Meanwhile, Mataswintha had entered her husband's presence unannounced.
Witichis had left untouched all the rooms which had been occupied by the Amelungs--Theodoric, Athalaric, and Amalaswintha--and had appropriated to his own use the apartments which he had formerly been accustomed to inhabit when on duty at court.
He had never assumed the gold and purple trappings of the Amelungs, and had banished from his chamber all the pomp of royalty.
A low camp-bed, upon which lay his helmet, sword, and various documents, a long wooden table, and a few wooden chairs and utensils, formed the simple furniture of the room.
When Procopius had taken leave, the King had thrown himself into a chair, and, supporting his weary head on his hands, leaned his elbows upon the table. Thus he had not noticed Mataswintha's light step.
She remained standing near the door, reluctant to advance. She had never before sought an interview with her husband. Her heart beat fast, and she could not muster courage to address him.
At last Witichis rose with a sigh, and, turning, saw the motionless figure at the door.
"Thou here, Queen!" he asked with surprise, as he approached her. "What can have led thee to me?"
"Duty--compassion--" Mataswintha answered quickly; "otherwise I had not---- I have a favour to ask of thee."
"It is the first," said Witichis.
"It does not concern me," she added hastily. "I beg for food for some poor people, who----"
The King silently stretched out his right hand.
It was the first time he had ever offered it. She did not dare to clasp it, and yet how gladly she would have done so.
Then the King took her hand himself, and pressed it gently.
"I thank thee, Mataswintha, and regret my injustice. I never believed that thou hadst a heart for thy people. I have thought unkindly of thee."
"If thy thoughts had been more just from the beginning, perhaps many things might be better now."
"Scarcely! Misfortune dogs my heels. Just now--thou hast a right to know it--my last hopes have been destroyed. The Franks, upon whose aid I depended, have betrayed us. Relief is impossible; the superiority of the enemy has become too great, by reason of the rebellion of the Italians. Only one thing remains to me--death!"
"Let me share it with thee," cried Mataswintha, her eyes sparkling.
"Thou? No. The granddaughter of Theodoric will be honourably received at the Court of Byzantium. It is known that she became my wife against her will. Thou canst appeal to that fact."
"Never!" exclaimed Mataswintha with enthusiasm.
Witichis, without noticing her, went on:
"But the others! The thousands, the tens of thousands of women and children! Belisarius will keep his word. There is only one hope for them, one single hope! For--all the powers of nature are in league against me. The Padus has suddenly become so shallow, that two hundred ships with grain, which I had expected, could not be brought down the river, and fell into the hands of the enemy. I have now written for assistance to the King of the Ostrogoths; I have asked him to send a fleet; for ours is lost. If the ships can force their way into the harbour, then all who cannot fight may take refuge in them. And, if thou wilt, thou canst fly to Spain."
"I will die with thee--with the others!"
"In a few weeks the Ostrogothic sails may appear off the city. Until then my magazines will not be exhausted. That is my only comfort. But that reminds me of thy wish. Here is the key to the great door of the granaries. I carry it with me day and night. Keep it carefully--it guards my last hope. Upon its safety depend the lives of many thousands. These granaries are the only thing that has not failed. I wonder," he added sadly, "that the earth has not opened, or fire fallen from Heaven, to destroy this my work!"
He took the heavy key from the bosom of his doublet.
"Guard it well, it is my last treasure, Mataswintha."
"I thank thee, Witichis--King Witichis," said she, and would have taken the key, but her hand trembled so much that it fell to the ground.
"What is the matter?" asked the King as he picked up the key and put it into her hand. "Thou tremblest? Art thou sick!" he added anxiously.
"No--it is nothing. But do not look at me so--do not look at me as thou didst this morning----"
"Forgive me, Queen," said Witichis, turning away, "my looks shall no more offend thee. I have had much, too much, to grieve me lately. And when I tried to find out for what hidden guilt I could have deserved all my misfortune--" his voice grew very tender.
"Then? Oh, speak!" cried Mataswintha; for she could not doubt the meaning of his unspoken thought.
"I often thought amid all my doubt, that it might be a punishment for the cruel, cruel wrong I did to a noble creature; a woman whom I have sacrificed to my people----"
And in the ardour of his speech he involuntarily looked at his listener.
Mataswintha's cheeks glowed. She was obliged, in order to keep herself upright, to grasp the arm of the chair near her.
"At last," she thought, "at last his heart awakes, and I--how have I acted towards him! And he regrets----"
"A woman," continued Witichis, "who has suffered unspeakably on my account, more than words can express----"
"Cease," whispered Mataswintha so softly that he did not hear it.
"And when I lately saw thee so gentle, so mild, more womanly than ever before--it touched my heart, and tears came into my eyes!"
"O Witichis!" breathed Mataswintha.
"Every tone of thy voice penetrated deeply into my heart, for the sweet sound reminded me so vividly, so sadly----"
"Of whom?" asked Mataswintha, and she turned pale as death.
"Of her whom I have sacrificed! Who gave up all for me; of my wife Rauthgundis, the soul of my soul!"
