Pardon! pardon!"

Suddenly he became conscious that Decius and his guards were gone.  Had
he heard his plea?  Surely yes, for did not he, Perolla, now hear his
friend's eyes saying to him that he was but a fool who had added to
folly, philosophy, and to both, weakness, and to all, madness?  He
looked around at his companions.  Some were gaping at him vacantly,
some were laughing.  Cluvia tried to grasp his arm, and he shook her
off and saw her stumble and roll down the steps that led up to the
portico; then a new commotion arose in the direction of the Senate
House, and the attention of the bystanders was diverted.  More
Carthaginian soldiers were forming and marching through the mob that
now opened to give passage of double width; and, as the escort came
nearer, Perolla saw Hannibal, clad in the gown of a Capuan senator,
moving calmly in their midst.

A new frenzy came to his brain to take the place of the fumes of wine:
perhaps it was one compounded of that and of shame and horror and
revenge.  He groped under his torn tunic and found his dagger; then,
brandishing it, he burst down through the crowd, uttering incoherent
words, and threw himself, like a wild beast, upon the guards.

He had stabbed one through the throat and another in the shoulder,
before he was beaten down by a blow from the staff of a javelin.  A
moment later, the first soldier to recover from the surprise of the
incident bent over him with drawn sword.

A sharp exclamation from behind checked the descending thrust, and the
soldier turned quickly.  Hannibal stood beside him, with a thoughtful
smile upon his lips.

"Would you kill a citizen of Capua? a man of our allies?" he said
quietly.

The African looked around stupidly.  That he should not crush the
Italian vermin forthwith was beyond his comprehension, but evidently
such was not the schalischim's wish.  Grumbling, he slipped his sword
slowly back into its sheath, and, at that moment, several of the Capuan
senators in Hannibal's train gathered round him with protestations and
expressions of regret.  The general looked at them and frowned.

"I have been with you scarcely two days," he said, "and now you try to
murder me."

The senators fell upon their knees, kissing his gown and hands, in a
frenzy of horror at the thought.

"Who is this fellow?" asked Hannibal, turning Perolla over with his
foot.  Then, recognizing the son of Pacuvius Calavius, he went on:
"Some one of no consequence, doubtless; dust of the street that stings
when the wind drives it," and he glared around at the prostrate
senators.

They glanced at the senseless figure, as if hardly daring so much.
Some knew him, more did not; but all united in protesting their
ignorance.

Hannibal viewed them with drooping lids, and the smile returned to his
lips.  Perolla stirred slightly.

Again he addressed the Capuans, raising his voice somewhat, so that the
crowd might hear.

"What is your law for the punishment of such a crime?"

Those who had not recognized the assassin, cried out, "Death."  Others,
divided between the more powerful enmity of Hannibal and the slower
revenge of Calavius, made their lips move but were silent, hoping to
escape notice in the shout of the others.  A few of these were envious
of the young man's father; more feared him.

Hannibal noted their confusion and came to their relief.

"But perhaps so wicked a man is not a Capuan, after all.  It is
difficult to believe that the gods would suffer such impiety to lurk in
a city so beloved as yours; and, if no one knows him--"

A chorus of disclaimers snatched at the proffered evasion, and the
smile on Hannibal's lips grew more subtle, as he said:--

"In that case, the treaty does not stand, and you, my fathers, are
relieved from the burden of his trial and punishment.  I am still free
to condemn an ally of Rome.  Let your rods and axe do their office."

The senators were standing now, and several of them winced and looked
frightened at the swift result of their complaisance.  One, even,
gathered courage to say:--

"When is it my lord's will that punishment fall?"

Hannibal eyed him closely for a moment.

"Here, in your forum, and now," he said, "provided you would give
prompt warning to such vermin."

The Capuan shifted uneasily and looked down.  Several of the soldiers
had already lifted Perolla to his feet, and, holding him upright, had
torn away what remained of his garments; others sent for the
executioners, and, in a moment, these appeared with the instruments of
their calling.

It was doubtful whether the prisoner had recovered full consciousness
when the first rod fell upon his shoulders, but he groaned and writhed
slightly in the grasp of the four soldiers who held him extended upon
the pavement.

Then Hannibal turned away, ordering one of his officers to remain and
see the end.  He signed to the Capuans to follow him.

"Such jackals, my fathers, are not worthy that men of rank and wealth
should watch them die," he said lightly.  "The rabble will provide him
with sufficient audience."

And the senators, with awed and thoughtful faces, followed in the train
of the captain-general of Carthage.




VIII.

DIPLOMACY.

Pacuvius Calavius sat in the atrium of his house.  Black robed from
head to foot, with hair and beard untrimmed and uncombed, and face and
hands foul with dirt, he rocked to and fro and groaned.  From time to
time he ran his fingers through beard and hair, and uttered the
measured cry of the Greek mourners.

An hour before, one of the senators had stolen furtively in, and,
having hurriedly related the grewsome scene just enacted in the Forum,
had sneaked out again as if he were a spy passing through hostile
lines.  None other of the friends of the afflicted father had ventured
to bear or send a message of condolence.  It was as if the house of the
once acknowledged leader had been marked for the pestilence--and no
pestilence was more to be shunned than the deadly blight of broken
power.  Even the slaves shifted about in embarrassed silence, offered
little service, and obeyed as if conscious that obedience was something
of an indiscretion, and was liable at any moment to become a crime.
Some had slipped away to their quarters, and had begun to discuss the
relative possibilities of freedom, wholesale execution, or a new
master, when the coming blow should fall upon this one.

To Marcia, on the other hand, had been born a feeling of sympathy for
her host, that, for the present, overcame the contempt with which he
had inspired her--a contempt scarcely lessened by the repulsive
ostentation of his mourning.  She alone ventured to minister to his
wants and to beg him to partake of food and drink.  Perhaps her
attitude was due in a measure to the horror with which she herself had
listened to the morning's news.  To be sure, she had not admired the
character of Perolla.  It had in it too much of the weakness and
puerility engendered by the bastard Greek culture fashionable in lower
Italy, and which naturally attained its most offensive form in the
towns of Italian origin.  Still, he had been faithful to Rome, and
there was something within that told her his madness and ruin were not
entirely disconnected with her own personality.  Word, too, had just
been brought her that both Ligurius and Caipor had died of their
injuries.  They had seemed on the road to recovery when she visited
them on the previous day, and this sudden misfortune filled her with
new forebodings, mingled with a suspicion too horrible to dwell upon.
As for Decius Magius, she had barely seen him, yet she had felt him to
be one of all others upon whom she could rely--an Italian uncorrupted
by Capuan luxury, a worthy descendant of the rugged Samnite stock, a
Roman in all but name; and now he was snatched away, a prisoner in the
hands of enemies who knew nothing of mercy.  Still, he had approved of
her design; had seen in it the possibility of success; and there was at
least a consolation in the thought that, without friends or allies, no
one but herself would now be cognizant of the fulfilment of her
impending degradation.

Another hour had passed; into Marcia's mind had come the calmness of a
fixed resolve.  Calavius still moaned and cried out his measured "Aêi!
aêi!"

Suddenly a tumult of noises sounded from the street: the approaching
murmur of a multitude, the footsteps of men, shouts of applause, cries
of wonder or warning, and sharp words of command.

Ah! the end was near, now.  Calavius began to imagine himself
stretching out his neck to the sword, and he sought, by proclaiming his
willingness and welcome, to stay the chilling of his blood, the
trembling of his lips and hands.

Staves were beating upon the outer door; the hum of voices in the
street rose and fell and rose again.

"Open the door, Phoenix," mumbled Calavius, as he rocked and swayed.
"Open the door and let them enter.  I am an old man.  My son is dead.
What matters a few years of life?  I pray to the gods that the
barbarians may not hack me.  You shall see how easy I will make it--if
they have but a sharp sword."  Suddenly he sprang to his feet and
grasped Marcia's arm.  "They will not scourge me?  Surely they will not
scourge me?  I am a senator and the friend of Carthage!--will the door
hold?  Hasten, my daughter; run and tell me whether they are guarding
the street in the rear--before the tradesmen's gate."

The beating upon the door still continued, with short intermissions,
and Marcia surmised that the porter was probably skulking in the attic
with his fellow-slaves.  Calavius had turned suddenly from the depths
of despair and the height of resignation to a keen desire for life.  He
had hurried away to seek for some unguarded exit, heedless, for the
moment, of what even Marcia fully realized: the utter impossibility of
a man so well known escaping unaided through a hostile city and without
a friendly land whereto to turn his flight.  He had left her standing
in the court, to be a first prey of the assailants, whether Capuans or
Carthaginians, and she reasoned that it would be better, or at least
quicker, to unbar the door before it should be broken in: she was
wondering, in fact, at the forbearance that had preserved it thus far
from more violent assault.  Calavius had been gone some time.
Doubtless he had escaped or, recognizing the uselessness of his
attempt, was hiding somewhere, and, in either event, nothing would be
lost by judicious parleying.

Arranging her robe, she walked slowly through the hall, slid back the
bolts one by one, and let the door swing out into the street; then she
stood, dazed and frightened, for the sight that met her eyes was
Hannibal himself reclining in a litter borne by four Nubians.  The
curtains were thrown back, and he was leaning out, evidently giving
some directions to the attendants whose summons had thus far failed to
obtain an answer.  Beside the litter stood the priest, Iddilcar, with
folded arms and look bent upon the ground.  Around them were ranged a
strong guard of Africans, and, back through the streets, as far as she
could see, the Capuan rabble were thronging forward, curious or
bloodthirsty.

All this was visible in a moment, and then the general, attracted by
the creaking of the door and the exclamation of the crowd, looked up
and saw Marcia standing upon the threshold.

