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.