“What, already?” muttered the Goth. “Then indeed....”
He flung the saddle on the third horse with double haste, and then listened in breathless anxiety. Meanwhile Herodianus had gone to the door.
“Who is there?” he asked wrathfully. “Open the door,” answered a gruff voice.
“By Pluto! My master only receives visitors in the day time.”
“Open it!” repeated the voice. “In the name of the city-prefect.”[59]Herodianus just waited to make sure that the bar was fast in the staples; then he ran as quickly as he was able back to the peristyle.
“My lord, are you ready?” he said breathlessly to Aurelius, who was girding on a short sword. “The spies have come two hours too soon.”
“Then may the gods befriend us! I thought it was a messenger from Cinna....”
“No indeed—from the city-prefect. Hark, they are shaking the house to the foundations....”
“I will speak to them,” said Aurelius. “Do you meanwhile arm yourself and see whether the road by the garden door is clear. As soon as you are ready, give me a signal.”
Herodianus flung the valuables they had packed, and five or six bags of coin, into a large leather sack, which lay on the floor; then he hurried into the garden, gave the sack over to Magus, who swung it lightly over his shoulder, bid him mount, and, with cautious steps, went to reconnoitre from the side gate. Aurelius had goneout into the ostium, which was still being shaken with the blows at the door.
“Stop that!” he cried, as loud as he could shout. “Who dares to use such violence here? I am a Roman citizen and will have you punished for your insolence.”
“Open the door, or we will break it in,” said a voice outside.
“It will be the worse for you if you do.—Who are you, that come to attack my house by force?”
“Hold your tongue. I am here in the name of the city-prefect.”
“And what do you want with me?”
“That you shall soon know. Open the door, or by Jupiter...!”
“Very good, I will open it.”
He went forward and took hold of the bolt; as he did so he heard that some of the men outside were on horseback; this discovery chilled his blood and almost paralyzed him. He stood motionless with his hand on the bolt, which he had half thrust out of the staple.
Just then a shrill whistle from the atrium reached his ear; it gave him new life.
“In a minute—directly,” he shouted to the men, who were again rattling at the door with their spears and swords. “This bar sticks—I will call the slaves.”
With these words he flew into the garden, where Magus, who had whistled in the corridor between the atrium and the peristyle, was in the act of mounting his horse. Aurelius flung himself into the saddle; the side gate was open. Herodianus went forward slowly on the Cappadocian, which, since his misadventure in the Field of Mars, he had ridden pretty constantly. Aurelius followed on his often-proved Andalusian, andMagus came last. Hardly had the slave come through the gate, when the master’s steed started and pricked his ears in alarm; at the same time they heard distant hoofs.
“They are riding round the hill,” said the freedman.
“Then we must turn to the left, towards the Porta Asinaria,” cried Aurelius. “Hurry! We are riding for our lives.”
The horses rushed on like the wind. The neighborhood in which they found themselves, south of the Caelian, was a very quiet one, and the few passers-by, men on foot and chiefly of the lowest class, made way in astonishment for the cavalcade that stormed by. In a few minutes they were outside the walls of the city.
The night was bright and starry, and Magus, looking round as they turned a corner, could plainly see, at about three hundred paces behind them, a troop of horsemen pursuing them at full gallop.
“One, two—four—six,” he said to himself. Then he laid his hand on his sword-hilt and struck spurs into his horse, which had fallen a little behind.
“Curse them!” said Aurelius. “We are going far out of our way; the nearest road is by Ardea.”
Magus looked once more through the darkness and his keen eyes, accustomed to the gloomy nights of the northern seas, presently detected a cross-road at five or six hundred paces to the south-east and cutting across the plain to join the Appian and Ardeatinian Ways. He pointed it out to his master.
“Very good; let us try it.”
The spot indicated by the Goth was reached in a minute. The horses heads were abruptly turned and they made a good pace across the open country, alongan unpaved bridle-path. The hoofs of the pursuers rang out through the silent night—suddenly they ceased. The pursuers too had reached the turning into the crossroad.
“They ride like the Walküre!” exclaimed the Goth.
They galloped on, breathlessly, but with uncanny noiselessness, past huts and isolated villas, trees and hedge-rows, till they reached the wooden bridge over the Almo, across which Magus led the way and the others followed. An interminable line of houses, standing out in silhouette against the western sky, here marked the line of the Via Appia. From thence it was only a few hundred paces to the Via Ardeatina.[60]Meanwhile the distance between the pursued and the pursuers had neither increased nor diminished perceptibly; only one of the city-prefect’s horsemen had left his comrades behind and gained upon them every minute. They were just crossing the Via Appia, when this man threw his spear and it passed close by the head of Herodianus’s horse. The beast shied on one side and reared; then it rushed on with increased swiftness after Magus and the Batavian.
Five or six minutes more slipped by. Neither of the fugitives now thought of depending in any way on the others; a glance backwards, a movement, might be fatal. The distance between the foremost horseman and his company might now be about two thousand paces, and he was close on the freedman’s heels. They had long since struck into the Via Ardeatina, and could not now be very far from the Oracle of the Faun,[61]where the roadturned off that led to Lavinium and from thence to Laurentum[62]and Ostia. The soldier urged his horse with a desperate effort to overtake Herodianus, and drawing his sword he drove it up to the hilt into the Cappadocian’s flank. The horse fell as if struck by lightning, while Herodianus flew head foremost out of the saddle, and must have broken every bone in his body, if a hillock covered with soft turf had not lain in the way. The horseman, who could not at once check his pace, shot over the mound and some paces farther. This gave Herodianus time to pick himself up and draw his sword, and hardly had he got on his feet and made ready to defend himself, when the man sprang back upon him; desiring him to give up his sword and surrender.
“Not so fast!” said Herodianus, whose anger had risen as he got over the shock. “This hillock will serve for a fortress, and you may besiege me in it if you will.”
“Idiot!” shouted the man. “I give you one more chance; throw down your sword, or I will kill you.”
He put spurs to his horse, to take the mound at a leap and ride down Herodianus; but at this instant Aurelius appeared on the field, sword in hand. He was only just in time to save his worthy retainer, but he fell with such fury upon the mercenary that, after attempting a short defense, he hastened to withdraw; Aurelius had, however, given him a deep cut on the arm.
“Where is your horse?” asked he.
“There—by the ditch; the villain has killed it.”
“Come and mount behind me,” said Aurelius. “Hi! Magus—what are you doing?”
The Goth had dashed past with his bridle hanging loose.
“Magus!” shouted his master anxiously. “What are you going to do?” And then turning to Herodianus he added: “Well, make haste.—My horse can carry two.”
“Pooh! Do you take your old friend for a shirker? Sooner will I fall into the hands of that gang, than bring you to destruction too.”
“Here! Jump up here!” shouted the Goth. He held the soldier’s horse by the bridle. The rider was lying in the dust about a hundred paces off.
“Hail to the victor!” cried Herodianus. “That is what I call prompt reprisal.”