The litter was set down at an imperceptible signal, and he stepped out,
robed in a loose gown of black, entirely without ornaments, and with
hair and beard uncombed and sprinkled lightly with ashes.  Marcia
stared in wonder.  Surely this could not be the Carthaginian method of
announcing judgment or execution!  She caught a flash of subtle
lightning from the eyes of Iddilcar, though these had not seemed to
neglect for a moment their close scrutiny of the pavement.  Then
Hannibal stood before her, bowing low and speaking in suppressed
tones:--

"The gods be with you and dwell within this house!  I have come to look
upon the face of my father, and, if may be, to console him.  Praise be
to Tanis for the omen that you have opened to us, rather than one whose
servile duty it was.  So shall our entrance be free and our going
joyful."

He had cast a rapid glance around, as he spoke, and Marcia knew that he
divined why the service of tending the door had been left to her--a
free woman and a guest; yet he was pleased to ignore all inferences,
and to attribute her act to some divine will.  His words, too, were
more than friendly, and, if they covered no snare of Punic faith,
augured safety and continued favour.

"I have come," he continued, "that I might mingle my tears with those
of my father who mourns the death of a son."

Marcia stood amazed.  Had they not been told how this man had himself
ordered the execution of Perolla?  How, then, could even a Carthaginian
show such effrontery!  Still, it was necessary to think quickly, and
her woman's wit told her that, in any event, Calavius' best chance of
safety was to seem to accept the visit in the spirit which cloaked it.
So thinking, she led the visitors into the peristyle,--Hannibal,
Iddilcar, and some twenty soldiers who followed as if by previous
orders; while the rest mounted guard before the vestibule.  Murmuring
some word of apology, she hurried back through the garden to the
tradesmen's door.

It was still closed and barred, facts which, together with the rumble
of the crowd without, showed that Calavius' plan of escape had proven
impracticable.  Then she began a careful search, becoming more
agitated, with each moment, about the difficulty of explaining the
delay.  At last she found him, hidden away under a couch in one of the
slaves' apartments, so senseless with terror that several minutes
passed, before he could grasp her tale of Hannibal's presence, and of
the chance of safety it offered.  When, however, he understood that
there was yet room for diplomacy,--that the visitors were not mere
executioners with orders to obey,--he drew himself out from his
hiding-place, alert and active.  The need of haste, in view of the time
already lost, was apparent; but, nevertheless, he paused in the garden
to wallow a moment in the mould and plunge his hands into its depth.

Marcia saw with disgust, but she led on until they reached the
peristyle; when, slipping aside into one of the cells, she watched the
playing of the game.

Calavius paused a moment at the entrance.  Then, groaning deeply to
attract attention, he shambled forward, and, throwing himself at full
length before Hannibal, seized the hem of his robe and pressed it
eagerly to his lips.

"Ah, my master!" he cried.  "Slay me, slay me at once or with tortures.
Surely that man is not fit to live whose loins have engendered such a
monster of wickedness.  Only by death can I hope to expiate my offence
and retain the favour of the gods."

"Rise, my father," said the captain-general, and to Marcia's ears his
voice rang true with sympathy.  He reached out his hand to help
Calavius.  "Do you not see that I also wear mourning for this
melancholy error?"

"Never shall I rise or face you," cried Calavius, "until you give me
your oath that I shall have your forgiveness before I die.  Ah, the
monster! the parricide! who would slay, at one stroke, both him who had
brought him up to better deeds, and him who is indeed the father of his
country.  Ah, gods! the shame of it!  Give orders, lord, quickly--only
vow first that you forgive me."

Hannibal's tones were low and deep with sorrow, and, by an
imperceptible effort of what must have been prodigious strength, he
raised the unwilling Calavius to his feet.

"Listen, my father," he said.  "Have they not told you how I knew not
the young man?  He was stained and dishevelled with revellings in
honour of our alliance--in honour of me, unhappy one.  Perchance the
Lord Bacchus, whom you worship, willed to have him for his own, for
surely it was he that raised the young man's hand against me.  Ah! my
father, did I not know how this son of thine was most beautiful, best,
and bravest of the Capuan youth?  Had I not marked him out for signal
honour--only less than yours, my father and his?  See, now, how the
gods confuse the affairs of men.  It was at the banquet that I learned
his worth, and determined that he should love me and find in me a
friend."

"Truly yes," interrupted Calavius, "and you had won his heart, for,
walking in the garden, he told me as much, only adding that he must
appear to turn to you slowly--for the honour of his name among the
partisans of Rome, whom may the gods confound as they have done."

Hannibal smiled softly, as he took up the words:--

"All this I knew well, being somewhat learned in men, my father; and
now the gods have smitten my brother with madness that he should try to
slay me, and myself with blindness that I should, unknowingly, order
the death of one I loved most.  Look, my father, I join you in your
mourning, with black robes and ashes; I come to weep with you at the
feet of Fate--you whose love for me has lost you a son, and to offer
you myself to be a son in his place."

Calavius embraced him, mumbling prayers and vows and endearments in the
sudden joy of escaped death.  Iddilcar raised his eyes from the study
of the mosaics and turned aside, shaking as if with some strong
emotion, and Hannibal spoke again.

"One thing more, my father, I would speak to you of, though for my best
interests I should hold my peace nor make dissensions among allies.
There were those with me when this evil happened--men of your Capuan
Senate--who knew this youth better than I, and who I am convinced
suspected the truth; yet they spoke not--"

"Ah!" cried Calavius, "and you have their names writ down for me?  We
shall slay them!"

Hannibal's face wore an expression strangely inscrutable as he
answered:--

"Yes, my father, I have their names whom I suspect; and they shall
surely die.  Grant it to me, though, that I alone keep them and expiate
my own fault by avenging your wrong.  This I swear by Baal-Melkarth and
Baal-Moloch to accomplish at the season best for our plans.  Therefore
I tell you the fact, but without names, that you may know that you have
enemies and walk warily, while I, your son, shall, under the gods, be
your reliance for protection and revenge."

Another thought seemed to be struggling for utterance in the bosom of
Calavius--a wish prompted by religion but checked by prudence.  Twice
he raised his head as if to speak, and twice his eyes wandered.  Then
Hannibal spoke again, as if reading the other's thoughts:--

"I have also, my father, given orders that funeral honours be paid to
my brother; a pyre rich with woven fabrics and wine and oil and spices,
and, from my own share of the Etruscan spoils, I have chosen a vase
boldly pictured with a combat of heroes."

Tears gushed anew from the eyes of Calavius at this added evidence of
thoughtful friendship, and once again he embraced his benefactor, but
with somewhat more of dignity, now that the fear of death was removed.

Suddenly Marcia became conscious of an intruding presence beside her,
and, turning, her eyes fell upon the repulsive features of Iddilcar,
that seemed to sneer through the semi-gloom.  She shuddered and drew
back against the wall.  Iddilcar held out his arms which the broad
sleeves of his robe left bare to elbow.  An expression of eager lust
made his face even more hideous than did the sneer of a moment past.

"Come, little bird," he said, "and I will charm you.  Moon of Tanis!
Lamp of Proserpine!  Essence of all the Heavens! do you not see I love
you?--I, Iddilcar, priest of Melkarth.  Behold, my robe is dark.  It
mourns--not for the fool who died, but because you have not loved me.
Love, and it will gleam again in violet, and all the bracelets that
hung from my arms at the banquet shall be yours."

She pressed her hands to her face; she felt herself swaying upon her
trembling knees; only the support of the wall saved her from sinking
down.

After a moment's silence he began again:--

"What is an old man, and weak--a sport of foreigners--to me who am
young and strong, and by whose word even the schalischim of Carthage
must march or halt?  I, the favoured one of Melkarth, beseech you, a
Roman, for favour, because Adonis wills it.  See how I come to you,
unpermitted, from those who cajole each other, and I show you my heart.
Love me! love me! leave this keeper, who is but an old woman, and you
shall be a priestess in Carthage, and the people shall swarm around and
cast their jewels and wealth before you, for the deity--that shall be
you alone; and we shall feast and love and love and feast again in such
splendour as not even Carthage has ever known--"

She could restrain her feelings no longer; all her resolves seemed to
slip from her in the presence of this man; she thrust out her hands and
turned her head away with a shiver of utter disgust.  Her movement was
vague in the dim light, but he saw it, and his face darkened.

"What is this house?" he exclaimed harshly.  "How long will it stand
against me?  Shall I not crush its root, even as its branch was torn
off to-day?  Filth! vermin! dust!  Shall not its flower lie in my bosom
to bloom forever, if she wills--or to bloom for a moment and wither and
be cast away, if she wills not?"

He strode forward and caught her wrist; his hot breath steamed in her
face.

"No! no!  I _hate_ you!  Go!"  The words sprang from her lips, without
power to hold them back, and she struggled frantically in his grasp;
she heard his teeth grinding, as, mad with passion, he strove to bind
her arms to her sides.  At that moment a rattling of weapons from the
peristyle seemed to bring him to a consciousness of his surroundings.
Releasing her, he half turned, and she sank down in the corner of the
cell.  The visit was evidently over, and Hannibal, about to take his
leave, was glancing around, evidently in search of the missing priest.

Iddilcar spoke low and rapidly:--

"I will return at once.  Wait me till I come, or I will have you given
to a syntagma of Africans."

He was out in the peristyle now, bowing low before the captain-general.
Then he whispered in his ear--probably some explanation of his absence,
of how he had been keeping watch against treachery; for Hannibal nodded
several times, and, again embracing Calavius, accepted his escort to
the door, giving his arm to steady the steps of the older man.




IX.

THE BAIT.

Marcia crouched, huddled in the farthest corner of the cell, and
listened to the receding footsteps of the visitors.  Then she heard new
sounds echoing through the house: the rushing feet of slaves descending
from their quarters, striving to gain their stations unobserved; the
sharp tongue of Calavius now loosed from the bonds of terror, and
rating them soundly for their unfaithfulness and cowardice; the patter
of excuses and protestations.  In a few moments the quarters above
resounded with the shrieks and groans of those condemned to the lash;
for the wrath and indignation of Calavius, generally the mildest of
masters, were spurred to vindictive bitterness by a consciousness of
his late terror and abasement.  "They were guilty of all crimes, and,
worst of all, of the rankest ingratitude.  Let them learn that their
master was still strong enough to punish."  So the scourges fell, and
the victims screamed and writhed.