For how long a time had he never uttered aloud that beloved name! At the sound of his own voice, grief and longing overcame him, and sinking into a chair, he buried his face in his hands.
It was well that he did so, for it spared him the sight of the Queen's sudden start, and the Medusa-like expression which convulsed her features.
But the sound of a fall made him spring from his seat.
Mataswintha lay upon the ground. Her left hand grasped the broken arm of the chair near which she had fallen, while her right was pressed convulsively upon the mosaic floor. Her pale face was bent down; her splendid golden hair, loosed from its bonds, flowed over her shoulders; her mobile nostrils quivered.
"Queen!" cried Witichis, bending to lift her up, "what ails thee?"
But before he could touch her, she started up, swift as a serpent, and stood erect.
"It was only a weakness--which is already over," she panted. "Farewell!"
She tottered to the door, and, closing it behind her, fell senseless into Aspa's arms.
During all this time, the mysteriously threatening appearance of the atmosphere had increased.
The little cloud which Cethegus had remarked the day before, had been the forerunner of an immense black wall of vapour which had arisen in the east during the night, and which, since morning, had hovered gloomily, as if brooding destruction, over the city and the greater part of the horizon.
In the south, however, the sun shone with an intolerable heat from a cloudless sky.
The Gothic sentries had doffed their helmets and armour; they preferred to expose themselves to the arrows of the enemy rather than suffer the unbearable heat.
There was not a breath of air. The east wind, which had brought up the wall of cloud, had dropped again.
The sea was grey and motionless; not a leaf of the poplars in the palace garden moved.
The animal world, silent the day before, was uneasy and terrified. Over the hot sands on the shore swallows, seagulls, and marsh-birds fluttered hither and thither, without cause or aim, flying low above the ground, and often uttering shrill cries.
In the city the dogs ran whining out of the houses; the horses tore themselves loose from their halters and, snorting impatiently, kicked and pranced; cats, asses, and mules uttered lamentable cries; and three of the dromedaries belonging to Belisarius killed themselves in their frantic efforts to get loose.
Evening was approaching. The sun was about to sink below the horizon.
In the Forum of Hercules a citizen was sitting upon the marble steps of his house. He was a vine-dresser, and, as the dry branch hung at his door indicated, himself sold the produce of his vines. He glanced at the threatening thundercloud.
"I wish it would rain," he sighed. "If it does not rain, it will hail, and then all the fruit that has not been trampled by the enemy's horses will be completely destroyed."
"Do you call the troops of our Emperor enemies?" whispered his son, a Roman patriot. But he said it very softly, for just then a Gothic patrol turned the corner of the Forum. "I wish Orcus would devour them all, Greeks and barbarians! The Goths at least are always thirsty. See, there comes that long Hildebadus; he is one of the thirstiest. I shall be surprised if he has no desire to drink to-day, when the very stones are cracking with heat!"
Hildebad had just set the nearest watch. He held his helmet in his left hand; his lance was carelessly laid across his shoulder.
He passed the wine-house--to the great astonishment of its owner--turned into the next street, and soon stood before a lofty massive round tower--it was called the Tower of Ætius.
A handsome young Goth was walking up and down upon the wall in the shadow of the tower. Long light locks curled upon his shoulders, and the delicate white and red of his complexion, as well as his mild blue eyes, gave him almost a girlish aspect.
"Hey! Fridugern," Hildebad called up to him. "Hey! How canst thou bear to stay up there on that gridiron? With shield and breastplate too!Ouff!"
"I have the watch, Hildebad," answered the youth gently.
"Bother the watch! Dost thou think that Belisarius will attack us in this blazing heat? I tell you he is glad if he can get air; to-day he will not thirst for blood. Come with me; I came to fetch thee. The fat Ravennese in the Forum of Hercules has old wine and young daughters--let us put both to our lips."
The young Goth shook his long ringlets and frowned.
"I have the watch, and no desire for girls. But thirsty I am, truly--send me a cup of wine up here."
"Aha! 'tis true, by Freia, Venus, and Maria! Thou hast a bride across the mountains! And thou thinkest that she will find it out and break her promise if thou lookest too closely into a pair of black Roman eyes! Oh, dear friend, how young thou art! No, no; no malice! It is all right. Thou art nevertheless a very good fellow and wilt get older by-and-by. I will send thee some old Massikian--then thou canst drink to Allgunthis all alone."
Hildebad turned back, and soon disappeared into the wine-house.
Presently a slave brought a cup of wine to the young Goth, who whispered, "Here's to thee, Allgunthis!" and he emptied it at one draught. Then he took up his lance, and slowly paced to and fro on the wall.
"I can at least think of her," he said; "no duty can prevent that. When shall I see her again?"
He walked on, but presently stopped and stood, lost in thought, in the shadow of the great dark tower, which looked down upon him threateningly.
In a short time another troop of Goths passed the tower. In their midst they led a man blindfolded, and let him out at the Porta Honorii.
It was Procopius who had in vain waited for three hours, hoping that the King would change his mind. It was useless. No messenger came, and the ambassador left the city ill at ease.
