Had the city been quiet, we might have aroused attention, and a dozen
chance passengers half as brave as thyself might have foiled us at the
very moment of success. Now, the streets will be clear of small parties,
and it is easy for us to avoid a large body before it approaches. One act
of violence amongst the hundreds sure to be committed to‐night, will never
again be heard of. The three or four resolute slaves under thine orders,
will be taken to belong to one or other of the fighting factions, and thus
even the patron’s spotless character will escape without a blemish.
Besides, in such a turmoil as we are like to have by sundown, a woman
might scream her heart out, and nobody would think of noticing her. On
with that sword again, my hero, and let us go softly down into the
street.”
“But if the old Prætorians succeed,” urged the other, evincing a great
disinclination for the adventure, “what will become of Cæsar? and with
Cæsar’s fall down goes the patron too, and then who is to bear us harmless
from the effects of our expedition to‐night?”
“Oh! thick‐witted Ajax!” answered the Egyptian, laughing; “bold and strong
in action as the lion; but in council innocent as the lamb. Knowest thou
the tribune so little as to think he will be on the losing side? If there
is tumult in Rome, and revolt, and the city boils and seethes like a huge
flesh‐pot casting up its choicest morsels to the surface, dost thou
suppose that Placidus is not stirring the fire underneath? I tell thee
that, come what may of Cæsar to‐night, to‐morrow will behold the tribune
more popular and more powerful than ever; and I for one will beware of
disobeying his behests.”
The last argument was not without its effect. Damasippus, though much
against the grain, was persuaded that of two perils he had better choose
the lesser; and it speaks well for the ascendency gained by Placidus over
his followers, that the cleverer and more daring knave should have obeyed
him unhesitatingly from self‐interest, the ruffian and the coward from
fear. Damasippus, then, girding on his sword once more, and assuming as
warlike a port as was compatible with his sinking heart, marched down into
the street to accompany his disguised companion on their nefarious
undertaking, with many personal fears and misgivings for the result.
How different, save in its disquietude, was the noble nature at the same
moment seeking repose and finding none, within half a bow‐shot of the
garret in which these two knaves were plotting. Despite his blameless
life, despite his distinguished career, Caius L. Licinius sat and brooded,
lonely and sorrowful, in his stately home. In that noble palace, long
ranges of galleries and chambers were filled with objects of art and
taste, beautiful, and costly, and refined. If a yard of the wall had
looked bare, it would have been adorned forthwith by some trophy of
barbaric arms taken in warfare. If a corner had seemed empty, it would
have been at once filled with an exquisite group of marble, wrought into
still life by some Greek artist’s chisel. Not a recess in that pile of
building, but spoke of comfort, complete in every respect, and the only
empty chamber in the whole was its owner’s heart. Nay, more than empty,
for it was haunted by the ghost of a beloved memory, and the happiness
that was never to come again.
Cold and dreary is the air of that mysterious tenement where we buried our
treasures long ago. Cold and dreary, like the atmosphere of the tomb, but
a perfume hangs about it still, because love, being divine, is therefore
eternal; and though the turf be laid damp and heavy over the beloved head,
our tears fall like the blessed rain from heaven, and water the very
barrenness of the grave, till at length, through weary patience and humble
resignation, the flowers of hope begin to spring, and faith tells us they
shall bloom hereafter, in another and a better world.