All these things Marcia heard, but they meant little to a mind so full
of internal conflict as was hers.  What was she to believe of herself?
Had she not marked out a course of self-devotion and sacrifice which
was to gain respite and safety for her country, revenge upon its
enemies?  Had not others, notably Decius Magius, been forced
unwillingly to admit the possible efficiency of her plan?  Yet now,
when the gods had shown her favour beyond all anticipation--had brought
the chosen quarry into her net--she had thrown all aside and yielded to
her womanly weakness, her instinct of modesty, her sense of personal
repulsion.  What right had she to think of herself as a woman!  He, for
whose love her sex had been dear to her, was gone--a pallid shade who
could no longer be sensitive to her beauty, a vague being sent far
hence into the land of the four rivers by these very men whom she had
devoted to destruction.  What though the virtues that had beaten down
her resolves had been good once--good for Marcia the woman?  They were
evil for that Marcia who had resolved to be a heroine, and who was now
learning how hard it is for the female to seek the latter crown without
losing the former.  Again and again she struggled with herself, swayed
back and forth by the counter-currents of conflicting shames, until the
thought of death, as a final possibility, revived to steel her purpose.
The sacrifice and the shame would be short, and, in the consciousness
of her work accomplished, she could die, going before the lady
Proserpine with a pure heart that need not fear to meet the eyes of
Sergius when they should ask its secret.

Rising quickly, she hastened to her chamber by passages where she would
not be likely to meet her host.  Whatever intentions he might have
entertained toward her had been effectually suspended, if not
obliterated, by the course of events, and now he was much too busy
setting in order his demoralized household to think of her presence.
Therefore, she reached her apartment unnoticed, and, summoning her
tirewomen, surrendered herself to the tedious process of adornment
according to the accepted taste of Magna Graecia.

The afternoon was spent, ere all had been finished.  Then she ate
hurriedly and with little appetite, drinking deeply of the Lesbian wine
till her cheeks flushed through the rouge, and her eyes sparkled.
Calavius had gone out, busy about affairs of state, and eager to
collect the strained threads of his influence--threads that might be
strengthened by their very straining, in the hands of a politician who
realized how men were ready to grant every complaisance to one whom
they had deserved ill of and whose vengeance they feared.  Marcia found
herself wondering whether Iddilcar would indeed return as he had said.
Perhaps her attitude had seemed to him so unfavourable that he would
strike first;--but when and how?  Perhaps affairs of state detained him
also.  Perhaps, even, this man, Hannibal, whose eye pierced through all
subterfuges, had already divined the danger and set himself to nullify
it.  Perhaps--and then, as she was reclining in the larger dining hall,
one of the slaves entered and whispered in her ear.  She rose quickly.

"Tell my lord that she whom he favours awaits him at the hemicycle in
the garden, and guide him to me."

She spoke, marvelling at her steady tones, and, turning, walked, with
drooping head, to the semicircular, marble seat;--not the single seat,
back amongst the foliage, where she had met Perolla; "the philosopher's
chair," as Calavius had called it laughingly, where his son retired to
commune with thoughts too great for men.  Sinking down at one end of
the hemicycle, she studied the carved lion's head that ornamented the
arm-rest, and the paw, thrusting out from the side-support, upon the
pavement beneath.  It troubled her that such wonderful handicraft had
not considered that the head was entirely out of proportion with the
paw; and yet, if the former were larger or the latter smaller, surely
they would not fit well in the places they were intended to ornament.
What a provoking dilemma, to be sure--and at such a time, for, glancing
suddenly up, she saw Iddilcar's dark, repulsive features bent upon her
with a terrible intentness.  All her former loathing surged back over
her heart with tenfold force, sickening her with its suffocating weight.

"Light of the two eyes of Baal," he murmured softly.  "Look kindly upon
thy servant.  Smile upon his love, that thy light and his worship may
be eternal.  Behold! for thee I cast aside the worship of the lord
Melkarth!"

He tore apart his long, violet tunic, showing his throat and bosom hung
with necklaces.  His arms, bare to the shoulders, glittered with heavy
bracelets.

"Lo! the spoils of Italy assigned to my Lord I give to thee,"; and,
taking off necklace and bracelet, he knelt and piled them at her feet,
raising and parting his arms in the attitude of oblation.

Charmed as by a serpent, Marcia watched him with horrible disgust, yet
unable to turn her eyes aside.

"What is Tanis to thee!" he went on.  "What, Ceres!  What, Proserpine!
Ashera!  Derceto!--goddesses afar from men--goddesses whom, not seeing,
we worship faintly with sacrifice and ceremony.  But thou--thou shalt
dwell forever in the temple upon the Square of Melkarth.  Come!"

Again, and in spite of every resolve, Marcia felt the overmastering
sense of woman's loathing that stood so obstinately between herself and
the rôle she had marked out.  It was too much.  She could not--could
not suffer this man for a moment, even with the release of swiftly
hastening death before her eyes.  She struggled to her feet, groping
about, turning, and, with a stifled scream, she sought to fly; but her
strength refused her even this service.

In an instant, he was up and beside her; his hand had roughly grasped
her shoulder, half tearing away the cyclas; his little eyes blazed with
vindictive fury; his nostrils dilated; his coarse lips writhed in
hungry passion.

"Ah, slave!  You would escape?  Where? where?  In this house?  Ah,
fool!  Could you not measure the comedy of this morning?  Do you think
this old imbecile, this man condemned to follow his mouse-killing son,
can protect you from the meanest Nubian in the army?  Do you
think--ah!" and he raised his hand, as if to strike.

Wrenching herself loose by a quick movement, Marcia turned and faced
him with all the blood of the Torquati flushing in her cheeks, all
their fire blazing in her eyes.

"Dog of a pulse-eater!" she cried, and he shrank back before the
vehemence of her tone.  "Do I care what you do?  Break your alliance
with these people if you wish--an alliance of fools with fools, knaves
with knaves!  Break it, before it be cloven asunder for you by the
sword of Rome.  Doubtless your chief will sacrifice all his plans to
your cowardly lust.  Kill my protector, tear down his house, and--kill
me!--me, for whom there is neither sowing nor reaping in this matter."

All his arrogance and violence had vanished, cowed and crushed by her
outbreak; but, even as he cringed before her, the gleam of Oriental
cunning had taken its place.

"Ah! now, indeed, art thou more beautiful than the lady Tanis," he
muttered, clasping and unclasping his hands, as if in ecstasy.  "Now,
indeed, do I love thee."  His voice sank to a whisper, and he glanced
about timorously.  "And so it is neither sowing nor reaping with you,
my pretty?" he went on.  "Fools we may be, but not the fools to be
blind to your sowing--not the fools who shall not root up your seed
before the day of reaping.  Did not you, a Roman, counsel Mago to
delay?  Did you not, foolish one, even give such counsel at the banquet
of welcome to the schalischim, until I laughed in my cup to see a silly
girl who would cajole men of government and of war?"

Marcia stood, rigid and pale.  All her plans seemed shivering about
her.  She was doomed to fail then--fail after all, through the cunning
of these vermin.  Still she struggled to retain her composure.

"Liar!" she said.  "Do I not know that if you spoke truth I would
already be buried under hurdles weighted with stones?"

He laughed softly.  "Why?" he asked.  "What can you avail, coining lead
for us who perceive its falseness?  Nay, you are even of use to
Hannibal, for, by your very eagerness, he has come to Maharbal's
thinking, that all must be done speedily, if we would take Rome.  Even
now Capuans work night and day building our engines.  Soon they will
set them up before your gates.  We shall winter in Rome, as the guests
of the lady Marcia who has invited us.  Therefore Hannibal grants you
life and to be a comfort to his friend and father, Pacuvius Calavius,
in his declining years;" and he laughed again, but harshly and
sneeringly.

Marcia could scarcely keep her feet under the crushing force of these
blows.  In what vain manner had she, an inexperienced girl, blind to
all but a noble purpose, contended with men whose cunning had sufficed
to snare the chiefs of her people!  Worse even, she had herself forged
the weapons for the destruction of all she had hoped to save.  Iddilcar
watched her from under half-closed lids, noting every line of her face,
and reading its struggle and its despair.

"And so it is wisdom for us to march north at once?" he said softly.

"How do I know?--a woman?"

He smiled subtly and ignored the change of front he had wrested from
her.

"Love me, and I swear by the crown of Melkarth that Hannibal shall
winter in Capua."

She started, as if from the touch of fire.  Had her ears heard words of
his, or was it only a belated thought coursing from her brain to her
heart?

He stepped nearer and spoke again:--

"Love me, pretty one, and Hannibal shall winter in Capua,--yea, though
he hangs on the cross for it,--though all the armies of Carthage become
food for dogs."

At first she had been dreaming of new snares; but these last words and
the vehemence of his tone brought her to an intuitive realization that
this man was indeed prepared to give up god, country, general,
friends,--all, so only that he might gratify his overmastering passion.
The gods were indeed with her, after all,--were guiding her aright; and
the knowledge steadied her self-control and strengthened her resolve.
What omen of favour could be more potent than this snatching of victory
out of the very hands of ruin--this moulding of ruin into a source of
victory?

So she spoke, calmly and evenly:--

"Perhaps you tell the truth, perhaps folly.  How shall I know, any more
than I know of this power to command commanders, of which you make such
silly boast?"

"Not I---not I, lady," he protested eagerly.  "Listen!  It is the lord
Melkarth that has always loved the colonies of Phoenicia, first among
which is Carthage.  It is he that has guided and guarded us through the
perils of the deep and of the desert, of the skies and of the earth, of
hunger and thirst, of beasts and men.  What god equals him in our city!
What god receives such gifts, such incense, such sacrifices!  What
though we fear Baal Moloch!  Is it not the lord Melkarth whom we love?
It is he who goes before our armies, that he may tell them when to
attack, when to await the foe.  I am his priest.  Do you understand?  I
have spoken his words many times.  Now he shall speak mine."