Another hour passed. It had become darker, but not cooler.
Suddenly a strong blast of wind rose from the sea. It drove the black cloud toward the north with great rapidity. It now hung dense and heavy over the city. But the sea and the south-eastern horizon were not thereby rendered clear, for a second and similar wall of cloud closely followed the first.
The whole sky had now become one black vault.
Hildebad, drowsy with wine, went towards his night-watch at the Porta Honorii.
"Still at thy post, Fridugern?" he called to the young Goth in passing. "And still no rain. The poor earth, how thirsty it will be! I pity it! Goodnight!"
It was insufferably sultry in the houses, for the wind blew from the scorching deserts of Africa.
The people, alarmed by the threatening appearance of the heavens, came out of doors, walking in companies through the streets, or sitting in groups in the courtyards and under the colonnades of the churches.
A crowd of people sat upon the steps of Saint Apollonaris.
And, though the sun had scarcely set, it was already as black as night.
Upon her couch in her bed-chamber lay Mataswintha, the Queen, in a kind of heavy stupor, her cheeks pale as death. Her wide open eyes stared into the darkness. She refused to answer Aspa's anxious questions, and presently dismissed the weeping slave with a motion of her hand.
As she lay thinking, these names passed continuously and monotonously through her mind: Witichis--Rauthgundis--Mataswintha! Mataswintha--Rauthgundis--Witichis!
Thus she lay for a long, long time; and it seemed as if nothing could ever interrupt the unceasing circle of these words.
Suddenly a red light flashed into the room, and at the same moment a peal of thunder, louder than she had ever before heard, clattered over the trembling city.
A scream from her women caught her ear, and she started upright on her couch.
Aspa had divested her of her upper garment; she wore only her under-dress of white silk. Throwing the falling tresses of her splendid hair back over her shoulder, she leaned on her elbow and listened.
There was an awful stillness.
Then another flash and another peal.
A rush of wind tore open the window of feldspath which looked into the court.
Mataswintha stared out at the darkness, which was illuminated at every moment by a vivid flash of lightning. The thunder rolled incessantly, overpowering even the fearful howling of the wind.
Mataswintha felt relieved by this strife of the elements. She looked out eagerly.
Just then Aspa hurried in with a light. It was a torch, the flame of which was protected from the wind by a glass globe.
"Queen, thou--but, by all the gods! how dost thou look? Like a Lemure--like the Goddess of Revenge!"
"Would that I were!" said Mataswintha, without taking her eyes from the window.
They were the first words that she had spoken for hours.
Flash after flash, and peal after peal.
Aspa closed the window.
"O Queen! the Christian maids say that the end of the world has come, and that the Son of God will come down upon fiery clouds to judge the living and the dead. Oh! what a flash! And yet there is not a drop of rain. I have never seen such a storm. The gods are very angry."
"Woe to those with whom they are angry! Oh, I envy the gods! They can love and hate as they like. They can annihilate those who do not adore them."
"O mistress! I was in the streets; I have just returned. All the people stream into the churches, praying and singing. I pray to Kairu and Astarte. Mistress, dost thou not pray?"
"I curse. That, too, is a kind of prayer."
"Oh, what a peal!" screamed the slave, and fell trembling on her knees. The dark blue mantle which she wore slid from her shoulders.
The thunder and lightning had now become so violent, that Mataswintha sprang from her couch and ran to the window.
"Mercy, mercy!" prayed the slave. "Have pity upon us, ye great gods!"
"No, no mercy--a curse upon us miserable mortals! Ha! that was splendid! Dost thou hear how they scream with fear in the streets? Another, and yet another! Ha! ye gods--if there be a God or gods--I envy ye but one thing: the power of your hate and your deadly lightning. Ye hurl it with all the rage and lust of your hearts, and your enemies vanish. Then you laugh; the thunder is your laughter. Ha! what was that!"
A flash and a peal of thunder which outdid all that had gone before.
Aspa started from her knees.
"What is that great building, Aspa? That dark mass opposite? The lightning must have struck it. Is it on fire?"
"No, thanks to the gods! The lightning only lit it up. It is the granaries of the King."
"Ha! has your lightning failed?" cried the Queen. "But mortals, too, can use the lightning of revenge." And she left the window. The room became suddenly dark.
"Queen--mistress--where art thou? Whither hast thou gone?" cried Aspa. And she felt along the walls.
But the room was empty, and Aspa called her mistress in vain.
Below in the streets a procession wound its way to the Basilica of Saint Apollonaris.
Romans and Goths; children and old people; very many women. Boys with torches walked first; behind came priests with crucifix and banners.
Through the growling of the thunder and the roaring of the wind sounded the ancient and solemn chorus:
"Dulce mihi cruciari,Parva vis doloris est;Malo mori quam fœdari;Major vis amoris est."
"Dulce mihi cruciari,
Parva vis doloris est;
Malo mori quam fœdari;
Major vis amoris est."
And the choir answered:
"Parce, judex, contristatisParce pecatoribus,Qui descendis perflammatisUltor jam in nubibus."