Licinius was very lonely, and at a time of life when, perhaps, loneliness
is most oppressive to the mind. Youth has so much to anticipate, is so
full of hope, is so sanguine, so daring, that its own dreams are
sufficient for its sustenance; but in middle age, men have already found
out that the mirage is but sand and sunshine after all; they look forward,
indeed, still, yet only from habit, and because the excitement that was
once such intoxicating rapture, is now but a necessary stimulant. If they
have no ties of family, no affections to take them out of themselves, they
become pompous triflers, or despondent recluses, according as their
temperaments lead them to inordinate self‐importance or excessive
humility. Not so when the quiver is full, and the hearth is merry with the
patter of little feet, and the ring of childish laughter. There is a charm
to dispel all the evil, and call up all the good, even of the worst man’s
nature, in the soft white brow, pure from the stamp of sin and care, in
the bold bright eyes that look up so trustingly to his own. There is a
sense of protection and responsibility, that few natures are so depraved
as to repudiate, in the household relationship which acknowledges and
obeys the father as its head; and there is no man so callous or so
reckless, but he would wish to appear nobler and better than he is in the
eyes of his child. Licinius had none of these incentives to virtue; but
the lofty nature and the loving heart that could worship a memory, and
feel that it was a reality still, had kept him pure from vice. He had
never of late attached himself much to anything, till Esca became an
inmate of his household; but since he had been in habits of daily
intercourse with the Briton, a feeling of content and well‐being, he would
have found it difficult to analyse, had gradually crept over him. Perhaps
he would have remained unconscious of his slave’s influence, had it not
been for the blank occasioned by his departure. He missed him sadly now,
and wondered why, at every moment of the day, he found himself thinking of
the pleasant familiar face and frank cordial smile.
So much alone, he had acquired grave habits of reflection, even of that
self‐examination which is so beneficial an exercise when impartially
performed, but which men so rarely practise without a self‐deception that
obviates all its good effects. This evening he was in a more thoughtful
mood than common; this evening, more than ever, it seemed to him that his
was an aimless, fruitless life; that he had let the material pleasures of
existence slip through his fingers, and taken nothing in exchange. Of what
availed his toils, his enterprise, his love of country, his self‐denial,
his endurance of hardship and privation? What was he the better now, that
he had marched, and watched, and bled, and preserved whole colonies for
the empire; and sat glorious, crowned with laurels in the triumphal car?
He looked round on his stately walls, and the trophies that adorned them,
thinking the while that even such a home as this might be purchased too
dear at the expense of a lifetime. Gold and marble, corridors and columns,
ivory couches and Tyrian carpets, were these equivalents for youth’s toil
and manhood’s care, and at last a desolate old age? What was this ambition
that led men so irresistibly up the steepest paths, by the brink of such
fatal precipices? Had he ever experienced its temptations? He scarcely
knew; he could not realise them now. Had Guenebra lived, indeed, and had
she been his own, he might have prized honour and renown, and a name that
was on all men’s lips, for her dear sake. To see the kind eyes brighten;
to call up a smile into the beloved face, that would surely have been
reward enough, and that would never be. Then he fell to thinking of the
bright days when they were all in all to each other, when the very sky
seemed fairer, while he watched for her white dress under the oak‐tree.
Was he not perfectly happy then? Would he not at least have been perfectly
happy could he have called her, as he hoped to do, his own? Honesty
answered, No. At the very best there was a vague longing, a something
wanting, a sense of insufficiency, of insecurity, and even discontent. If
it was so then, how had it been since? Passing over the sharp sudden
stroke, so numbing his senses at the time that a long interval had to
elapse ere he awoke to its full agony—passing over the subsequent days of
yearning, and nights of vain regret, the desolation that laid waste a
heart which would bear fruit no more, he reviewed the long years in which
he had striven to make duty and the love of country fill the void, and was
forced to confess that here, too, all was barren. There was a something
ever wanting, even to complete the dull torpor of that resignation which
philosophy inculcated, and common sense enjoined. What was it? Licinius
could not answer his own question, though he felt that it must have some
solution, at which man’s destiny intended him to arrive.
All the Roman knew, all he could realise, was that the spring was gone
long ago, with her buds of promise, and her laughing morning skies; that
the glory of summer had passed away, with its lustrous beauty and its
burnished plains, and its deep dark foliage quivering in the heat; that
the blast of autumn had strewn the cold earth now with faded flowers and
withered leaves, and all the wreck of all the hopes that blossomed so
tenderly, and bloomed so bright and fair. The heaven was cold and grey,
and between him and heaven the bare branches waved and nodded, mocking,
pointing with spectral fingers to the dull cheerless sky. Could he but
have believed, could he but have vaguely imaged to himself that there
would come another spring; that belief, that vague imagining, had been to
Licinius the one inestimable treasure for which he would have bartered all
else in the world.