Marcia could hardly fail to understand the nature of the power which
this man now proposed to lay at her feet; yet it all seemed horribly
impossible that he, a priest, could dare such sacrilege for such end.
Had she been Fabius, Paullus, or even Sergius,--men who were already
groping amid the Greek schools of doubt, and were coming to regard the
religion of the state more as an invaluable means of curbing the vices
of the low and ignorant than as a divine light for the learned,--had
she been such as these, this proposal of Iddilcar would have seemed
incredible only on account of its treason to his country.  And yet, in
one sense, she was better fitted than they to understand the
Carthaginian.  True scepticism had found little room under the mantle
of the gloomy, the terrible cult that swayed the destinies of the
Chanaanitish races.  Even the priests, while they were ready enough to
use the people's faith to minister to their own ends, trembled before
their savage gods.  Low, brutish, full of inconsistent wiles their
faith might be, but such faith it was as an educated Roman could with
difficulty comprehend.  On the other hand, the minds of the women of
Rome had not as yet swerved from unquestioning belief in the gods
consulting and the gods apart, and the Torquati were most conservative
among all the great houses.  From childhood up--and in years she was
scarcely more than a child--all these had been very real to her.
Pomona wandered through every orchard beside her beloved Vertumnus; Pan
and his sylvan brood sported behind the foliage of every copse.  She
would as soon have thought of questioning their presence as of doubting
her own being.  Marcia believed; the average Roman patrician affected
to believe and indulged in his polite, Hellenic doubts; the
Carthaginian priest, while he believed, with all Marcia's fervour, in a
theology to which Marcia's was tender as the divine fellowship of the
Phaeacians, yet conceived that it was entirely legitimate to play
tricks upon his fiend-gods--to pit his cunning against theirs.  If they
caught him, perhaps they would laugh, perhaps consume him in the flames
of their wrath.  It depended on their mood--whether they had dined
well, perhaps; and he would take his chances.  He stood, now, toward
his deities, just where the heroes of Homer had stood centuries before.
He was a living evidence of the Asiatic birth of Greek theology--only,
in the Asian races, religious feeling was not religious thought, did
not arise from the mind or change, like the cults of Europe, as the
mind that evolved or adopted them developed and outgrew its offspring.

So it was that, while Marcia, but for her instinctive realization of
the truth, might have been utterly unable to credit the sincerity of
such prodigious wickedness, yet, armed with this intuition as a
starting-point, she sought for and found reasons to support it.  The
purity of her own faith came to her aid.  Perhaps the Punic gods were
mere demons, as they seemed to be, and Iddilcar knew it and relied for
protection upon the mightier gods of Rome.  In a sense, she reasoned on
false premises, but her conclusion was, none the less, more accurate
than would have been that of either Paullus or Sergius.  For the time,
at least, Iddilcar was entirely sincere.  To be sure, if he could gain
his end by mere promises, he preferred to deceive Marcia rather than
Melkarth, but his plotting had not gotten so far as that yet.  Now, his
fierce, Oriental nature was consuming with that passion which, in it,
took the place of all love.  This Roman woman had aroused desires that
he had never known in the gardens of Ashera; her face was to the faces
of the courtesans who thronged the sacred woods on feast days, as the
glory of the crescent moon was to the sputter of the rancid oil in the
lamp that illumined the cell of Fancula Cluvia.  Cunning beyond his
race, learned in the strange learning of the East that had come to a
few in Egypt and to fewer yet in Phoenicia, Iddilcar read the struggle
that was taking place in the girl's mind.

"What do I care for Hannibal!" he cried; "for the Great Council! for
Carthage!  I would give them all to you for one kiss.  To him who has
learned all secret knowledge, the mind alone is God and city and home
and friends,--everything, everything save love," and his voice, harsh,
and strident, sank to a whisper in which was compassed all the
fierceness of ungoverned and ungovernable desire.

Marcia knew, now, that he was speaking the truth; that he would indeed
stop at nothing; and, with the certainty, there came to her a strange
mingling of exultation, terror, and calm.  She saw this man, powerful
with the power of the conqueror, learned with the learning of the
student and of the ascetic, grovelling here at her feet--slave to a
force against which no power, no philosophy could avail.  She saw him
crawl to her and press her robe to his lips; she heard him mumbling and
whining like some animal, and she despised him and grew stronger in the
light of her growing self-esteem.  At last she spoke.

"It is well.  I have listened and determined.  Yes, you are right.  I
have wished that the army should not march north; I have wished that it
should winter in Campania.  I am a Roman; why should I not wish it?
You say you can accomplish this.  Do so, and you shall have your
reward."

Iddilcar sprang to his feet and threw out his arms to draw her to him;
the breath came from his chest in short gasps; his eyes were suffused
with tears through which he saw something glitter; and his hands,
clutching and unclutching, caught only air.  Then his arms fell to his
sides; he paused and looked stupidly at her.  She had sprung back and
was facing him defiantly with a short dagger raised to strike.

"Not so soon, slave," she said, and her voice rang in his ears like
steel.  "He who would reap must first sow."

"You do not love me," he said sheepishly, gnashing his teeth because he
knew the foolishness of his words, and yet could say no others.

She laughed; then her face grew sober.

"No," she said; "I do not love you.  Why should I?  We love those who
serve us well--"

"Ah! but I have promised," he broke in.  "I am giving you everything."

"I want but one thing," she said, while the lines of her mouth
hardened; "and, for that, I take no promise."

He lowered his head to avoid the straight flash of her eyes.

"It is I, then, who must trust--always I," he muttered.  "How do I know
you will give yourself when I earn you?--how do I know you will not
kill yourself with that dagger? for you hate me," and then, with sudden
fierceness; "why should I not take my own?  What hinders me?"

"This," said Marcia, touching the point with her finger.

Iddilcar shuddered.

"Listen now," she began, "and be reasonable.  I have named my price,
and you have said it is not too much.  Why speak of love or hate?  Earn
me and take me."

"Yes," he echoed; for he was braver when his eyes studied the pavement;
"why speak of love or hate?  It is you I want--your kisses, your
embraces.  Who shall say that hatred may not flavour them better even
than love?" and he sneered.  "Ah! but how shall I know?"

"I am a Roman, and I have promised.  Fulfil your Punic word as well,
and I swear you shall have your pay, so surely,"--and then the memory
of another day, happier, but oh! so bitterly regretted, came to her
mind,--"so surely as Orcus sends not the dead back from Acheron.  Now
go."

He drew back, step by step, still facing her, longing to rebel, yet not
daring, cringing, skulking like a whipped cur.  He reached the end of
the path; the entrance to the garden was behind him.  He raised his
clenched hand to the heavens.  "Ah, Melkarth!" burst from his lips,
and, turning, he plunged into the house, running.

Marcia listened eagerly to the fall of his sandals.  They died away,
and the distant door creaked.  Tears filled her eyes, and, shivering in
every muscle, she sank down upon the seat and buried her face in her
hands.




X.

MELKARTH.

Two moons had waxed and waned; Pacuvius Calavius had dined in his
winter triclinium for the first time this year, and Marcia was
rejoicing at the omen.  She watched her host, as he lay back upon his
couch, and noted with pity the change that had come over him.  When he
had greeted her coming, he had seemed not very much past middle age--a
brisk man, well preserved in mind and body.  Now he was old--very
old--and the pallor and wrinkles were prominent through the flush of
the wine and the paint with which he strove to hide them.  Even his
ambition was dead; he hardly sought the Senate House, but, stopping
within doors, maundered querulously and unceasingly to Marcia, to his
servants, to any one who would listen to him, of the blunders that were
being made, and of how war and negotiations should be conducted,
speaking always as a man for whom such things had no personal interest.
The diadem of Italy that had once blinded his eyes to good faith and
oaths of alliance, had melted away in the flames of the pyre that
consumed his son.  As for Marcia, she had come to regard him with
something of that indulgent consideration which we feel for the aged
and infirm.  His former attitude toward herself, which had filled her
with contempt and disgust, had vanished utterly, and, in its place, was
a fatherly kindness that had now no nearer object upon which to lavish
itself.  As for the household, what little discipline had once
pertained, was gone.  The slaves were no longer punished, and,
slavelike, they presumed upon their master's gentleness or
indifference.  They pilfered right and left; they neglected duties and
orders; until, at last, a large measure of the care of her host and his
house devolved upon Marcia alone; and Marcia, also, had softened and
grown kindlier, and was as slow to ask for punishments as was Calavius
to decree them.  They seemed like two who were awaiting death, and
would not add to the measure of human misery, knowing, from their own,
how great this was.

"Let them enjoy a false freedom for a few days longer," said Calavius.
"Soon we shall be gone, and then--who knows?  I have no heirs, and the
state may not deal so kindly with them."  Strangely enough, he seemed
always to assume Marcia's coming death along with his own; and when she
gazed into her mirror, its story moulded well with that reflected in
the mirror of her thoughts.

She had grown thin--very thin--and pale, and her eyes burned, large and
luminous, as with the fires of fever.  Her lips, too, were redder even
than when the blood had tinted them with hues of more perfect vigour.

Hannibal had continued to preserve the attitude of respectful
consideration which had marked his demeanour on that day of which they
never spoke.  He still greeted Calavius as, "father," when he came to
ask about his health, and on the days when he did not come, he sent
some Carthaginian of rank, generally Iddilcar, to make courteous
inquiries in his stead.

Calavius, on the other hand, complained continuously of the
schalischim's delay, and Hannibal listened with downcast face, frowning
to himself, and made no answer except that he was the servant of the
gods.  Marcia's presence he entirely ignored.  Still, he spent little
of his time in Capua, and of this Calavius was now speaking.

