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 reenforce 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."