In vain he sought, and looked about him for something on which to lean;
for something out of, and superior to himself, inspiring him with that
sense of being protected, for which humanity feels so keen, yet so
indefinite, a desire. What is the bravest and wisest of mankind, but a
child in the dark, groping for the parental hand that shall guide its
uncertain steps? Where was he to find the ideal that he could honestly
worship, on the superiority of which he could heartily depend? The
mythology of Rome, degraded as it had become, was not yet stripped of all
the graceful attributes it owed to its Hellenic origin. That which was
Greek, might indeed be evil, yet it could scarce fail to be fair; but what
rational man could ground his faith on the theocracy of Olympus, or
contemplate with any feeling save disgust that material Pantheism, in
which the lowest even of human vices was exalted into a divinity? As well
become a worshipper of Isis at once, and prostitute, to the utter
degradation of the body, all the noblest and fairest imagery of the mind.
No, the deities that Homer sang were fit subjects for the march of those
Greek hexameters, sonorous and majestic as the roll of the Ægean sea; fit
types of sensuous perfection, to be wrought by the Greek chisel, from out
the veined blocks of smooth, white Parian stone; but for man, intellectual
man, to bow down before the crafty Hermes, or the thick‐witted god of
forges, or the ambrosial front of father Jove himself, the least ideal of
all, was a simple absurdity, that could scarce impose upon a woman or a
child.
Licinius had served in the East, and he bethought him now of a nation
against whom he had stood in arms, brave fierce soldiers, men instinct
with public virtue and patriotism; whose rites, different from those of
all other races, were observed with scrupulous fidelity and self‐denial.
This people, he had heard, worshipped a God of whom there was no material
type, whose being was omnipresent and spiritual, on whom they implicitly
depended when all else failed, and trusting in whom they never feared to
die. But they admitted none to partake with them in their advantages, and
their faith seemed to inculcate hatred of the stranger no less than
dissensions and strife amongst themselves.
“Is there nothing, alas! but duty, stern cold duty, to fill this void?”
thought Licinius. “Be it so, then; my sword shall be once more at the
service of my country, and I will die in my harness like a Roman and a
soldier at the last!”
CHAPTER VII
“HABET!”
Hippias, the fencing‐master, had completed his preparations for the night.
With a certain military instinct, as necessary to his profession as to
that of the legitimate soldier, he could rely upon his own dispositions,
when they were once made, with perfect confidence, and a total absence of
anxiety for the result. Like all men habituated to constant strife, he was
never so completely in his element as when surrounded by perils, only to
be warded off by cool, vigilant courage; and though he may have had
moments in which he longed for the softer joys of affection and repose, it
needed but the clang of a buckler, or the gleam of a sword, to rouse him
into his fiercer self once more.
It had been his habit to attend Valeria, for the purpose of instructing
her in swordsmanship, by an hour’s practice on certain appointed days.
Everything connected with the amphitheatre possessed at this period such a
morbid fascination for all classes of the Roman people, that even ladies
of rank esteemed it a desirable accomplishment to understand the use of
the sword; and it is said that on more than one occasion women of noble
birth had been known to take part in the deadly games themselves. These,
however, were rare instances of such complete defiance of all modesty and
even natural feeling; but to thrust, and shout, and stamp, in the conflict
of mimic warfare, was simply esteemed the regular exercise and the healthy
excitement of every patrician dame who aspired to a fashionable
reputation. Such sudorifics, accompanied by excessive use of the bath and
a free indulgence in slaking the thirst, arising from so severe a course
of treatment, must have been highly detrimental to female beauty; but even
this consideration was postponed to the absorbing claims of fashion, and
then, as now, a woman was content and pleased to disfigure herself by any
process, however painful and inconvenient, providing other women did the
same.