"Truly did you note the news we have received to-day, my daughter?  Two
of the new engines destroyed before Casilinum!--Casilinum, forsooth!--a
paltry village, against which the Capuan children would hardly deign to
march!  It is Rome--Rome--Rome that calls--and this great general, this
conqueror, sits down before Nuceria, Acerrae, Nola, Casilinum.  Soon,
mark me," and his eyes gleamed prophetic, "Rome will sit down before
Capua: and then, receive thou me, O Death, who art my friend and
well-wisher!"

Marcia wondered at this vehemence, so different from his manner through
all these weeks.

"But the omens, my father," she said, after a moment's pause.  "I have
heard that the gods of Carthage forbid the march north.  Perhaps they
fear to contend with the gods of Rome at the foot of their own hills."

"Tush! girl," exclaimed Calavius, impatiently.  "Who does not know that
the gods say such words as their thievish priests filch from them.
Mark now this fellow that comes from the captain-general.  Do you not
see how the fingers of his left hand clutch and unclutch?  Were
Hannibal to crucify him and a few like, his gods might utter more
favouring responses.  Meanwhile, our engines that should thunder at
your Capenian Gate are consumed before mud heaps; and who knows but all
the time some tree grows stouter that it may bear the weight of this
Hannibal, the slave of gods that should be taught their place and their
duties."

Marcia, despite her complicity, listened, shuddering, to these
sacrilegious words; and, mingled with her shrinking from a philosophy
that dared to talk of the immortals as mere means to be used or cast
aside as human ends might dictate, was a terror lest similar reasoning
should at last find place in Hannibal's mind and thus bring to naught
her aims and her sacrifices.  It was easy to see how the general chafed
at the unwonted delay, and with what willingness he listened when
another spoke the words which he himself dared not utter.

Calavius had but just finished his tirade when they both turned at a
slight noise and saw Iddilcar standing in the entrance of the room.
How long he had been there--what he had heard, neither knew, but his
face wore the subtle smile which, though well-nigh native to its lines,
yet seemed always to bear some hidden import.

"The favour of Melkarth and of the Baalim be with you!" he said softly.
"Your servants, my Pacuvius, are not over-well trained.  There was no
offer to bear word of my coming--no offer of attendance.  The porter
hardly deigned to swing the door for me."

Marcia, knowing Iddilcar as she did, was prompt to take this speech in
the light of an explanation of his eavesdropping; but the once sharp
intelligence of Calavius had been too much deadened to search for
secondary meanings.

"I am an old man, priest," he said querulously.  "Why should I leave
stripes and crying behind me?"

Iddilcar shrugged his shoulders.  "That may be," he replied, "but if we
had such servants as yours in Carthage we should send their shades
ahead of us."

He had indeed deftly parried any attack or inquiry.  Then, suddenly,
and of his own accord, he turned back to strike.

"And so you have been condemning the piety of the schalischim? the
integrity of the college of priests? the truth of the gods themselves,
for aught I know?  Have a care!"--he was lashing himself into a
fury--"I have listened to your words.  If I reported them, how long
before you would both be sent to Carthage to keep comradeship with that
terrible fellow, Decius Magius?  Have care! have care lest the gods
strike through me, their servant.  Nevertheless the gods are merciful
to those who bring offerings--peace-offerings of gold and jewels and
raiment and spices.  Come, what will you give me that I smother their
wrath--I, Iddilcar, your friend, whom you speak ill of behind his
back--whom you hate---yes, both of you;" and his eyes flashed at Marcia
with a strange recklessness that she had never seen in them.

Wondering and terrified, she listened to his outburst of rage, but
Calavius heard it calmly, and answered, without troubling himself to
probe its import.

"You shall have a talent of silver and such jewels as you choose," he
said, rising.  "I will go and give the orders."

"Orders!" sneered the other; but to Marcia it seemed that the word and
look covered suspicion at the ready acquiescence of the Capuan.

"Then I will go with you and see that these orders are obeyed.  Come;
ah!--" and he turned to Marcia; "and will you be here when I return?  I
wish to speak with you."

She inclined her head, still wondering, and when they had left the room
her wonder deepened.  Surely a change had taken place.  A Carthaginian
was always said to love money, but for Iddilcar to seek to obtain it by
such crude and violent means, from a man whom his general professed to
honour and protect, seemed to augur something of which she knew not.
Either Hannibal's protection was to be, for some reason, withdrawn, or
else?--but what else could embolden the priest to such license?  The
look, too, with which he had regarded herself!  She had restrained him
with some difficulty during the past months, but now she felt
instinctively that her control had vanished.  Even violence seemed
near; for that Iddilcar could be fool enough to dream that his mere
repetition of the words he had listened to, would enrage Hannibal, she
did not for a moment believe.  The general had heard the same from
Calavius, face to face, and had only frowned and bit his lips behind
his beard, as if feeling their justice.  What, then, could have
happened?

"Ah! you are still here."

She looked up quickly, and saw that the priest had returned alone.  He
went on, speaking quickly and nervously, but in low tones:--

"The time has come.  And so you were thinking, thinking of what?  Was
it rejoicing that Tanis was to give you to me so soon?" and he showed
his teeth, like a dog.  "Listen: they suspect me.  I have done all as
you wished, but there was a council to-day in the camp before
Casilinum, and Maharbal fell on his knees, as he did after Cannae, and
begged to march north,--not with the cavalry alone, as then; he knew it
was too late for that: and the schalischim knit his brows and frowned.
Then Hasdrubal and Karthalo added their prayers and pleadings,
gathering around him, and then he turned his sombre face to me, and
asked if it was permitted; but, before I could answer, for my mind was
disturbed, that animal whom they call, 'The Fighter' had drawn his
sword and held it over my head, crying out: 'Yes, friends, it is
permitted--see!  It is permitted;' and then I felt myself grow pale,
and I heard the great beast laugh.  A moment later and Hannibal had
ordered him to put up his sword, and I saw Maharbal whispering quick
words in the general's ear, among which it seemed to me that his lips
formed your name.  Again, Hannibal asked: 'Is it permitted, Iddilcar?
or what sacrifice will your lord have from us?  Have we not served him
faithfully?  Is there aught he wishes?' and I felt all their eyes on
me; but, above all, were yours that were soon to smile.  Therefore I
took courage, which the lord Melkarth granted, and spoke boldly,
explaining that I had as yet been able to win no favour, though I had
prayed long and fasted and lashed myself with thongs, whereupon
Hannibal-the-Fighter made as if to tear off my mantle, laughing in his
beard; and when I saw they did not believe me, my terror came back.
Then it was that Melkarth shed wisdom upon his servant, and, after a
moment's thought, I spoke up, thus:--

"'Listen, lords,' I said; 'I am a native Carthaginian, like you all,
and I reverence the gods.  Howbeit it may chance that here, beyond the
sea, it is not so easy to win their favour, so that they shall go
before us.  New and strange sacrifices and pleadings wherein I am
untaught may be needed to pierce the denser ether of this land.  Truly,
lords, as ye have not failed in piety, neither have I erred in
divination, for Melkarth has spoken many times, telling me of the
unnumbered woes that would overwhelm the army if it marched upon Rome
unbidden, and he hath spoken truth, and I have saved you to revile me
for it--only I would learn if there be yet speech better fitted to his
ear.'  I paused, and they were silent, wondering.  Then I spoke on:
'Grant me, lords, three days, that I may journey to Cumae; for I have
heard that a woman dwells there, wise in the ways of the gods, and, if
I bear her rich presents, it may happen that she will teach me the
words that shall pierce this dull air, even to where Baal-Melkarth sits
enthroned in Mappalia, that he may grant all your wishes.'  So I
crossed my arms upon my breast, and, bowing my head, listened.  'At
Cumae?' growled Jubellius Taurea, who sat near me, 'say, rather, at the
house of Pacuvius Calavius,' and I felt myself trembling, for then I
knew surely that I had heard Maharbal aright, and that I was suspected.
Still, I stood fast, and at last Hannibal spoke: 'Go to Cumae for three
days,' he said sternly.  'Take what you wish--one talent, two, three;
only bring back the words that shall win favour;' and Hasdrubal added:
'And harken! lord; if you win not favour, we shall yet march, and
peradventure you shall come with us--if they drive not the nails too
deep;' but there was an outcry at this, for they trembled lest Melkarth
should smite them, and Hasdrubal spoke again, grumbling: 'Ah, masters,
you have not seen soldiers as I have seen them, becoming bloated with
wine and food, and soft in the arms of courtesans;' but Hannibal
interrupted him, crying out to me again: 'Go!--go!  There is little
time for the march, and it may be we are already too late.  Go and do
all things so that the lord, Baal-Melkarth, shall favour us.'  So I
went out, and, having taken their talents, I am here.  This old sheep
has disgorged another talent together with gems.  Therefore come now
and we shall escape hence."

Marcia saw a dimness before her, amid which his jewels and bracelets
and earrings seemed to mingle strange glancings with the fires that
burned in his eyes.  At last she faltered:--

"But your work?--it is not finished.  How shall I know?--if I go with
you?--"

The rings on his hand were sinking deep into her wrist; his lips were
close to her ear.

"Ah! you will not go?  You will play with me--deceive me?  Listen now.
To-morrow I shall be here with horses and money--in the morning--very
early--before light; and you will go like a little bird that is tamed.
These days will give us time to gain more, if more be needed.  Look!  I
have hazarded all.  Shall I lose my reward now because my work be
unfinished by ever so little?  It may be that, having gone, I shall not
return.  Do you think I will leave you here to laugh at me?  You will
go, or, to-morrow, Baal-Melkarth shall speak the word, and, before
midday, Hannibal shall give orders to march to Rome.  Why do you think
I have gathered this wealth?  Look!  I have risked all for it, and you
shall not escape."

Exhausted by his rapid vehemence, he stood back, breathing hard and
trying to smile.

"Ah! moon of Tanis, you will come," he murmured, holding out his arms.
"We shall escape to Sicily--to Greece--to Egypt--to the far East.  We
shall be rich with the spoils of fools--"

A slight scraping noise came to their ears, and both started.  Iddilcar
sprang swiftly to the entrance of the room, but the lamp in the hall
had gone out, and his eyes saw nothing in the darkness.  Uncertain what
to do, he looked back to where Marcia stood, pale and rigid.  His voice
and hands trembled as he repeated in a loud whisper:--

"You will come?  You will be ready?"