“He is a German like myself,” shouted Magus, “and is not ashamed to run down one of his own kith and kin! But I was down upon him, by Odin’s raven!”
Herodianus, with a gasping effort, threw himself into the saddle.
“On we go!” he exclaimed, as he settled himself and seized the bridle, and they started afresh along the echoing road. Only just in time, for they heard the little group check their horses as they came up with their comrade, who had become unconscious from his heavy fall and from loss of blood.
“Pick him up, Aeolus,” cried the leader of the little band. “The dark mass down there behind the trees is Ardea. We can leave him at the tavern.”
While one of the men stopped to rescue his senseless comrade, the others mended their pace and rode on afterthe fugitives. But their steeds were not equal to it. Before they had reached Ardea one fell, the blood flowing from his nostrils, and the others panted so terribly, that the captain saw that the chase was hopeless and gave the order to slacken. In about twenty minutes they reached the northern gate of the town and knocked up the innkeeper.
Aurelius and his companions had meanwhile ridden at their original pace to a spot about a thousand paces beyond the little town. There they stopped; and finding that there was nothing to be seen or heard between them and Ardea, they allowed themselves a minute to breathe and to swallow a draught of Setian wine,[63]after which they went forward at an easier gallop. Thus, in about an hour, they reached Antium, still in the silence of the night. The town seemed dead, there was not a human being to be seen in the deserted streets. At the north-west end of the harbor the trireme lay at anchor and, to his great satisfaction, Aurelius found the boat ready on the shore to carry him and his friends on board. He, then, was not the first to arrive.
“Ho! Chrysostomus!” he cried, turning his horse towards the strand. “How are things going on?”
“Well, my lord. We have been waiting here ever since it grew dark. Your friends have all arrived. Half an hour since the old man came, the one with white hair—Cocceius Nerva—he was the last.”
Herodianus and Magus went forward, and Aurelius followed. The Roman’s horse and the one Magus hadridden were left behind; Aurelius’s Andalusian they took with them. The boat pushed off, cut across the dark waters of the harbor and carried the party safe on board.
On the following morning the frightful news spread like wild-fire through the city that several citizens, some of them men of high position, had been seized at dead of night by the city-prefect and carried off to the state-prisons; while others—and among them the Senators Cornelius Cinna and Marcus Cocceius Nerva—had only escaped sharing their fate by flight.
After Cinna’s rash demonstration, in opposition to the law against the Christians, such proceedings were not considered very astonishing. Nerva, too, had long seemed ripe for destruction, from the point of view of the state-craft of the time. But that a host of individuals who, till now, had been regarded as blamelessly innocent, nay, that such a man as Furius should be apprehended, produced a painful impression on the public mind. Every one, who did not feel himself protected by his modest station and personal insignificance, began to quake, and even the humble population of the Subura seemed to be dragged into sympathy with the anxiety of the higher classes. The cries of the wandering dealers and street pedlars were subdued, and though the cook-shops and barbers’ rooms were crowded, the talk was in low mysterious tones. On every hand suspicious and anxious looks prevailed.
What most agitated and puzzled the citizens of Rome, was the fact, that the confessed enemies of Caesar had been able to escape; this revealed a regular and well-organized plot; nay, from the high rank and wide influence of the fugitives, it was almost an open declaration of war. It was self-evident, that Nerva and Cinna would not have retired so promptly into exile, but that they were about to strain every nerve in order to return victorious. Much was said about the connections they both could count upon in the provinces, and particularly in the Gallia Lugdunensis. These allies, judiciously treated, might, in the present state of public feeling as to Domitian’s tyranny, combine for some crushing catastrophe. If no more than two or three legions should raise the standard of revolt, under the guidance of a commander bent on death or success, the Emperor’s rule would be in serious danger, to say the least. Men recalled the days of Nero—how rapidly the flame of revolution had spread in every direction, when the mass of combustibles had been piled sky-high, through many years of misgovernment. The praetorian guard could only be trusted conditionally. Their loyalty was simply a matter of price. As long as they were splendidly paid they would be for Caesar, and this sort of fidelity could easily be corrupted in a single night.
On the other hand the noiselessness, with which the arrests had been managed, and the calm unforced regularity, which prevailed in every department of public life, seemed to guarantee the unwavering stability of the government. The palace was to-day guarded by a single cohort, as usual. The morning audience had been duly crowded. The Senate met at the usual hour, and Domitian joined them, carried to the sitting in his litter,and escorted by only a small portion of the praetorian guard. Races were announced for the following day in the Circus Maximus, and at the same time theActa Diurna,[64]the official sheet of Rome, formally proclaimed Caesar’s intention of edifying and delighting his beloved Romans, by the celebration of magnificent centennial games, never yet equalled for splendor and variety. In short, within the precincts of the Palatium such security and indifference prevailed as could not fail, if thoroughly carried out, to exert great influence on public feeling. Added to this, a vague report got about that the birds had flown in consequence of a warning, to which the government had been accessory, since Caesar had been willing to avoid the painful necessity of arraigning such men as Cinna, Nerva, and Trajan before the Senate. Thus it was not to Caesar’s dilatoriness or clumsiness that they owed their escape, but to his magnanimity.
Though no such magnanimity had ever before been seen at the palace, this view was warmly encouraged.
Clodianus swore to Caesar by all the gods, that the treason which must evidently have been at work, should be tracked to earth and avenged. The guilty party must be some one in the Emperor’s immediate service. Was Domitian absolutely certain that the tablet, with the list of doomed names, had never been out of his own hands? To this Caesar replied, that he had keptthe tablet about his person day and night; but Clodianus reminded him of the hour when he had swooned, throwing out a dark hint which served to cast his suspicion on the physician. Domitian, however, was more inclined to look for the traitor among the employés of the city-prefect, than in the palace itself. At any rate, the zeal shown by Clodianus in these circumstances made an admirable impression in his favor. The Emperor began to think he might have been mistaken, and to consider whether the last addition to the list on the tablet should not after all be erased.
Clodianus detected this revulsion of feeling with the eye of a clairvoyant, and it gave him extreme satisfaction, for it opened out the prospect for certain schemes, though he was not clear himself yet as to the details. When the pressure of business should allow him leisure, he would go to the villa on the road to Praeneste, intending to settle and confirm these details in concert with Stephanus.
In the course of the afternoon it was reported that Caius Aurelius, too, was one of the fugitives. Baucis brought this news to the high-priest’s house, when she returned from market in the Field of Mars.
Not long before Claudia had received a note from Aurelius. It was dated the day before, and had been written before their last meeting. It contained the explanation, that Aurelius had thrown in his lot with those who were scheming and hoping for liberty. Their schemes had been betrayed. He was flying now like a criminal, but he hoped, ere long, to return and find Rome free and happy.
Claudia had escaped with this letter to her ownroom, she knew only too well all it implied. She fancied she could already hear her father’s verdict, for his tenderness to his child must now inevitably give way to the inexorable severity of a state-official and Caesar’s faithful adherent.