"Parce, judex, contristatis
Parce pecatoribus,
Qui descendis perflammatis
Ultor jam in nubibus."
And the procession disappeared into the church.
The overseers of the corn-magazines had also joined the crowd of worshippers.
Upon the steps of the Basilica, exactly opposite the door of the magazines, sat the woman in the brown mantle, calm and fearless amid the uproar of the elements; her hands not folded, but resting quietly on her lap.
The man in the steel cap stood near her.
A Gothic woman, who was just hurrying into the church, recognised her by the light of a flash of lightning.
"Thou here again, countrywoman? Without shelter? I have offered thee my house, often enough. Thou appearest strange here in Ravenna?"
"I am so; but still I have a lodging."
"Come into the church and pray with us."
"I pray here."
"But thou neither singest nor speakest."
"Yet still God hears me."
"Pray for the city. They fear that the end of the world is at hand."
"I am not afraid."
"Pray for our good King, who daily gives us bread."
"I do pray for him."
Just then two Gothic patrols came clattering round the corner, and met opposite the Basilica.
"Aye, thunder till the skies crack!" scolded the leader of one of the bands; "but do not hinder me in my duty. Halt! Wisand, is it thou? Where is the King? In the church also?"
"No, Hildebad; upon the walls."
"That is right; that is his place. Forwards! Long live the King!"
Their steps died away.
A Roman tutor, with some of his pupils, passed by.
"But, magister," said the youngest boy, "I thought you were going to the church? Why do you take us out in this storm?"
"I only spoke of church to get you out of the house. Church! I tell you, the fewer roofs and walls about one the better. I am going to take you out into the great meadow in the suburbs. I wish it would rain. If Vesuvius were near, as it is in my native place, I should think that Ravenna was about to become a second Herculaneum. I know such an atmosphere as we have to-day--it is dangerous."
And they went on.
"Wilt thou not come with me, mistress?" the man in the steel cap asked the Gothic woman. "I must try to find Dromon, else we shall get no lodging tonight. I cannot leave thee alone in the dark. Thou hast no light with thee."
"Dost thou not see that the lightning never ceases? Go; I will come afterwards. I have still something to think of--and to pray for."
And the woman remained alone.
She pressed both hands against her bosom and looked up at the black sky; her lips moved slightly.
Just then it seemed to her as if, in the high outer galleries, passages, and upper rooms of the mighty wooden edifice which towered in a dark mass opposite, a light came and went, wandering up and down. She thought it must have been a deception caused by the lightning, for any open light would have been extinguished by the wind. But no; it really was a light, for its appearance and disappearance alternated at regular intervals, as if the person carrying it were hurrying along the galleries and passing behind the pillars and supports.
The woman attentively watched the changing light and shadow---- But suddenly--oh, horror!--she started up.
It seemed to her as if the marble step upon which she was sitting had been some sleeping animal, which, suddenly awaking, moved slightly, then rose--and turned itself--violently--from left to right.
Thunder, lightning, and wind ceased all at once.
There! from the granaries sounded a shrill scream. The light flamed up brightly, and then disappeared.
But the woman in the street also uttered a low cry of fear, for now she could no longer doubt--the earth quaked under her.
A slight movement; then two, three strong shocks, as if the ground had heaved from left to right like a wave.
Screams of fear rose from the city.
The people rushed out of the doors of the Basilica.
Another shock!
The woman kept her feet with difficulty.
And, from the farther side of the city, sounded a dull and distant crash, as if of heavy falling masses.
A fearful earthquake had shaken all Ravenna.
As the woman turned in the direction of the sound, she stood for a moment with her back to the granaries. But she suddenly looked round, for she thought she heard the bang of a heavy door. She looked attentively in that direction, but it was too dark to see anything. She heard, however, something rustling along close to the outer wall of the building, and she thought she caught the sound of a low sigh.
"Stop!" she cried, "who moans there?"
"Peace, peace!" whispered a strange voice. "The earth--disgusted--shook and trembled! The last day has come--it will reveal all. He will soon know.--Oh!"
A groan of pain--a rustle of garments--then complete silence.
"Where art thou? Art thou wounded?" asked the woman, seeking on the ground.
A flash of lightning--the first since the earthquake--showed her a shrouded form lying at her feet. A woman dressed in white and blue.
The Gothic woman stretched out her hand, but the prostrate form sprang up at her touch, and, with a scream, disappeared into the darkness.
All this had passed rapidly, and seemed like some frightful dream, but a broad gold bracelet, ornamented with a green serpent in emeralds, remained in the Gothic woman's hand, a proof of the reality of the mysterious vision.
And again the iron steps of the Gothic patrol approached.
"Hildebad, Hildebad, help!" cried Wisand.
"I am here! What is the matter? Where shall I go?" asked Hildebad, advancing with his men.
"To the Gate of Honorius! The wall has fallen, and the tower of Ætius lies in ruins. Help! Into the breach!"
"I come! Poor, poor Fridugern!"
Outside, in the camp of the Byzantines, Cethegus the Prefect rushed into Belisarius's tent.