"Yes," she said, "I will come;" but she did not look at him, as she
spoke, only she caught the triumphant gleam of his eyes; a thousand
weird lights seemed to whirl around her, and she felt herself sinking.
It seemed, for a moment, as if a slave in a gray tunic was supporting
her, and then all consciousness fled.




XI.

THE SLAVE.

It was an hour past midnight, when Marcia first knew the agony of
returning reason.  The gong in the Forum had just struck.  Where was
she?  Surely in her own apartment!  How had she come there?  Then,
slowly, the memory of yesterday grew clear--the awful duty of
to-morrow.  With eyelids fast shut, as if dreading to open them to the
darkness, she buried her throbbing temples beneath the rich Campanian
coverlid.  She could still see the eyes of Iddilcar gleaming wolfish
amid his jewels; could see him standing in the doorway, as he turned
from that startled rush in pursuit of what had been, doubtless, only a
whisper of their imaginations.  He had said he would come for
her--before daybreak--and she must be ready.  Later, she could approach
death with suppliant hands, but now she must be ready.  Her life was
not her own yet.  It was her country's.  Later, the shade of Lucius
would beckon.  Surely he would forgive her for having avenged him.  But
how had she reached her room?  Had it been Calavius or the slaves who
had found her? did they suspect?  Then she remembered the man who had
seemed to catch her as she fell.  Where could Iddilcar have been then?
Had he hurried away? probably enough.  Again a slight scratching noise,
as of some one softly changing his position,--like the sound which had
startled the priest, came to her ears.  Ah, protecting gods! what was
true, and what but dreams?  Her whole life was passing before her,
phantasmagorial and unreal.  Surely some one was present!  She _felt_
it.  Had Iddilcar come already?  The horror of the thought gave her
courage, and, thrusting down the coverlid, she opened her eyes
defiantly and tried to pierce the darkness.  Nothing was visible, but
she knew she was not alone, and, leaning upon one elbow, she reached
out, groping.

Suddenly a hand grasped hers, a strong, bony hand, gripping it tightly,
and by its very energy commanding silence.  It seemed strange to her
that she did not scream, but then she had known that she would find
some one, and had the hand been Iddilcar's, she would certainly have
realized it by the loathing in her soul.  For her, now, all other men
had become friends.  Therefore she was not frightened, did not cry
out--rather it was a soothing sense of companionship that came to
her--almost of reliance.  Why had this man come?--perhaps to help her;
surely not to injure.  Who was he? man or god?  Gods had appeared to
those of olden times, when the Republic was young, and Romans
worshipped, believing.  She felt very brave--fearless.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

"I am a slave," answered a voice.  "I brought you here, and I am
watching."

It was a voice that, while it rang hard, yet had in it an assurance of
protection--even of power, and it thrilled her as with some familiar
memory.  Nevertheless she could not place its owner in the household.
Calavius had many slaves; a few of them had been free-born, and some,
perhaps, might even have known a measure of social standing, before the
turn of war or of financial fortunes had lost them to home and position.

"Who are you?" she asked again.

"I am a new servant," said the other.  "Pacuvius Calavius bought me
yesterday in the Street of the Whitened Feet."

She was silent a moment, trying hard to think; she felt the man's hand
trembling, and then, suddenly realizing, she drew her own away.

"And yet you are going to-morrow with this beast--this animal!" said
the voice, bitterly.

Startled again by the tone and accent, no less than by the words, she
burst out:--

"Ah! why do you say that?--but you do not know, and I cannot tell you.
Yes, you are right.  I am going away to-morrow.  I am--a courtesan.
What then?"

"By the gods! no!" he cried, and she heard him spring to his feet.
Then, lowering his voice, "If I thought _that_, I would kill you."

"You would only forestall my own blow," she said quietly, and there was
new silence.

At last he spoke again.

"Tell me all of this matter.  You are safe.  I am a Roman."

"A Roman--and a slave?"

"And a slave.  Tell me the truth quickly."

The voice sounded weak and hollow now, but still strangely familiar.
She began her story, speaking in a low monotone.

"I am Marcia, daughter of Titus Manlius Torquatus.  I loved, and yet I
drove my lover from me, and he was killed on the black day of Cannae.
Then the Senate feared lest the enemy should advance to Rome--prayed
for the winter--for time.  And I was beautiful, and I had no love, save
for the king, Orcus.  So the thought came to me that by my
blandishments I might win power with these people, and, by power,
delay, and, by delay, safety for Rome--and revenge for my lord, Lucius.
Therefore I journeyed to Capua.  You see that I have played my
part--that I have won?  Tomorrow I go to pay the price.  What matters
it?  Then I can die."

He had listened in silence; only she heard his breath coming hard, and,
a moment after she had finished, he spoke:--

"No--you cannot die--not thus.  _I_ have died--once, yet I live.
Listen!  I, like the lover you tell of, was slain at Cannae, pierced
through by javelins, and I lay with the dead heaped above me--ah! so
many hours--days, perhaps--I do not know; until the slave-dealers,
passing among the corpses, found me breathing, and wondered at my
strength, auguring a good value.  Therefore they took me, and when I
was well of my wounds they brought me here--to Capua, and sold me to
Pacuvius Calavius--to whom may the gods give the death of a traitor!
Lo! now, let it be for a warning that Orcus does indeed send back the
dead from Acheron."

He leaned forward, as he spoke the words, and there came to Marcia a
sudden memory of two occasions when she had used the ancient
saying--the colloquial "never" of Rome.  Once it had bound her to
Iddilcar, and once, far back, in happier times, it had parted her
forever from Sergius.  Tears rolled down her cheeks.  A dim light
seemed to be creeping into the room--very dim, but as her eyes grew dry
again, she could begin to trace the outlines of her companion sitting
on a low stool beside her couch.  Surely those were footsteps in the
hall--yes, footsteps--and the approaching light of a lamp.

Marcia's heart stood still.  The slave had started from his seat and
drawn far back in the darkest corner of the room; then the curtains
were pushed cautiously aside, and the tall form of Iddilcar stood
revealed by the light of the small, silver lamp he bore in his hand.  A
long, dark mantle enveloped him from head to foot.

"Come," he said, speaking sharply but in low tones; and, holding the
lamp above his head, he tried to peer into the apartment.  "Come; it
will soon be light.  Ah! you have not arisen?  No matter; I have
another cloak, and we must not delay.  The slaves are well bribed, and
Calavius sleeps soundly--forever.  My horses, good horses, are in the
street; a few moments and we gain the gate.  The schalischim's own ring
is on my finger, and the seal of the Great Council shall win us egress.
_You_ are my slave: that is how you shall go with me--and I accept the
omen."

He laughed low and harshly, and Marcia shuddered, thinking of her host
lying slain--by his false slaves?--by the order of Hannibal?--no,
rather by the hand or plotting of this wretch who now called her,
"slave."

"Come, come quickly, Romanus," he said, mimicking the Latin
nomenclature of foreign slaves.  At the same time he took a step
forward into the room and let the curtains fall behind him.  "Come, or
I shall have to order the rods to those white shoulders.  That would
be--"

And then a shadow seemed to glide forward from the corner half behind
him.  For a moment a stream of lamplight fell upon a white, set face
behind the Carthaginian's shoulder--a face that was indeed from the
land of the four rivers; an arm was lashed around the priest's neck,
and, while Marcia stared spellbound at the shade that had come back to
save her, the lamp fell from Iddilcar's hand,--and then she lay still
and listened to the furious struggle that ensued, the scuffling of feet
upon the marble floor, the breathing that came and went in short, quick
gasps.  Now it seemed that both fell together; but not in victory or
defeat, for the noises told of continuing combat; no words, only the
horrible sound of writhing and of hard-drawn breath.

Breaking at last from the bonds of dazed wonder, she glided from the
couch, groping for the fallen lamp.  She must _see_.  She must _know_.
Then she remembered the room-lamp that stood on a stand by the bed, and
began to feel her way toward it.  The grating of metal against metal
came to her ears, followed by a low exclamation and a sharp "Ah!"
gasped exultantly; then came the sound of two fierce blows.

She had found the lamp now, and was trying to strike a light.  The
victory was still undecided, though the combatants seemed to groan with
each breath they drew.  At last the wick caught the spark, and the
mellow light and the odour of perfumed oil began slowly to fill the
room.  A statuette or vase came crashing to the floor, and, raising the
lamp high above her head, she threw its light upon the struggling men.
For a moment she could make out nothing except a dark mass at her feet.
Then she caught the glitter of a weapon, and at last her eyes grasped
something of the situation.

Iddilcar was undermost.  She could see his black, curling beard that
seemed matted and ragged now, while the Roman--the man who bore the
face of the dead Sergius--was extended upon him, grasping, with both
hands, the Carthaginian's wrists.  It was the latter who held the blade
that had glittered--a long Numidian dagger, but the hold upon his
wrists prevented his using it, and the Roman dared not release either
hand to wrench it away.  There were bruises, too, on Iddilcar's
face--the blows of fists; but the blood on the floor told of some other
wound, doubtless the Roman's, inflicted before he could restrain the
hand that dealt it.  Now, neither seemed able to accomplish further
injury, until the strength of one should fail; and if it was her
protector's blood that was flowing?--the thought was ominous.  Neither
dared to cry out, for the aid that might come was too doubtful, and,
besides, they needed to husband all the air their lungs could gain.

Marcia saw these things and thought them clearly, quickly, and in
order.  Her mind seemed to grow as strangely calm as if busied in
selecting some shade of wool for her distaff.  She reached down and, by
a quick movement, twisted the dagger from the stiffened, weary fingers
of the Carthaginian.  A cry burst from him--the first since the
triumphant "Ah!" that had doubtless come from his lips when he used the
weapon, a few moments since.  He writhed furiously, and Marcia stood,
holding the dagger in her hand, hesitating rather through dread of
injuring this new Sergius that had arisen to aid her.