The rest of the family had meanwhile rushed into agitated discussion of this utterly unexpected departure. They were sitting in one of the larger rooms opening out of the court-yard, not far from the very spot where Aurelius, the night before, had torn himself from his Claudia. Quintus and Cornelia were present, as well as the parents and Lucilia. They had waited till long past midnight for Cinna’s return, and had then parted in the utmost anxiety, for Aurelius’ hasty visit, and the mysterious warning he had written, left them to surmise the worst. Thus they met at an early hour at the high-priest’s house, whither each had come hoping for news and good counsel. Titus Claudius had, in fact, been informed of all that was known by Parthenius, and actually before he was up. He received Cornelia, who was in the highest excitement, with a mixture of severity and sympathy.
“I do not know all the motives,” he said solemnly, “that may have led to these measures on Caesar’s part. But so much as this seems to me certain: that this step was prompted by necessity for the preservation of the State. As an officer of State myself, and as the father of your betrothed husband, I can only advise you—and I mean it well—to have nothing farther to do with a proscribed man. I promise you I will do my best to induce Caesar to give up all farther pursuit of the fugitives, and to consider banishment from the Empire, or perhaps only from Italy, as sufficient punishment.”
So spoke Titus Claudius, and then no more was said about Cinna. In the discussion as to Aurelius, Cornelia could take part more calmly than the others. Her pride had been roused by the Flamen’s speech, and when this was the case, she was mistress of herself in all respects.
When Claudia, having recovered such composure as she could, returned to the sitting-room, a single timid glance at her father’s careworn face showed her, that his mind was already made up on the matter. His features revealed all the keen struggle and pain it cost him to inflict suffering on his daughter under the irresistible stress of circumstances; but, at the same time, she saw with perfect certainty that nothing—absolutely nothing—could change his idea of the necessity. His eye, which he kept calmly and immovably fixed on her, was so eloquent, that her cheek tingled, and she could hardly control herself so as not to throw herself sobbing into Lucilia’s arms.
“Forget that you ever loved such a man as Aurelius!” was what that sad gaze said to her. “I might have condescended to set aside the glory of my many centuries of ancestors and the dignity of my house, but never my honor as a guardian of the State. I might have sacrificed my pride—but not my duty. I could have borne to give my daughter to a youth of no renown, a mere provincial of obscure origin, hard as that would have been—but to a traitor! No, not if he wore the purple. Caius Aurelius is dead—dead to you, to me, to his country!”
The only person, who in this depressing atmosphere did not lose her good spirits was Lucilia.
“Who knows how all this hangs together?” shesaid consolingly. “Has not Sextus Furius been arrested? He surely is the very incarnation of peaceful civic virtue. Some low informer has slandered him secretly, and it is the same, I make no doubt, with Aurelius. I can quite understand, that he should have no fancy to exchange his pretty villa for a residence in a state-prison. But his innocence may yet come to light.”
“Nay,” said the Flamen, “only those who are conscious flee. The man, who knows that he is falsely accused, stays where he is to justify himself.”
“I should think so indeed!” exclaimed Lucilia. “As if no innocent man had ever been condemned! I may say honestly, I should have done the same in his place. It is particularly unpleasant to watch a game, where one is oneself the stake played for. Only let us set to work at once to get at the bottom of the matter. If Aurelius were in truth a rebel, would not the chamberlain have mentioned him to you this morning, when he told you the names of those who had escaped and those who had been arrested?”
“Parthenius was in a desperate hurry. He only mentioned the worst, the ringleaders. It may be indeed, that Aurelius has been led away....”
“You see!” cried Lucilia, “and those who have been misled must be forgiven.”
“Forgiven!” echoed Cornelia. “Those may accept forgiveness who choose!”
“Oh, you, with your everlasting Roman pride! That was all very well under a Republic. For my part, sooner than wander about the world an outcast and in misery, I would admit what a fool I had been. You must progress as the times advance. The Empire is firmly established once and for all....”
“You are wasting your breath, in trying to make a jest of what is grave earnest,” said the high-priest. “I have been greatly deceived in this Aurelius. I took him to be frank and trustworthy, a man of character....”
“Father!” cried Claudia, trembling from head to foot, “I will not bear to hear you speak so of the man, whom I regard as the noblest and truest on earth.”
“What, daughter? Even now, after his flight as a criminal?”
“Even now.”
Quintus and Cornelia looked inquiringly, first at the priest, and then at the girl.
“Why should I conceal it?” cried Claudia. “You may hear me say it—and all the world may know it—I love him, he is mine now and forever!”
“Poor child!” said her father, and Lucilia went up to her and led her out of the room. In the solitude of her own room the strength, that had kept her blood at boiling point, gave way entirely. She flung herself into her sister’s arms, and cried long and bitterly.
The high-priest too retired, and shut himself up in his study till dinner-time. The information brought him by Parthenius, and the flight of Cinna and Aurelius more particularly, had been a great shock to him. And then the sight of the young creature, who stood up so bravely for her love—and yet—he could not hesitate—who must give it up forever. That had been a dagger-thrust in his heart. He struggled for firmness, for cold and stern resolve. He told himself that true kindness, in this case, lay in severity and outward hardness; every sign of wavering, every expression of tender impulse, would only make the inevitable harder for his child to bear. The human heart can better endure the suddenextinction of its happiness than its slow decline, fanned by the breath of a faint hope which is too weak to revive the flame of life, and yet too strong to allow it to die out.
For many hours this man, who was usually so prompt and decisive, sat bent over his table as if in a trance. If Sextus Furius had not been one of the victims of this nocturnal raid, Titus Claudius would, even now, have arranged his daughter’s betrothal to this suitor before the week was out. The very cruelty of such a proceeding seemed to him wholesome and bracing. But, as it was, Furius too—for some unimaginable reason—was an inmate of the Mamertine prisons. What was to be done? He considered the possibilities of a journey, and remembered that Quintus, the year before, had expressed a purpose some day to pass a few months at Athens. The house of Claudia had many illustrious friends in the Attic capital, who would have welcomed the brother and sister with the greatest pleasure, and have treated them as lovingly and as liberally as their own. But the plan was rejected as soon as it was made. The unfavorable season was at hand; the south-westerly gale, which a few days since had swept over the whole coast of Latium and Campania, had devastated the country south of Antium. Sea-voyages were at an end for the season; no one would venture out to sea but under pressing necessity.
Finally, the priest came to the conclusion, that Claudia would best and soonest get over her grief in her parent’s house and the old familiar habits of her daily life; he, therefore, decided on leaving the poor child in peace, when once he had explicitly impressed on her that Aurelius was lost to her forever, and then tacitly treating the matter as settled once for all.
The whole family eat their meal in conscious silence: Quintus and Cornelia remained as guests. Claudia begged to be excused; she would join them later, in the sitting-room.