He was in full armour, his plume of crimson horsehair tossed upon his helm. His bearing was proud. His eyes flashed.
"Up! Why do you linger, Belisarius? The walls of your enemy's citadel fall of themselves! The last refuge of the last King of the Goths lies open before you! Why do you remain in your tent?"
"I adore the Almighty," said Belisarius with composure. Antonina stood near him, her arm about his neck.
A praying-stool and a tall crucifix showed in what occupation the stormy entrance of the Prefect had disturbed them.
"Do that to-morrow, after the victory. But now, storm the city!"
"Storm the city now?" cried Antonina. "What sacrilege! The earth is shaken to its foundations, for God the Lord speaks in this elemental strife!"
"Let Him speak! We will act. Belisarius, the tower of Ætius and a portion of the walls have fallen. I ask you, will you not storm the city?"
"He is not wrong," said Belisarius, in whom the lust of battle was awakening. "But it is a dark night----"
"To victory and the heart of Ravenna I will find my way even in the dark. And it lightens besides."
"You are all at once very eager for the fight," said Belisarius hesitatingly.
"Yes, for there is good reason. The barbarians are startled. They fear God and forget their enemies."
At this moment Procopius and Marcus Licinius hurried into the tent together.
"Belisarius," cried the first, "the earthquake has thrown down the barracks by the northern trench, and has buried half a cohort of your Illyrians!"
"My poor people!" cried Belisarius, and at once left the tent.
"Cethegus," said Marcus, "one of your cohorts also lies buried under their barracks."
But, impatiently shaking his head, the Prefect asked: "How is the water in the Gothic moat before the tower of Ætius? Has not the earthquake lessened it?"
"Yes, the water has disappeared--the moat is quite dry. Hark, what a cry! It is your Illyrians! They cry for help!"
"Let them cry!" said Cethegus. "Is the moat really dry? Then give the signal to storm. Follow me with all the Isaurians that are still alive."
And in the midst of thunder and lightning, which now again raged unceasingly, the Prefect hurried to the trenches where his Roman legions and the rest of the Isaurians stood under arms. He quickly counted them. There were far too few to take the city alone, but he knew that a moderate success would immediately cause Belisarius to join him.
"Lights! torches!" he cried, and stepped to the front of his Roman legions with a torch in his left hand. "Forward!" he cried. "Draw your swords!"
But not a hand was raised.
Dumb with astonishment and terror, the whole troop--even the leaders, even Licinius--looked at the demonic man, who, in the midst of all Nature's rebellion, thought only of his goal, and of using the strife of the elements and the terrors of the Almighty as means to prosecute his own ends.
"Well? which is your duty? To listen to the thunder, or to me!" he cried.
"General," said a centurion, stepping forward, "the men pray; for the earth quaked."
"Do you think that Italy will devour her own children? No, Romans; see! The very earth quakes at the tread of the barbarians. It rises, breaks its bonds, and their walls fall. Roma, Roma æterna!"
His words took effect.
It was one of those Cæsarian speeches which move men to great deeds.
"Roma, Roma æterna!" cried, first Licinius, and after him thousands of Roman youths; and through night and storm, through thunder and lightning, they followed the Prefect, whose grand enthusiasm irresistibly carried them away.
Excitement lent wings to their feet. They were soon across the wide moat which usually they scarcely dared to approach.
Cethegus was the first to reach the opposite side.
The wind had extinguished the torches.
But he found his way in the dark.
"Here, Licinius!" he cried, "follow me! Here must be the breach."
He sprang forward, but ran against some hard body and staggered back.
"What is that!" asked Lucius Licinius behind him. "A second wall?"
"No," said a quiet voice, "but a Gothic shield!"
"That is King Witichis!" said the Prefect furiously, and with bitter hatred he looked at the dark figure before him.
He had counted upon a surprise. His hope was frustrated.
"If I but had him," he said to himself, "he should never hinder me again!"
Looking behind, he now saw many torch-lights and heard the flourish of trumpets. Belisarius was leading his troops to storm the walls.
Procopius reached the Prefect.
"Well, why do you stop? Do new walls keep you back?"
"Yes, living walls. There they stand," and the Prefect pointed forward with his sword.
"Under the still tottering ruins, these Goths! Truly," cried Procopius--
"'Si fractus illabatur orbis,Impavidos ferient ruinæ!'
They are courageous men!"
But now Belisarius was at hand with his compact lines, ready for the assault.
One moment more--the leaders were still hurrying to and fro, giving orders--and a terrible slaughter would begin.
But suddenly all the sky above the city was flooded with a red light.
A column of flame shot up into the air, and countless sparks descended. It seemed to rain fire from heaven. All Ravenna glowed in the crimson light. It was a fearful but beautiful spectacle.
Both armies, ready to mingle in a hand-to-hand combat, halted and hesitated.
"Fire! fire! Witichis, King Witichis!" shouted a horseman, who came galloping from the city; "it burns!"
"We see it. Let it burn, Markja! First fight and then extinguish."
"No, no, sire; all the granaries burn! The grain flies in myriads of sparks through the air."