The Roman, however, seeing himself freed from the necessity of guarding
against the sharp point that had menaced him, now suddenly released the
wrists of his adversary, and, grasping him by the throat, he lifted his
head several times, and struck it violently against the pavement.  The
Carthaginian groaned, and his hold relaxed for a moment.  Then, tearing
himself free, and with one hand still gripping the throat of the
prostrate man, the Roman raised his body, and, turning toward Marcia,
reached out for the dagger.  With eyes fixed wonderingly on his, she
gave it to him, as if only half conscious of her act.

Again the scene changed.  Less helpless than he had seemed, and with
staring eyes, before which death danced, Iddilcar gathered all his
remaining strength for one last, despairing effort, wrenched himself
loose, and staggered to his feet.

Then Marcia saw Sergius, for she knew now it was indeed he, saw him
throw himself forward on his knees, and, catching Iddilcar about the
hips, plunge the blade into his side.

The priest shrieked once, as he felt the point, and struggled furiously
to escape, raining blows upon the other's head and shoulders.  Again
the long dagger rose and fell, piercing the man's entrails.  Gods!
would he never fall?--and still he maintained his footing, but now his
hands beat only the air, and his struggles became agonized writhings.
Sergius' grip about his hips had never loosened, and the dagger rose
and fell a third time.  Iddilcar groaned long and deeply and sank down
in a heap, carrying his slayer with him.




XII.

FLIGHT.

Slowly Sergius disengaged himself from the death grip that entangled
him, and, rising, turned to where Marcia stood.  Still holding the
lighted lamp above her head and peering forward, she gazed into his
eyes with a look wherein wonder and terror were mingled with awakening
joy.

"Who are you?" she faltered at last; "you who come as a slave, bearing
the face of a shade?"

"I _am_ a shade," he answered; "one sent back by Orcus--by the hand of
Mercury, to save a Roman woman from dishonour."

"Oh, my lord Lucius!" she cried, falling upon her knees and holding out
her hands toward him.  "Truly it was not dishonour to avenge you, to
save the Republic; but if it were, then may your manes pity and forgive
me.  There, now, is the dagger.  Take it and use it, so that I, too,
may be your companion when you return to the land that owns you.  I
love you, Lucius; the laughter of the old days has passed.  Surely a
woman who is about to die may say to the dead words which a girl might
not say to her lover for the shame of them.  I love you--I love you.
Take me before the maiden, Proserpine, that she may show us favour--to
your land--"

The lamp fell from her hand; she felt herself raised suddenly from the
pavement, and strained hard against a bosom that rose and fell with all
the pulsations of life and love.  Frightened, wondering, she struggled
faintly, while kisses warm and human fell upon her brow, her eyes, her
lips.

"Marcia, little bird, dearest, purest, best," murmured a voice close to
her ear; "yes, you shall go with me to my land, and that land is Rome."

Still she trembled in his arms, not daring to believe.

"Wait," he said.  Then, releasing her for a moment, he regained the
fallen lamp, relighted it and placed it in its niche, facing her again
with arms outspread.

"Look well; am I not indeed Lucius Sergius--once pierced and worn with
wounds, but now well and strong to fight or love?  The tale I told you
was true.  It was my tale--the saving of one Roman from the slaughter
of her legions."

She drew closer and looked again into his eyes.

"Yes," she said, and in her voice the joy began to sweep away all other
feelings; "yes, you are indeed Lucius Sergius Fidenas--man, not shade--"

But, taking her hand, he interrupted:--

"Do you not remember the omen, my Marcia? how you said you would love
me when Orcus should send back the dead from Acheron? how I accepted
it? how the gods have brought all about, as was most to their honour
and my joy?--for now you have indeed said that you love me."

She placed her free hand upon his shoulder saying:--

"And that which I, Marcia, daughter of Titus Manlius Torquatus, have
said unto the shade, that say I to the living Lucius Sergius.  Take me,
love; for where thou art Caius, there shall I be Caia."

Once again he took her in his arms and kissed her upon the lips, long
and tenderly.  Then she drew herself back.

"You are wounded?" she said anxiously.  "Forgive me that I forgot.
Truly I forget all things, now--in this wonder and joy."

Sergius laughed.

"He pricked me--in the thigh, I think, but not deeply.  The gods have
brought me so close to the shades that I am enough akin to them not to
heed little hurts."

But she had seized the lamp and was examining his injury--a flesh wound
that, while it had bled freely, yet seemed to have avoided the larger
muscles and blood-vessels.

"Did I not tell you?" he said reassuringly, as she rose from her knee.
"A close bandage so that it will not bleed--that is all we shall want,
for my strength must remain with me yet a little while, if we would
truly go to Rome and not to the realms of the dead."

She said nothing, but, tearing strips from her stole, proceeded deftly
to bind them around the leg.

"Agathocles himself could not do better--nay, I doubt Aesculapius--"
but she rose again quickly and placed her finger upon his lips.

"It is the gods who have saved us to each other.  Do not make them
angry, lest they withdraw their favour.  I am ready to follow you, my
lord Lucius."

Standing erect, he raised both hands in invocation.

"A shrine to Venus the Preserver!--to Apollo the Healer!"

Then, stooping quickly, he drew the long, dark robe of Iddilcar from
where it lay entangled about the legs of the corpse.  Fortunately it
had slipped down from the Carthaginian's shoulders early in the
struggle; perhaps he had tried to free himself from it; perhaps it had
been partly torn away; but, in either event, it had fallen where it
must have hampered his movements even more seriously, and where it was
less stained with his blood than might have been expected.

Sergius threw it over his own tattered, blood-stained garments,
striving to hide the rents, and raising it high about his neck so as to
conceal his face as much as possible.  Meanwhile, Marcia, having bound
on her sandals, had of her own accord donned the mantle Iddilcar had
brought for her, and which had fallen by the door of the apartment.
Then, gathering up her long, thick hair, she confined it close above
her head, drawing down upon it the hat that lay beside the cloak--a
broad-brimmed Greek petasus, admirably adapted for concealment as well
as protection.

"I am ready," she said eagerly.  "Let us make haste."

Sergius was stooping over the dead man, searching for something.

"It is the ring," he said; "the ring with the seal of the Great Council
of which he spoke.  How else should we pass the guard at the gate?"

A moment later he rose, and, going to the light, examined carefully the
several rings taken from the priest's-fingers.

One by one they dropped and rolled away over the floor.  The last only
remained, and Marcia, looking over his shoulder, saw a heavy, gold
signet bearing the device of a horse under a palm tree.

"Come now," he said, taking her hand.  He had thrust the long knife of
Iddilcar into the girdle of his tunic, and this was their only weapon.
So, leading Marcia, he quickly traversed the halls and courts and
gained the door, which hung ajar and unattended.  Outside, a company of
five men were gathered, all mounted.  Two were apparently soldiers, a
sort of guard; the rest were servants.  Heavy looking packages were
bound, behind them, on their horses' backs, doubtless the money which
Iddilcar had gotten, while two extra animals, saddled and bridled, were
held in waiting.

The heart of Sergius leaped as he noted the fine, small heads and
slender, muscular legs that marked the Asian stock of their mounts.
Iddilcar had provided well for all emergencies; but Sergius felt some
anxiety lest a chance glimpse of his face might lead to detection.  The
sky in the east was already beginning to lighten, and there were more
men of the escort than he had anticipated.  Speech would be fatal;
therefore he strode quickly out, took the bridle of one of the horses
from the man who held it, and swung himself upon its back.  To assist
Marcia could not be done without exciting suspicion, and he ground his
teeth when she tried to follow his example, and one of the servants
laughed and pushed her roughly into the saddle.  Then they rode on, and
the others followed, whispering together.

He had muffled his face a trifle too closely, perhaps, and he had
mounted the horse standing, whereas all knew that the Cappadocians were
trained to kneel at the word.  Therefore the men of the escort
wondered, though they hardly ventured to suspect.

Marcia felt, rather than noted, their attitude, and Sergius, glancing
toward her, saw that she was trembling.  He urged his horse faster
toward the gate that opened upon the Appian Way; boldness and speed
were all that could save them.  Suddenly the gate loomed up, gray and
massive, in the mist of the early morning.  Several soldiers lounged
forward from the guardhouse, whence came the rattle of dice and the
shrill laughter of a woman.  Sergius showed his ring and said nothing,
while Marcia came close to him, shivering, for the morning air was
chill and biting.  Their followers had drawn rein, and were gathered in
a little clump several spear-lengths behind.

Meanwhile the soldiers, Spaniards they seemed, were gazing stupidly at
the device on the seal and making irrelevant comments.  It was evident
that their night had been spent among the wineskins, and that a new
danger menaced.

Summoning what Punic he knew, Sergius leaned forward and asked in a low
but stern voice to see their officer.  Fortunately his own followers
were too far away to hear his words, and drunken Iberians would not be
critical as to a faulty Punic accent.

Still they hesitated, chattered together, and stared, but at last one
who seemed more sober than the rest reeled away to the guard-house,
and, after some delay and evident persuasion, emerged again with a
young officer whose moist, hanging lips and filmy eyes showed that he,
too, had been dragged from the pursuit of pleasure.  Helmetless and
with loosened corselet, every detail of his appearance told the story
of relaxed discipline.

"What do you want? at this hour?" he said thickly, ambling forward and
leaning heavily upon the shoulder of his scarcely more steady guide.

Again Sergius held out the ring, and the man, being a native
Carthaginian, recognized it through the mist of his intoxication, and,
throwing himself at full length, touched the earth with his forehead.

"What do you wish?" he said, rising and standing, somewhat sobered by
the presence of such authority.

"Open the gate.  I ride under orders of the schalischim," said the
Roman, again speaking low and rapidly.