When they rose from table, Lucilia, Octavia, and the betrothed couple went to walk up and down the peristyle, and Titus Claudius went to his daughter’s room. It was not without an uneasy feeling about his heart, that he desired the slave-girl who sat outside the door to raise the curtain, and he felt sad enough as he entered the room, which was one of the prettiest and pleasantest in the house. Claudia had made it a charming retreat for her studies and favorite pursuits. To the right lay the apartment she shared with Lucilia; but here she alone was mistress, and everything in the room seemed to have taken the stamp of her individuality. The unpretentious and tasteful furniture seemed to proclaim her frank simplicity. On the wall hung her gilt cithara with its red ribbon, the confidant of her hopes and dreams. There lay her favorite authors neatly arranged in ivory cases,[65]the Greeks to the left, the Latins to the right—above all Homer, Sophocles, and the odes of Sappho. There were a few costly vases of sardonyx, statuettes in Parian marble, and in a purple-lined niche a head of Jupiter, copied from the world-famed work of Phidias.[66]There were too a silver-mounted spindle and a small hand-loom, besides all sorts of toys and baubles, such as young people were wont to give and receive during the Saturnalia. In short, the pretty bower betrayed itself in every detail as the retreat of a bright-natured, busy and happy girl.
And now?
But what was the priest’s surprise when, instead of the crushed and weeping child he expected to meet, Claudia came towards him with gentle pride, grave, but mistress of herself, calm and almost radiant with a half-sad, but half-happy confidence.
In the silence of her chamber Claudia had thought out the course of events and the issues they must lead to; she had questioned her own heart, and taken stockof her duties. The tangle had come straight, light had dawned in the darkness. It was useless to weep and puzzle herself over what could not be altered; it mattered not now to wonder whether Aurelius had acted wisely in taking part in the rash attempt of the conspirators. Nay, the right or wrong of the attempt itself was of secondary importance. One thing only Claudia was sure of: she loved him, and she was pledged to him. This had sealed her fate. As soon as this certainty stood forth clear and confessed in the midst of her sorrow, her peace of mind returned as if sent from heaven. She knew now how she must act, come what might now or in the future; she saw the goal towards which her whole existence strove, and she could wait in all submission, till the gods might point out a way in which she could walk. But that she would never look aside from that goal, that no power on earth could tear that love from her heart—that was as clear to her as her belief in love itself. Every blow, which could now fall on this hapless heart, would be the inevitable dealing of Fate, which neither gods nor men could evade. Claudia still hoped for some happy issue, even with her father; for the hopefulness of love is inexhaustible. But, if Fate would have it otherwise, it was quite clear to her that the issue must be worked out without her father—nay, if it came to the worst, against her father; and the sense of this possibility gave a melancholy undercurrent to her confident resolve.
Titus Claudius misunderstood the signs of her face and manner; her calm decisiveness he took for the submission of an obedient daughter; her silent melancholy for the anguish of resignation. He went up to Claudia with an impulse of deep tenderness, took her in hisarms, kissed her, and loaded her with tender commendation; she, ashamed and feeling almost guilty, submitted to his embrace. Then she raised her eyes in tearful entreaty to his face.
“Let us speak no more of all this,” she said in a low voice. “Time will show, whether he is guilty or not. You shall never hear a word of murmur from me. I will command myself; I will be just what I have always been—a little graver perhaps, but not lackadaisical and pining. Only never speak of him, do not speak harshly of him! I cannot bear it, Father!”
“You are my own good, wise child,” whispered Claudius, holding her more closely in his arms. “I know you by this for my own flesh and blood. May Jupiter, in his goodness, give you strength to cast this luckless love out of your heart. I know, my child, we Claudians have a deep heart, and what has once sunk to the bottom there is apt to strike deep root in the soil. But nature has also given us a strong will, and a defiant spirit that fears no struggle. If you ever feel too miserable, if the fight is too much for you, then fly for rest to your father’s heart, Claudia, and do not forget, that every grief that troubles yours I feel two-fold and three-fold in my own.” Claudia wept aloud; overcome by her grief, she clung to that loving father’s sheltering arms. Then, collecting all her firmness, she freed herself, looked up with a smile, and said, as she dried her tears:
“Now—I am myself again. Go to the others, pray, Father, and I will follow immediately.”
The Flamen left the room. Claudia threw herself on her knees, and after kissing the spot on the rug where he had stood, threw up her arms and her slender figure in passionate prayer to the gods.
“Do not crush me, Immortals, if I am sinning!” she whispered with trembling lips. “For you know, ye all-merciful and all-wise, that I cannot help it.”
It was past midnight. The Christians of the Subura had once more assembled in the quarry between the Appian and the Labicanian Ways. Among them stood Quintus, who had joined the congregation to-day for the first time.
The subterranean hall—not the small square vault where Eurymachus had taken refuge, but a large oval space, whose natural roof was here and there supported by pillars of artificial construction—was lighted by a lamp with five arms, which hung from the smoke-blackened vault. On each side, close to the wall, a natural ledge of tufa served for seats. These were given up to women and girls, mostly very humbly dressed, while the men occupied the farther end of the hall, some standing, some sitting on wooden stools, and some squatting on the ground.
Quintus was leaning, with eager, glistening eyes, against a pillar that was so built into a wall as to form a semicircular niche at one end of the hall, and opposite to him, against the corresponding pillar, stood Thrax Barbatus, his sinewy arms crossed over his breast.
The attention of the congregation had at first been centered on Quintus—who was welcomed with astonishment as a member of the little band—but it had gradually been diverted to another object. Behind anarm-chair stood the tall and commanding figure of an old man, who looked ninety at least. His still upright bearing and his weather-tanned face showed him to be a soldier; and yet an expression of touching gentleness and benevolence marked his features, a melancholy and tender gleam, as it were, that played round his expressive lips and half-closed eyes. Those eyes were blind, darkened by the unwholesome gloom of the Sardinian mines,[67]where, for three years, the old man had been buried alive. They were used to light, and to the free airs of heaven, those bright, bold warrior’s eyes; and when Tigellinus,[68]Nero’s favorite, had thrust him into blackness, because he had refused to tender false evidence, they grew fevered and dim in the twilight depths, and at last had darkened into endless night. The fall of Nero restored him to liberty. He had been taken on board ship by some kind-hearted mariners, carried first to Athens and then to Corinth, where his brethren in the faith received him gladly, and took charge of his maintenance. For some years he lived thus, a zealous member of the infant congregation, and a faithful guardian and preacher of the gospel. But at last he could contain himself there no longer. His homesickness for Rome, his native city, which he loved in spite of all her sins and crimes with the passion of a true-born Roman, grew more irresistible every day. An Egyptian merchant, who esteemed him highly, after taking him a long sea-voyage, brought him at last to the harbor of Ostia. For many weeks the venerable stranger had wandered in vain through all the fourteen regions of the city, hoping to find some friend of his early years; they were all without exception dead and gone. One day he sat down, sadly leaning on his staff, on the step of a fountain not far from the temple on the Quirinal. Here he was found by Euterpe, who, filled with pity, addressed the blind old man. They soon made the discovery that they were of the same faith, and now for five or six days he had been sharing the home of Diphilus; and though, at first, this had been somewhat of a burden to the carpenter, the liberality of Quintus Claudius had relieved him of all anxiety.