"The granaries are burning!" cried Goths and Byzantines.
Witichis had no heart to ask questions.
"The lightning must have kindled the interior long ago. It is quite burnt out. Look! look!"
A stronger gust of wind fanned the fire, which flamed up higher than ever. The flames caught the nearest roofs, and, at the same time, the wooden ridge of the lofty building seemed to fall, for, after a heavy crash, the sparks shot up thicker than ever.
It was a sea of fire.
Witichis tried to lift his hand to give an order--but his arm fell, faint and powerless. Cethegus saw it.
"Now!" he cried; "now let us assault!"
"No; halt!" thundered Belisarius. "He who lifts his sword is the Emperor's enemy and dies! Back to the camp--all. Now Ravenna is mine! To-morrow it will fall without a struggle."
His troops obeyed him and drew back.
Cethegus was in a fury. He alone was too weak to oppose the order. He was obliged to yield.
His plans were ruined. He had wished to take the city by storm in order--as he had done in Rome--to take possession of its principal defences. And he foresaw that it would be now delivered completely into the hand of Belisarius. He led his troops away in disgust.
But the events which actually occurred afterwards, were very different to what either the Prefect or Belisarius had expected.
The King had left the breach in the wall and the Tower of Ætius to the care of Hildebad, and hurried at once to the place of the conflagration.
When he arrived he found the fire dying out--but merely for want of more combustibles.
The whole contents of the magazines, together with the wooden walls and roofs, and everything that could burn, had been destroyed; not a remnant of corn nor a splinter of wood was left. The naked smoke and soot-blackened stone walls of the marble Circus alone still rose into the sky. Not a sign of its having been struck by lightning could be seen. The fire must have glimmered for some time after the lightning had kindled the woodwork, and spread slowly and unseen through the interior of the building; and when smoke and flame had burst through the apertures in the roof, it was too late to save the structure. The inhabitants had enough to do to save the neighbouring houses, of which many had already caught fire in various places.
The rain, which began to fall shortly before daybreak, came to their assistance. The wind, thunder and lightning had ceased; but when the sun broke through the clouds it only illumined, instead of the granaries, a miserable heap of rubbish and ashes in the middle of the marble Circus.
The King leaned against one of the pillars of the Basilica, sadly and silently looking at the ruins.
For a long time he stood motionless, only sometimes he drew his mantle more closely over his heaving chest.
A painful resolution was ripening in his soul, which seemed to have become as still as the grave.
But round about him the place was full of the misery of the poor people of Ravenna, who prayed, scolded, wept and cursed.
"Oh! what will now become of us?"--"Oh, how sweet and good and white was the bread which we received but yesterday!"--"What shall we eat now?"--"Bah, the King must help us."--"Yes, the King must give us bread."--"The King? Ah, the poor man! where will he get it?"--"He has no more."--"That's another thing!"--"He alone has brought us to this pass!"--"It is his fault!"--"Why did he not surrender the city to the Emperor long ago?"--"Yes, to its rightful master!"--"Curses on the barbarians! It is all their fault!"--"No, no, it is only the King's fault!"--"Do you not understand? It is a punishment from God!"--"Punishment? Why? What wrong has he done? Has he not given bread to the people?"--"Then you do not know? How can a bigamist deserve the grace of God? The wicked man has two wives. He lusted for the beauty of Mataswintha, and did not rest until she became his. He put away his lawful wife."
Witichis indignantly descended the steps.
He was disgusted with the people.
But they recognised him.
"There is the King! How gloomy he looks!" they called to each other, avoiding him.
"Oh, I don't fear him! I fear hunger more than his anger. Give us bread. King Witichis! Do you hear? We are starving!" cried a ragged old man, catching at the King's mantle.
"Bread, King!"
"Good King, bread!"
"We are in despair!"
"Help us!"
And the crowd gathered round him with wild gestures.
Quietly but decisively the King freed himself.
"Have patience," he said gravely; "before the sun sets you shall have bread."
And he hurried to his room.
There a Roman physician and some of Mataswintha's attendants awaited him.
"Sire," said the physician, "the Queen, your wife, is very sick. The terrors of last night have disturbed her mind. She speaks as if in delirium. Will you not see her?"
"Not now. Have a care of her."
"With an air of great distress and anxiety she gave me this key," added the physician. "It appeared to be the principal subject of her wandering speeches. She took it from under her pillow, and she made me swear to give it into your own hands, as it was of great importance."
With a bitter smile the King took the key and threw it on one side.
"It is no longer of importance. Go; leave me: and send my secretary."
An hour later, Procopius admitted Cethegus into the tent of the commander-in-chief.
As he entered, Belisarius, who was pacing to and fro with hasty steps, cried out:
"This comes of your plans, Prefect--of your arts and lies! I always said that lies are the source of ruin. I do not understand such ways! Oh, why did I follow your advice? Now I am in great straits!"
"What mean these virtuous speeches?" Cethegus asked Procopius.
The latter handed him a letter.
"Bead. These barbarians are unfathomable in their grand simplicity. They conquer the devil by virtue of their childlike minds. Read."