The officer turned and shouted to his men, and several ran to unbar the
gate with such speed as their condition warranted.  The other occupants
of the guard-house were now grouped at the door, five men, half armed,
and two dishevelled women with painted faces and flower-embroidered
pallas.

The gate swung slowly on its hinges.

"The light of the Baals be with you, friend!" exclaimed Sergius, and he
and Marcia rode through, with hearts beating madly.  Voices raised in
discussion made them turn in their saddles.  In his drunken stupidity,
the Carthaginian officer was trying to detain their escort and
servants.  "The master had said nothing about them.  How did he know
they belonged to the same party?"  Then all began gesticulating and
shouting to Sergius for help and explanation.

Here was an unforeseen incident, and the mind of the young Roman viewed
it rapidly in all its lights.  On the one side, he would be relieved of
an awkward following that might at any moment begin to suspect him; on
the other hand to leave these in the lurch would be to invite prompt
suspicion.  Still, they were fifty yards or more in advance, their
horses were good, and more space would be gained before the tangle at
the gate could be straightened out; therefore he waved his arm, as if
making some signal, and, turning again in his saddle, rode on, but
without increasing his speed.

Louder shouts followed him, for, as he had intended, his gesture had
proved unintelligible.  Then, when they saw he did not stop, the cries
ceased suddenly and an animated chattering came to his ears.  Here was
suspicion trying to make itself understood and, at last, succeeding,
for, as Sergius glanced back once more to note how the matter
progressed, the young captain of the gate sprang forward and shouted
for him to halt.

"A third altar--to Mercury the hastener!" exclaimed Sergius.  "Quick
now! with the knees!" and, pressing the flanks of his Cappadocian, both
animals bounded forward into a headlong gallop.




XIII.

WINTER QUARTERS.

The beat of hoofs upon the great blocks of basalt rang through the
morning air in measured cadence, and soon an answering echo came up
from the south.  Open flight had at last dispelled all doubt and given
the signal for pursuit.

First came the two Africans of the original escort, released and bidden
to ride for life or death; a short distance behind was the Carthaginian
captain on his own horse which had probably been haltered behind the
guard-house; and, last of all, three of the Spanish guard, who had
thrown the servants and baggage from the animals that bore them, and
appropriated such speed as these afforded for the business in hand.

That the officer was pretty well sobered seemed apparent.  A fugitive
bearing the ring of the schalischim--the seal of the Great
Council--must be a man of importance, or else the possession of such a
talisman augured the commission of some terrible crime.  Already he saw
himself stretched writhing upon the cross; the crowd, reviling or
gibing, seemed surging about his feet; and his howls of anguish found
voice in a storm of guttural objurgations to men and horses, mingled
with prayers and vows to the gods of Carthage.

He had overtaken the two Africans now, for his animal was better than
theirs, but the three others laboured hopelessly behind: the
Cappadocians flew rather than galloped far in advance.  Already nearly
three hundred yards separated them from their pursuers, and the gap was
widening slowly but surely.  Only the officer held his own, for he was
now forging ahead of the Africans.

"Ah, cowards! slime! filth!" he shouted to his struggling men.  "The
cross! the cross! that for you unless we catch them! that for me!--for
all!  Ah, Eschmoun!  Ah, Khamon!--Melkarth!--gifts!--gold, gems, robes,
spices!--my first-born to the Baals! to the Baals!  Help! speed!"

The man was mad--mad indeed with terror and newly dispelled
drunkenness; and his horse, a great African, coal-black save for one
white hoof, seemed to partake of his master's frenzy.  With ears lying
flat along his head, and eyes that burned into those of Sergius, when
he ventured to glance behind him,--glaring sheer through distance and
dust like the very eyes of those demons his rider invoked,--the beast
thundered on, equalling the speed of the light Asiatic chargers by the
force of strength alone.

From time to time the fugitives turned their heads to measure the
distance, and the sight of this unwearied pursuer appeared to fascinate
them as by some weird power.  The rest were beaten out,--the Spaniards
lost to sight, the Africans visible only by the dust that hung over
them far behind.

The mountains to the eastward seemed to be dancing away in a mad chase
toward the south, a chase which Tifata itself was urging on.  The
glimmer of white in the north told of the morning sun striking upon
houses.  Still they rode on, pursuers and pursued.

Suddenly a sound, half-trumpet note, half bellow, swelled up ahead.
Then another answered it, and another and another took up the refrain.

Sergius' face blanched, and, with a sudden effort, he threw his animal
almost upon its haunches.  Marcia was carried several spear-lengths
farther before she could check her speed.  Wonder and the dread of some
accident drove the blood to her heart.  A hoarse shout of triumph came
from their pursuer, as she turned to ride back.

She asked no questions.  Surely Sergius knew what was best.  She saw
Iddilcar's long dagger in his hand, and that he was about to fight.

"Back!--back! and to one side," he called, as she rode up.  "Did you
not hear the elephants?  That is Casilinum, and they are besieging it.
We should have remembered."

He darted forward to meet the Carthaginian, fearful that he, too, would
draw rein and await the coming of his followers.  Then indeed all would
be lost.  Six soldiers on the one side and a camp full on the other
were hopeless odds against a wounded man armed only with a Numidian
dagger.

But it was Bacchus that fought for Rome that day--Bacchus, to whom no
altar had been vowed.  A night of debauchery and the sudden terror of
its awakening had effectually blurred whatever judgment the officer may
have had, and his one thought was to kill or capture his quarry.

So they came together, Sergius swerving his Cappadocian as they met.
The officer struck blindly, but the good lord Bacchus put out his hand
and turned the blow aside.  Then, as they parted, a strange thing
happened.  Marcia had wondered dimly why Sergius struggled with the
long, girdleless garment of Iddilcar, tearing it off as he rode.  Now,
when the two horses sprang apart, she saw that he had thrown it
dexterously over the Carthaginian, blinding his blow and tangling him
in its heavy folds.

Prompt to respond to knee and rein, the Cappadocian wheeled, almost as
soon as he ran clear, but the African thundered on, while its rider
cursed in blind terror and tried to check his horse and to free his
face and sword-arm.  A moment, and he had succeeded, but he succeeded
too late.  The Roman was at his back, and Marcia saw the long dagger
rise and fall in a swift thrust.  She could not see how the point took
its victim just at the nape; but she saw him pitch forward like an ox
under the axe.

Almost before she could grasp what had happened, Sergius was beside the
fallen man, had resumed the priest's tunic, red with new blood stains,
and was on his horse again.  His brow lay in deep lines as he rode
toward her.

"Come," he said.  "The gods favouring us, we must pass their camp
before the rest come up.  Grant that those may linger by the corpse,
and that we meet no check."

Again they were galloping toward the lines that lay about Casilinum.
All had happened so quickly that even now they could scarcely see the
plume in the distant dust cloud that told where the pursuers straggled
on.  They had turned into the new side-road without meeting a man.
Then a small foraging party halted them, and Sergius showed the seal
and spoke in Gallic to its Numidian leader.  A little farther on was
stationed another band, and here the delay was longer ere his halting
Punic convinced the Spanish piquet, and they again rode forward
unsuspected.  All had bowed low to the horse and the palm tree, and no
one dared question what weighty mission urged on the man in the torn
and blood-stained tunic and the slender youth, his companion.

Now they were back again upon the pavement of the Appian; the last line
was passed, and the beleaguered town with its stout-hearted garrison
lay well behind.  Perhaps that sudden uproar told of the arrival of
their pursuers; perhaps those glittering points amid distant dust
clouds meant a new pursuit.  Surely none but Mercury had winged the
feet of the Cappadocians!  Unwearied, like springs of steel, the stout
muscles drove them on--on over the marshland with the glint of the sea
before them--on, up the rising ground.

Again and again Sergius turned in his saddle scanning the road behind,
feeling the presence of pursuers whom he could not see.  The good
horses were weakening fast.  No flesh and blood could stand that
strain, and naught but the spirit of the breed kept them afoot.
Marcia's was limping painfully; the one Sergius rode was wavering in
its stride, like the Carthaginian captain when he came out of the
guard-house by the gate.

"Gods!  What were those shrill sounds--half whistle, half scream?"

Too well he remembered how the Numidians urged on their bridleless
chargers.  Yes, there they were now--scarce half a milestone behind and
coming up like the wind that blew through their dishevelled
manes--fifty at least.  Death, then, was decreed, after all, and he
glanced toward Marcia, measuring the time when he might kiss her and
kill her ere he sold his own life to the javelins.

Suddenly he heard her cry out.

"Look!" she called, and, following her finger, he gazed eagerly ahead.

A clump of horsemen, heavy armed with helmet and corselet, crowned the
knoll of rising ground over which the road led, and, above them,
fluttering in the breeze, he saw the square vexillum of the cavalry of
the legion.

He was among them now, lifting Marcia from her horse and dimly
conscious of many words being spoken around.

"See, lord, they have halted," said a voice.  "Is it your will that we
pursue?"

Then, as an answering voice replied in the negative, he kissed Marcia
and made her drink wine that some one brought.  Barbarous cries that
she must not hear or understand came to his ears, and he knew that
their pursuers were wheeling in discomfited flight.  The circle of
soldiers stood back.  Something cold and feathery fell upon his
upturned face and turned to moisture.  He saw a tall man with features
of wonderful beauty regarding them kindly and in silence; his white
paludamentum was heavily fringed with purple, and Sergius recognized
him now,--Marcus Marcellus, the new dictator.  Another drop, feathery,
cold, and moist, fell upon Marcia's hand, and she roused herself at the
touch, peering up into her lover's face and then quickly at the heavens.

"Look!" she cried.  "Up! not into my eyes."

He turned, for an instant, to see the blue vault of a few moments since
overcast with gray and filled with a swirl of snowy flakes.

"See, now, Lucius, lord of my life; here are the messengers of winter.
Winter quarters! he is in winter quarters!  See! have we not prevailed?"

It was the voice of the dictator that answered:--

"Yes, truly; and there shall soon be prepared for him eternal summer
quarters in Phlegethon--if the Greek tales be true."