Calenus was now telling the assembled Christians some of the adventures of his youth, when he was fighting in Palestine. Eager devoutness was stamped on every face that watched him.
“Yes, my beloved,” he said, and his voice sank to deeper solemnity, “I can remember every detail as if it were yesterday. But I knew not what I was doing. My heart was holden, and my soul was darkened. It was not till long, long after, that the grace of God enlightened me.... It was at the time when the Jews keep their Passover. Our division had been sent to guard the state-prison, but I and a few of my comrades had been warned to keep ourselves ready to march atany moment, and within an hour the word was given to set out. We joined a noisy procession, headed by the Roman eagles, which flowed on up the hill where criminals are executed, outside Jerusalem. We could scarcely see or hear what was taking place, the people shrieked and howled so incessantly, evidently inflamed to the highest pitch by their priests and the scribes. However, we were ordered to let them have their way. At last, when I asked a woman what all the tumult was about, she replied: ‘They are going to crucify Jesus, the King of the Jews.’”
He ceased and bowed his head, as one self-convicted, and a death-like silence reigned in the room.
“Ah, my brethren!” he went on presently, in a tone of deep sorrow. “Would that some angel of God had been near in that awful hour to open my heart! In the ear of a heathen soldier, that name sounded like any other. Darkened and in ignorance, I kept guard on the spot where my Saviour was to die.”
Again he bowed his penitent head. But soon looking up again with renewed and joyful eagerness, he told them he had been mercifully permitted to see from afar the sublime face of the man, whom he had learned, years after, to recognize as the Redeemer of mankind. The pale features which had looked down on him, as in a vision, had been indelibly graven on his soul, and later, when the tidings of salvation had come home to him, the image had risen to new life, and shone radiantly upon him, like a star of promise, through the darkness of his sufferings and sorrows.
When Calenus ceased speaking, no one for some time ventured to break the silence. Glauce, who was shedding quiet tears and recalling her dear Eurymachus, mixing up in her fancy the vision of the Nazarene with the picture of her lover, looked up at the speaker like a worshipper at his divinity. To the rest, indeed, the hoary old man, on whom a ray from that Sun had once fallen, appeared as a superior being, and presently, when the spell of silence was broken, they all crowded round him to kiss his hands with fervent devotion, or even the hem of his garment.
The wonderful tale had made an almost weird impression upon Quintus. His fancy was haunted by the face of the pale sufferer, who, at that first meeting in Domitian’s park, had stirred him to such new and unwonted feelings. A shudder, such as he had never felt before, shook him from head to foot, and his whole nature seemed to float away into the rarer air of incomprehensible mysticism.
While the band of Christians sat listening in absorbed silence to the words of Calenus, a troop of armed men were setting forth from the Esquiline—twenty stout fellows armed with spears and short swords. They were led by a stalwart veteran, who had won the rank of centurion on the battle-fields of Germany; on his left walked a torch-bearer, on his right a handsome, active stripling—Antinous, the steward’s slave. They marched to the south-east along the Via Labicana, and their regular tramp marked time on the pavement. Now and again a sword rattled or a piece of mail; now and again the leader muttered a short, sharp question, which the slave hastily answered. The ruddy light, that fell on his pretty girlish face, lent a witch-like effect to his features. It was thus that the Greek myth represented the beguiling Sirens: beautiful but fateful. The centurion himself was not quite at ease in the companyof the supple youth, and he betrayed it not merely by the roughness of his address, but, even more, by his lowering brow, and the expression of aversion and contempt that curled his lips.
At the spot where, on a former occasion, Quintus had come upon the road with Eurymachus in his litter, the party halted. The centurion glanced keenly across the fields in the direction pointed out to him by Antinous, and he knew the country better than the Greek, whose only idea was to go in the same line as he had then come by, like a wild animal. After closely cross-questioning the slave, he made his men go forward by the road about five hundred paces farther, and thus reached a fairly-beaten bridle-path, nearly parallel to the line which Quintus had taken across hedge and ditch. They passed under the arches of the Aqua Marcia, again, soon after, under those of the Aqua Claudia, and then they were in view of the pine wood, which looked like a black, fantastically-shaped cloud against the sky.
When the file of men were within a few paces of it, the torch was extinguished, as the uncovered light could not be carried through the brushwood, and a small horn lantern was lighted instead. The centurion doubted whether he had not better leave some of his men outside. However, as the wood extended for a considerable distance to the south-east, there were objections to this plan. It would have taken half a legion to guard every possible exit as far as the spurs of the Alban Hills, and besides, Antinous asserted positively that they could reach the entrance to the quarry without any fear of discovery, as it was so effectually screened by the thicket, that the Nazarenes believed themselves to be in perfectsecurity. In fact, they never even set a watch; so that he had lately ventured fifteen paces or more into the wide cross-gallery, without being detected.
One after the other, the armed men entered the wood. Antinous had taken the lantern; in three minutes they were at the laurel bushes which screened the opening of the quarry; Antinous triumphantly parted the boughs.
“Here!” he said proudly, “with a twist of your thumb you have them all as safe as hares in a trap.”
The little band of Christians, who were thus overtaken by their fate, were in the act of kneeling for a common prayer, when heavy steps and the rattle of arms were suddenly heard in the passage. All started in terror to their feet. A few instantly dropped on their knees again, wringing their hands. The women and girls clung to each other in despair. Some of the younger men, and with them Thrax Barbatus, assumed an air of sullen determination, which threatened desperate resistance on their part, while others stood motionless and unmoved in dull resignation. Among them there were a few faces that beamed with the transport of sacred ecstasy, and Quintus and Calenus were perhaps the only two, who betrayed no sign in their faces of what was passing in their minds. Before it was possible even to think of flight, the old centurion was standing in the door-way, his drawn sword gleaming ominously: behind him shone the helmets of his men-at-arms.
A loud cry rose from the congregation; Thrax Barbatus flung off his cloak, and drew the dagger he had concealed under it.
“Whoever tries to escape is a dead man!” shoutedthe soldier, giving a sign to his men. In a minute they were ranged round the hall to the right and left.
Quintus, who was likewise armed, grasped his sword-hilt convulsively. He glanced round at the little congregation; the fight would be too unequal, simply ridiculous, but he felt he must attempt it. His sword flashed from its sheath; but at that instant Antinous sprang upon him from one side and, with the strength of desperation, clutched his right arm. Before Quintus could shake him off he was surrounded by soldiers, his weapon was wrenched from him, and six or eight sinewy hands held his arms and shoulders with the grip of a vice. The centurion came up to him with his sword point downwards.
“My lord,” he said, “you see—resistance is hopeless.”
“What do you want of us?” asked Quintus, with a defiant sparkle in his glance.
“My lord, you know.”
“And do you know me?”
“Who that lives in Rome, can fail to know the son of Titus Claudius?”
“Well—and yet you seize me as if I were a thief?”