And Cethegus read with amazement:
"'Yesterday thou didst acquaint me with three things: that the Franks had betrayed me; that thou, allied with them, wilt wrest the West from the ungrateful Emperor; and that thou offerest the Goths a free departure, unarmed, over the Alps. Yesterday I answered that the Goths would never give up their arms, nor Italy, the conquest and inheritance of their great King, and that I would rather fall here with my whole army than do so. This I answered yesterday. I say so still, although earth, air, fire, and water are allied against me. But last night, as I watched the flames which were devouring my stores, I felt sure of what I have long dimly suspected. That a curse lies upon me. For my sake the Goths perish. This shall go on no longer. The crown upon my head has hitherto prevented me from taking an honourable course; it shall prevent me no longer. Thou art right to rebel against the false and ungrateful Justinian! He is our enemy and thine. Well then--instead of placing thy confidence in an army of faithless Franks, place it in the whole Gothic nation, whose strength and fidelity are known to thee! With the first thou wouldst share Italy; with us thou canst keep it all. Let me be the first to greet thee as Emperor of the West and King of the Goths. All the rights of my people remain untouched; thou simply takest my place. I myself will set my crown upon thy head, and verily, no Justinian shall then tear it from thee! If thou rejectest this offer, prepare for such a battle as thou hast never yet fought. I will break into thy camp with fifty thousand Goths. We shall fall, but with us thy whole army. The one and the other. I have sworn it. Choose.
"'WITICHIS.'"
For one moment the Prefect was terribly alarmed. He cast a swift and searching look at Belisarius.
But a single glance sufficed to set him at ease.
"It is Belisarius," he said to himself, "but it is always dangerous to play with the devil. What A temptation!"
He returned the letter, and said with a smile: "What an idea! To what strange things can desperation lead!"
"The idea would not be bad," observed Procopius, "if----"
"If Belisarius were not Belisarius," said Cethegus, smiling.
"Spare your smiles," said Belisarius. "I admire the man, and I cannot take it amiss that he thinks I am capable of revolt. Have I not pretended to be so?" and he stamped his foot. "Now advise and help me! You have led me to this miserable alternative. I cannot say yes; and if I say no--I may look upon the Emperor's army as annihilated, and, into the bargain, must confess that I pretended to revolt!"
Cethegus reflected in silence, slowly stroking his chin with his left hand. Suddenly a thought seemed to flash across his mind. A ray of joy beautified his face.
"In this way I can ruin them both," he said to himself.
At this moment he was exceedingly contented with himself.
But first he wished to make sure of Belisarius.
"Reasonably, you can only do one of two things," he said hesitatingly.
"Speak: I see neither the one nor the other."
"Either really accept----"
"Prefect!" cried Belisarius in a rage, and put his hand on his sword. Procopius caught his arm in alarm. "Not another such word, Cethegus, if you value your life!"
"Or," continued Cethegus quietly, "seem to accept. Enter Ravenna without a stroke of the sword, and send the Gothic crown, together with the Gothic King, to Byzantium."
"That is splendid!" cried Procopius.
"It is treason!" cried Belisarius.
"It is both," said Cethegus calmly.
"I could never look a Goth in the face again!"
"It will not be necessary. You will take the King a prisoner to Byzantium. The disarmed nation will cease to be a nation."
"No, no, I will not do it."
"Good. Then let your whole army make its will. Farewell, Belisarius. I go to Rome. I have not the least desire to see fifty thousand Goths fighting in despair. And how Emperor Justinian will praise the destroyer of his best army!"
"It is a terrible alternative!" cried Belisarius.
Cethegus slowly approached him.
"Belisarius," he said, with a voice which seemed to come from his very heart, "you have often held me to be your enemy. And I am, in some sort, your adversary. But who can be near Belisarius in the field of battle and not admire him!" His manner had a suavity and solemnity seldom seen in the sarcastic Prefect. Belisarius was touched, and even Procopius wondered. "I am your friend whenever possible. In this case I will prove my friendship by giving you good advice. Do you believe me, Belisarius?"
And he laid his left hand upon the heroes shoulder, and offered him his right, looking frankly into his eyes.
"Yes," said Belisarius. "Who can mistrust such a look!"
"See, Belisarius! Never has a noble man had such a distrustful master as yours. The Emperor's last letter is the greatest offence to your fidelity."
"Heaven knows it!"
"And never has a man"--here he took both the hands of Belisarius--"had a more splendid opportunity to put ignoble mistrust to shame, to revenge himself gloriously, and to prove his fidelity. You are accused of aspiring to the Empire of the West! By God, you have it in your power! Enter Ravenna--let Goths and Italians do you homage and place a double crown upon your head. Ravenna yours, with your blindly devoted army, the Goths and Italians--truly you are unassailable. Justinian will tremble before Belisarius, and his haughty Narses will be but a straw against your strength. But you--who have all this in your hand--you will lay all the glory and the power at your master's feet and say: 'Behold, Justinian, Belisarius would rather be your servant, than ruler of the Western Empire.' So gloriously, Belisarius, has fidelity never yet been proved upon earth."