“I am doing my duty—I am seeking the Nazarenes.”
“And you have found them!” exclaimed Antinous, still breathless from his exertions.
“Who is this boy?” asked Quintus, with a feeling of unutterable loathing.
“I? I am Antinous, Stephanus’ boy,” he answered audaciously. “I bring you my master’s greetings, and”—he added in a whisper—“those of your imperial neighbor, the lady of Baiae....”
“Silence!” said the centurion, sternly. “You have done your part! Take yourself off—instantly.”
Quintus breathed hard and deep. He understood only too well all that the impudent young villain’s words conveyed. The captain did not give him much time to indulge his feelings.
“My lord,” he said, “you are my prisoner. If you will swear to me not to attempt to escape, nor to lay violent hands upon yourself, I will take the risk of leaving you unfettered. This one, however, I must put in chains, and if you have any influence over him, advise him that he had better submit quietly.”
“Never!” roared Thrax Barbatus, flourishing his short sword. “Let us fight, my brethren—fight, and die fighting. The martyr’s crown awaits not those alone who suffer, but those who fight too.”
“Cease!” said old Calenus. “Who dares to speak so blasphemously here? Will you sin as Peter sinned in the garden of Gethsemane? Will you shed your brother’s blood like Cain? Woe unto ye blind! Not thus may ye win Heaven, but eternal punishment!” The blind man’s words, spoken in a sort of prophetic exaltation, made a deep impression. Those who a moment since had stood forth in defiance, now bent their heads. Thrax Barbatus alone stood his ground.
“Do you think,” he shouted in a voice of thunder, “that the Son of God, who lashed the dealers and money-changers out of the Temple with a scourge, was a lamb? He was a lion, that only force could overcome! The Saviour preached to slaves, that their lives and their rights are as precious as those of their tyrants! He, who breaks the chains of the prisoner, will have nothing to say to cowards and fools. Glauce, come close tome—your tender body shall never be meat for the lions of Gaetulia! Pray, Glauce—pray.—And may the Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon us!”
He held the girl tightly clasped in his arms.
“Give yourselves up to the inscrutable counsels of God!” said the solemn, prophetic voice of the blind man.
“Amen,” rose from the lips of the congregation.
“Put them in chains,” the centurion said. But Quintus, with calm dignity, requested a hearing.
“One word,” he said, turning to the centurion. “That scurvy slave has misled you. I swear to you on my honor, centurion, this nocturnal surprise was only intended for me. Here I am, take me with you! I will follow you; carry me in chains to the city, and you may be perfectly certain, that you have all the prey you need show. But these poor wretches, who stand here trembling as to their fate—let them go free; let them go on their way unhindered. They only came here to see for the last time the halls where they have, until now, celebrated the rites of their faith. They have no intention of defying the law.”
“Who is there here that will deny his Saviour?” Again it was the blind prophet that spoke. “We are faithful to confess Christ crucified. His name be praised and blessed forever!”
Quintus was silent, and a shade of deep trouble fell on his face.
“Well, then,” he said, turning away, “do your duty.”
The mercenaries pushed forward. The Christians, none of whom were armed except Thrax and Quintus, submitted at once. Thrax alone withdrew farther andfarther into the niche; his left arm still held up Glauce, who leaned only half-conscious on his shoulder, and in his right he still clutched the dagger. The soldiers came up with him.
“Come, old man, make short work of it!” cried the foremost. “You see there are a score of us.”
Close to Thrax and Glauce Euterpe was kneeling by a pillar. In her wild anguish she had thrown her arms round the cold stone, and was murmuring vehement prayers. Now, looking up a moment, a shrill and piercing shriek broke from her lips, and she fell backwards on the earth, where she lay senseless. Instead of answering the soldier, Thrax Barbatus had raised the dagger, and thrust it to the very hilt in Glauce’s side. The two men, even, stood petrified at the sight of such a deed, while Thrax gently laid the slender body on the ground. Tears streamed down his rugged cheeks. Even in death the poor child smiled—shivered.—All was over.
“Good-night,” muttered the miserable father. “No executioner will ever harm you now. Come on, accursed crew, and lay me by the side of my sweet Glauce.”
He rushed headlong on one of the men, who avoided the stroke, and tried to seize his assailant round the body. But in vain; a mightier blow fell upon his helmet, and stunned him. He staggered backwards.
“Old fool!” cried the other soldier. “Fling away that dagger, or by Hercules....”
“Thrax, miserable man! For Christ’s sake!” A score of voices appealed to him at once. But Thrax had raised the blade again, and charged the foe like a lion.
“Well, he will have it!” said the soldiers, now falling upon him from all sides.
The next instant Thrax Barbatus fell, pierced by three swords at once, on the ground by Glauce’s side. Not a groan of pain parted his set lips, not a throe, not a sign, betrayed the pain of such a death; only his hand feebly felt for Glauce’s.
Quintus gazed down at the dead.
“Would I might have died so!” he said to himself. “Almighty God, Thy will be done.”
“Now, men—are you ready?” cried the centurion, sheathing his weapon.
“As you say.”
“Very well, then; away to the city! Give over crying, you women. A crime was never yet atoned for by howling and wailing. Onwards—march!”
And the long and melancholy procession set out. None remained behind but the dead—the free and happy dead.
The company of soldiers, who had been sent by the city-prefect in pursuit of the Batavian and his companions, had given up the chase at a short distance from Ardea. They rode slowly into the town, and rapped with their sword-hilts at the door of the little old tavern till the innkeeper crept grumpily out of his bed, and let them in. A stable boy unsaddled the horses, while Ciconia, the host’s unprepossessing wife, brought out adish of smoked cheese,[69]some loaves, and a jar of red wine from Veii.
While his men sat round the stone table and burned their parched throats with coarse liquor, the captain walked up and down the room reflecting with little satisfaction indeed on the events of the night. He wondered why the fugitives had selected the road through Ardea. The Via Appia would have been wider, more convenient, and safer for strangers unfamiliar with the district, while the road to Ardea, with its many inequalities and turnings, would seem to give the pursuers, who were more familiar with them, an appreciable advantage. The more he thought of it, the more convinced he became that Antium must have been the goal of their hopes. But, in that case, the refugees must have intended to sail from Antium and reach one of the neighboring islands, or perhaps even Sardinia or Corsica. And in that case it would not be difficult to find out who had undertaken to convey them. Thus all was not yet lost. He took up a cup of wine and emptied it at a draught. Then, turning to the hostess, he asked in great excitement:
“Ciconia, have you a horse?”
“No, my lord; what do you want it for?”
“I must get on to Antium immediately, and our beasts are tired to death.”
Ciconia reflected.
“Well,” she said, “there is a horse, no doubt, in the stable—standing there since noon. It belongs to atrader out of Metapontum[70]—but I do not know whether he would allow it.”
“He must; or, better still, why should he ever know it? I shall be back again in a few hours. I will leave all our horses in pledge with you, and pay for your nasty verjuice as if it were Falernian. Make no ceremony.”
In five minutes the Metapontine trader’s steed stood saddled and bridled at the door. It was a small, square-set brute, but strong. The soldier mounted, desired his men to await his return, and set off at a round pace.
Shortly before reaching Antium he met two riderless horses, one of which he at once recognized as that of his wounded comrade. There could no longer be a doubt; the fugitives were trusting to the sea. With renewed energy he struck spurs into his horse, and had soon got over the few hundred paces, that still lay between him and the harbor. Here, however, there was nothing to be seen or heard. He rode all round the bay and back again, keeping a sharp lookout. The ships lay motionless by the mole—the barges and shore-boats in the middle, farther out the larger merchant-vessels, and away to the left the imperial trireme, which through the summer months had cruised in search of pirates about the coasts of Egypt and Cyrenaica.[71]All was as silent as the dead, excepting when, now and then, the night-breeze whistled through the cordage.
Then he stopped awhile, and gazed out to sea—not aspeck was to be seen on the starlit expanse so far as the eye could reach. He was beginning to think that he had been wrong in his calculations, and was about to take his way back again in a very provoked frame of mind, when an unhoped-for incident arrested him in the very act. Was it the uncertain twilight that cheated his sight? The large barque at the farthest end of the harbor seemed to be slowly moving, and then he heard the distant stroke of oars. At the same moment he sprang from his saddle, and thundered with a powerful fist at the door of the nearest house.
“A boat!” he shouted as the bewildered door-keeper opened to him. “In the name of the city-prefect I must row at once to the imperial guard-ship.”
“My lord, you are under a mistake,” said the slave not very civilly. “We are neither boat-keepers nor oarsmen. Euterpius lives here, the harbor-master.”
“So much the better. Take me to your master immediately, if you want to keep your head on your shoulders, fellow.”
Such a mode of address admitted of no denial; the harbor-master himself understood that the case was no common one, and in ten minutes he and the soldier were seated side by side in a light boat. They soon reached the imperial trireme, which at once took them on board, and the soldier explained in breathless haste how matters stood. The captain of the ship, a man of prompt determination, at once gave orders for sailing after the fugitives. While the soldiers made ready for a fight, the sailors weighed anchor and hauled in the chains. The oarsmen took their seats, the coxswain’s hammer gave the stroke, and they were off in chase.
The Batavian’s trireme had a good start; it was nowbut a speck, motionless as it seemed, on the north-western horizon.
It was not till nearly an hour later, that any one discovered on board the Batavia that they were being chased, and it was Magus’ eagle eye that made the unpleasant discovery. Keeping a bright lookout landward from the stern, he perceived that a dark object, which he at first thought to be part of the buildings above the harbor, was a vessel in motion. Its starting at so unusual an hour, and still more, the direction it was taking, roused his suspicions. Magus confessed his fears to Caius Aurelius, and, in the dawn which was now breaking, his master saw clearly the danger of their position. The conspirators—who after exchanging greetings had separated, some to rest, and some, wrapped in cloaks, like Aurelius himself, to pace the deck—were soon assembled to hold council in that centre-cabin, which, to Aurelius, had a peculiar sanctity, as having been the scene of his first meeting with Claudia. The steersman was called in, and Magus remained on deck to find out what more he might.
“Forgive me,” the Batavian began, “for having, under stress of circumstances, disturbed your slumbers. You have heard of the new danger which threatens us. It is a trireme, and, to judge from the speed she is making, well manned.”
“Then we must pull for our lives,” said Ulpius Trajanus. “A fight would be useless.”
“I know the ship,” said Cornelius Cinna, addressing the Hispanian. “It is the Charybdis, which has been in chase of pirates all the summer, off the coast of Cyrenaica. It was the only imperial vessel lying off Antium. She is well manned—no doubt of that; but onlywhen she is on service. At the end of the season the soldiers go on shore to do other duty, or take leave of absence. There are very few left on board during the winter.”
“If I understand Aurelius rightly, he spoke of the rowers, not of the fighting men,” replied Trajanus. “And as the oarsmen are in full numbers, leave has probably not yet begun.”
“Nay, you are mistaken. The oarsmen work at day in the harbor, but the law compels them to pass the night on board. I do not wish to fight! I only meant to say that, if it came to the worst, the battle is not so hopeless as you think, particularly as Caius Aurelius has arms on board for half a cohort of soldiers. So, if Fate will have it that we are not to escape scot-free, we can, at any rate, give the foe a warm reception.”
“Of course, of course,” cried Trajanus. “None but a coward yields without a struggle. However, our surest hope, I believe, is founded on the strength of the oarsmen. We must not forget the sheathed rostrum! Our Batavia is a splendid ship, and, Aurelius assures me, has a three-fold coating of timber, but how often has it happened that the strongest vessels have been pierced and sunk by a well-directed thrust from the prow of the enemy—and the imperial guard-ships are admirably armed. What will the most splendid courage avail us then? I would propose, therefore, that the rowers’ seats are at once manned by the very best of your oarsmen.”
“That has already been done, my lord!” said the steersman. “And as regards the foe’s rostrum, I confess I do not share your fears. If we fail to escape, we can but turn round. Then, prow to prow—two canplay at that game, and we shall see who is sunk first. We are not accustomed, it is true, to manœuvre like a man-of-war, but the Batavia answers her helm as a fish turns with its tail, and that is the great thing.”
He had hardly spoken, when Magus appeared.
“They are gaining on us. As I reckon, they have twenty oars more than the Batavia.”
“You hear!” exclaimed Cinna, springing from his seat “There is no farther time for deliberation. Let each man be assigned his part at once.”
“You then must be general of the forces,” said Nerva quietly. “Many are better at laying plans than you are, but in carrying them out you are unequalled.”
“Agreed,” said Cneius Afranius. “Our new Rome, met here on board the Batavia, invests Cinna with the dignity of Dictator.”
“I accept your jest as of good augury,” replied Nerva. “Our new Rome is indeed in the hour of its birth, and it is our part to see that it shall thrive and grow. Good! Now, Dictator, summon the troops.”
Cinna’s orders were soon issued. All the oarsmen were armed; those who were rowing, as well as those who were resting below till their turn came at the oars. Nor did the trireme lose ground while these preparations were being made; a sword and a small round shield were laid at the feet of each rower, without stopping him in his pull; they could not yet give up all hope of escape. If it became hopeless, the rowers were to cease at the word of command, to rest till the enemy was close upon them, and then pull again till the Charybdis was within grappling range. At the instant when the enemy’s boarding-planks were thrust acrossover the grappling-hooks,[72]the men were to seize their arms and await the commands of Ulpius Trajanus, who would lead them on deck.
Nerva himself, stepping from bench to bench, issued these instructions to the rowers. Dimly lighted by the ruddy gleam of a flickering lamp and by the twilight of dawn, the tall, majestic figure, with long silver hair, made a singular impression on the crew.