Cethegus had hit the mark. The general's eyes flashed.
"You are right, Cethegus. Come to my heart. I thank you. It is nobly thought. O Justinian, you shall blush with shame!"
Cethegus withdrew from the embrace, and went to the door.
"Poor Witichis," whispered Procopius, as he passed; "he is sacrificed to this masterpiece of truth! Now he is indeed lost."
"Yes," said Cethegus, "he is lost most surely."
Outside the tent he added, as he threw his mantle over his shoulder:
"But you, Belisarius, more surely still!"
Arrived at his quarters, he found Lucius Licinius in full armour.
"Well, general!" asked Lucius. "The city has not yet surrendered. When shall we fight?"
"The war is over, my Lucius. Doff your arms and gird yourself for a journey. This very day you must carry some private letters for me."
"To whom?"
"To the Emperor and Empress."
"In Byzantium?"
"No. Fortunately they are quite near, at the Baths of Epidaurus. Hasten! In fifteen days you must be back again. Not half a day later. The fate of Italy awaits your return."
As soon as Procopius brought the answer of Belisarius to the Gothic King, the latter summoned to his palace the leaders of the army, the principal Goths, and a number of trustworthy freemen, and communicated to them what had happened, demanding their acquiescence.
At first they were exceedingly surprised, and complete silence followed his words.
At last Duke Guntharis, looking at the King with emotion, said:
"The last of thy royal deeds, Witichis, is as noble, yea, nobler than all thy former acts. I shall ever regret having once opposed thee. Long since I swore in my heart to atone by blindly obeying thee. And truly--in this case thou alone canst decide; for thy sacrifice is the greatest--a crown! But if another than thou shalt be King--the Wölfung's can better endure to serve a stranger, a Belisarius, than some other Goth. So I agree to what thou sayest, and tell thee that thou hast acted well and nobly."
"And I say no! a thousand times no!" cried Hildebad. "Think what you do. A stranger at the head of the Goths!"
"Have not other Germans done the same before us--Quadians; Herulians, and Markomannians?" said Witichis calmly. "Even our most glorious Kings--even Theodoric? They served the Emperor and received land in exchange. So runs the treaty with Emperor Zeno, by which Theodoric took possession of Italy. I do not count Belisarius less than Zeno, and myself, truly, not better than Theodoric!"
"Yes, if it were Justinian," interposed Guntharis.
"Never would I submit to the false and cowardly tyrant!" cried Hildebad.
"But Belisarius is a hero--canst thou deny it? Hast thou forgotten how he thrust thee off thy horse?"
"May the thunder strike me if I forget it! It is the only thing in him which has ever pleased me."
"And fortune is with him, as misfortune is with me. We shall be as free as before, and only fight his battles against Byzantium. We shall be revenged on our common enemy."
Almost all those present now agreed with the King.
"Well, I cannot contradict you in words," said Hildebad; "my tongue has ever been more clumsy than my sword. But I feel sure that you are wrong. Had we but the Black Earl here, he would say what I can only feel. May you never regret this step! But permit me to quit this monstrous kingdom. I will never live under Belisarius. I will go in search of adventures. With a shield and spear and a strong hand, a man can go a great way."
Witichis hoped to change the intention of his trusty comrade in private conversation. At present he continued to carry forward that which he had at heart.
"You must know," he said, "that first of all Belisarius has made it a condition that nothing should be published until he has occupied Ravenna. It is to be feared that some of his leaders, with their troops, will hear nothing of a rebellion against Belisarius. These, as well as the suspicious quarters of Ravenna, must be surrounded by the Goths and the trustworthy adherents of Belisarius before all is made known."
"Take care," said Hildebad, "that you yourselves do not fall into a trap! We Goths should not try to spin such spiders' toils. It is as if a bear should try to dance on a rope--he would fall, sooner or later. Farewell--and may this business turn out better than I expect. I go to take leave of my brother. He, if I know him, will soon reconcile himself to this Roman-Gothic State. But Black Teja, I think, will go away with me."
In the evening a report ran through the city that terms of capitulation had been made and accepted. The conditions were unknown. But it was certain that Belisarius, at the desire of the King, had sent large stores of bread, meat, and wine into Ravenna, which were distributed amongst the poor.
"He has kept his word!" cried the people; and blessed the name of the King.
Witichis now asked after the health of the Queen, and learned that she was gradually recovering.
"Patience," he said, taking a deep breath; "she also will soon be at liberty, and rid of me!"
It was already growing dark, when a strong company of mounted Goths made their way through the city to the breach at the Tower of Ætius.
A tall horseman went first. Then came a group, carrying a heavy burden, hidden by cloths and mantles, upon their crossed lances. Then the rest of the men in full armour.
"Unbolt the gate!" cried the leader; "we want to go out."
"Is it thou, Hildebad?" asked Earl Wisand, who commanded the watch, and he gave the order to open the gate. "Dost thou know that to-morrow the city will surrender? Whither wilt thou go?"
"To freedom!" cried Hildebad; and spurred his horse forward.