These men, who sat and steadily dipped their oars, were for the most part of Teutonic origin, natives of the Rhine provinces and the north-east of Germany—rough and primitive creatures, hardly understanding the Latin tongue—indeed Magus had to interpret to them their illustrious commander’s orders. But one thing they perfectly understood, their beloved master, Caius Aurelius, was in the utmost peril, and the proud but gentle old man, who passed down their ranks, was a friend of Aurelius and a partner in his danger. This was enough. They glanced down at the weapons, and were almost glad to think their strength would be tested at some other toil than pulling their oars. And then it was for Caius Aurelius! Was there in all the Roman Empire a knight, who treated his people with so much kindness—nay, with so much friendliness? What a jolly time they had just spent at Ostia! The long voyage from Trajectum, to be sure, had been a severe pull, but how handsomely he had rewarded them, and what perfect liberty they had enjoyed while the Batavia layat anchor. Well, he took after his worthy father—stern when duty was to be attended to, but, though strict, never hard; open-handed, and never without a kind thought for the humblest of his slaves. That was what the old merchant had been, and his son was the same....
While the rowers were indulging in these reflections and expressing their views in whispers, the men off duty were posted ready for action on the forepart of the deck, with Cornelius Cinna himself at their head. He desired the Batavian to remain with the ship’s servants in the cabins till the moment of attack. Nerva—and this was unanimously agreed to by all the conspirators—in consideration of his advanced age—was entreated to remain in the hold of the vessel, till the battle was decided. But the old man stoutly refused; he still had vigor enough, he said, to wield a blade, and a man was never too old to die for freedom by the side of brave comrades. So Cocceius Nerva was told off to the division under Aurelius—only as a private soldier, for he positively refused to command. Cneius Afranius and the old, one-armed centurion took their places by Cinna, somewhat as his adjutants or lieutenants.
All this time they had rowed steadily ahead. To the east, over Latium, it grew lighter every minute. The elaborate rigging of the imperial trireme was now distinctly visible, for its sails, like those of the Batavia, were close-reefed, the wind being contrary. The three ranks of oars on each side rose and fell like broad black wings. There was no longer any doubt. She was gaining on them. Her oarsmen outnumbered those of the Batavia, not by twenty only, but by thirty or more. Aurelius measured with his eye the fast diminishing distance between them, not without a feeling of apprehension. On board both vessels there was absolute silence; nothing broke the stillness of the dawn but the splash of the oars’ blades in the water and the hammer-strokes of the time-keepers. Not another vessel was to be seen on the calm lead-colored waste. In all this vast and desert expanse the only living thing was that embodiment of stealthy and vindictive hatred!...
It was a ghastly thought, and he shivered.
Another quarter of an hour went by, and the most persistently hopeful could no longer dream of escape. Cornelius Cinna gave the word; the Batavia turned round and the oars ceased to lash the waves. The Charybdis immediately slackened her tremendous speed, evidently in order to put on a final spurt for a killing thrust She came nearer and nearer, till within about three hundred paces. Then the rowers suddenly fell to with all their force; the ship made a half-turn and rushed with furious might on the Batavia, which was lying still. But Chrysostomus, her steersman, was an experienced seaman. With five or six strokes she turned sharply round, and the Charybdis shot by, close to along-side but harmless.
She turned back at once; the Batavia was again lying to in watchful expectation, her gleaming rostrum threatening the foe, and the Charybdis was not far enough off to repeat her attack with any effect. She now took another line of action. She pulled slowly and peacefully to within a speaking distance of the Batavia. The city-prefect’s captain came to the bulwarks with the ship’s commander and roared out to them, in the tone of a conqueror, to give up their useless resistance and return to Antium.
“And who are you?” asked Cinna contemptuously.
“A servant of Caesar’s and a guardian of the insulted majesty of the law.”
“Or else a pirate[73]....”
“A foolish subterfuge!—You know the sovereign’s guard-ship; aye, as well as I know the face of a rebel. Are not you Cinna, the eloquent advocate of the Nazarenes?”
Cinna did not fail to observe that, during this colloquy, the Charybdis, stealthily, worked only by the stern-most oars, was creeping nearer and nearer. This was exactly what he had hoped for. If only they would grapple! If only they would board. A fight on the decks of the Batavia was, of all the chances open to them, by far the most promising; their knowledge of the vessel, and particularly of its trap-doors and ladders would be a precious advantage. Cinna therefore judged it wise to parley a little longer with the enemy, that he might be deluded into believing that his scheme was not perceived or understood.
“Aye—that is my name!” he shouted back. “And who in the world has any right to dog my movements and detain me here?”
“Caesar and the law,” replied the soldier. “Do not resist, but trust rather to Caesar’s clemency than to the issue of an unequal battle.”
“I do not understand your meaning. CorneliusCinna sails for Liguria.[74]—What spite is this, that dares to hinder his doing so?”
The warrior exchanged a few words with the ship’s captain.
“Is not Caius Aurelius Menapius on board?” he asked after a short pause.
“Not to my knowledge. Now, make an end of this insolent catechising. I owe you no account of my proceedings, and I demand a free passage—or, by Pluto!...”
Magus, meanwhile, without speaking a word, had run down to the armory. There he seized a sharp axe, which he tried on the panel of the cabin, and then took the heft firmly between his teeth. While Cornelius Cinna stood disputing with the officer, our friend the Goth glided like a weasel through the port-hole near the rudder, and slid softly into the sea. For a few seconds he lay floating on his back, breathing deeply through the nostrils; then he dived in the clear blue water and came up again close to the rudder of the unsuspecting Charybdis. Again he drew a deep breath; then, swimming with his left hand, he took the axe in his right, and with two or three mighty blows he severed the rope by which the rudder was worked.[75]A broad smile of satisfaction shone on his tanned face; he dropped the axe into the sea and made his way back to the Batavia.
The Goth was out of reach before the enemy’s crew fully understood their disaster. The harpoons and lances they flung after him missed their mark, and he got on board unhurt.
Chrysostomus, the steersman, had at the same time handled his ship very cleverly. The Batavia was now in a position, on her part, to run the foe through the flank with her iron-shod beak so effectually, that he would never have made his way home, for with a loose rudder the Charybdis was of course defenceless. Cinna, however, would not hear of this. He would have fought for freedom—he would not fight for revenge.
Three blows of the hammer, the Batavia’s oars dipped deeply in the waves and she rode majestically away to the westward. The Charybdis did not even attempt to chase her.
The soldier and the captain of the vessel foamed with rage. They had been so sure of their prey, and it had slipped through their fingers when they thought they held it fast. It was their confidence, which had led to their disappointment.
Cornelius Cinna leaned thoughtfully over the taffrail, gazing at the Charybdis as she diminished to a speck, for she had taken a homeward course to Antium. Strange thoughts filled his brain. Was it so easy as this, to make a proud and well-armed vessel incapably helpless? One bold stroke, and she had become unmanageable—was it not the same perhaps with the vessel of State?[76]Could it be so difficult to deal a blow at thatship’s rudder, to board the drifting barque and to pull it at last into the haven of freedom and peace, there to be freshly fitted and manned for a happier voyage in the future?