It is possible, too, that the manly symmetry of form, the tough thews and
sinews of their instructors, were not without effect on pupils, whose
hearts softened in proportion as their muscles became hard, and whose
whole habits and education tended to interest them in the person and
profession of the gladiator. Be this as it may, the fencing‐masters of
Rome had but little time left on their hands, and, of these, Hippias was
doubtless the most sought after by the fair. It was his custom to neglect
nothing, however trifling, connected with his calling. No details were too
small to be attended to by one whose daily profession taught him that life
and victory might depend on the mere quiver of an eyelid, the accidental
slip of a buckle; and, besides, he took a strange pride in his deadly
trade, and especially in the methodical regularity with which he carried
it out. Though bound to‐night for the desperate enterprise which should
make or mar him; though confident that, in either event, he would to‐
morrow be far beyond the necessities of a gladiator, it was part of his
character to play out his part thoroughly to‐day. Valeria would expect
him, as usual, before the bathing‐hour on the following morning. It was
but decent he should leave a message at her house that he might be
detained. The very wording of his excuse brought to his mind the
possibilities of the next few hours—the many chances of failure in the
enterprise, failure which, to him at least, the leader of desperate men,
was synonymous with certain death.
To‐day, for the first time, as he turned his steps towards her mansion, a
soft, half‐sorrowful, yet not unpleasing sensation stole into his heart as
the image of its mistress rose before him in all the pride of her stately
beauty. He had often admired the regularity of her haughty features—had
scanned, in his own critical way, with unqualified approval the lines of
her noble figure, and the symmetry of her firm, well‐turned limbs; had
even longed to touch that wealth of silken hair when it shook loose in her
exertions, and yet—a strange sensation for such a man—had flinched and
felt oppressed when, placing her once in a position of defence, a tress of
it had fallen across his hand. Now, it seemed to him that he would give
much to live those few moments over again; that he would like to see her
once more, if, indeed, as was probable, it would be for the last time;
that there was no other woman to be compared with her in Rome; and that,
with all her glowing beauty and all her physical attractions, her pride
was her greatest charm.
He was a desperate man, about to play a desperate game for life. Such
thoughts in such a heart and at such a time quicken with fearful rapidity
into evil. Admiration, untempered by the holier leavening of that
affection which can only exist in the breast that has kept itself pure,
soon grows to cruelty and selfishness. The love of beauty, poisoned by the
love of strife, seethes into a fierce passionate longing, less that of the
lover for his mistress than of the tiger for its prey. Valeria was a proud
woman, the proudest and the fairest in Rome. He drew his breath hard as he
thought what a wild triumph it would be to bend that stately neck, and
humble that pride to his very feet. Methodical and soldierlike, he had
seen to everything with his own eyes. The plot was laid, the conspirators
were armed and instructed, there was yet an hour or two to spare before
the appointed gathering at the tribune’s house, and that time he resolved
should be devoted to Valeria; at least, he would feast his eyes once more
on that glorious beauty, of which he now seemed to acknowledge the full
power. He would see her, would bid her farewell. She had always welcomed
him cordially and kindly; perhaps she would be sorry to lose him
altogether. He smiled a very evil smile, though his heart beat faster than
it had done since he was a boy, as he halted under the statue of Hermes in
her porch.
And Valeria was sitting in her chamber, with her head buried in her hands,
and her long brown hair sweeping like a mantle to her feet. All the
feelings that could most goad and madden a woman were tearing at her
heart. She dared not—for the sake of tottering reason she dared not—think
of the tribune’s white face and dropping jaw, and limbs strewed helpless
on the couch. She suffered the vision, indeed, to weigh upon her like some
oppressive nightmare; but she abstained, with an effort of which she was
yet fully conscious, from analysing its meaning or recalling its details,
above all, from considering its origin and its effect. No! the image of
Esca still filled her brain and her heart. Esca in the amphitheatre; Esca
chained and sleeping on the hard hot pavement; Esca walking by her side
through the shady streets; and Esca turning away with his noble figure and
his manly step, exulting in the liberty that set him free from _her_!
Then came a rush of those softer feelings, that were required to render
her torture unbearable: the sting of what might have been; the picture of
herself (she could see herself in her mind’s eye—beautiful and
fascinating, in all the advantages of dress and jewels) leaning on that
strong arm, and the kind brave face looking down into hers with the
protective air that became it so well. To give him all; to tell him all
she had risked, all she had done for his sake, and to hear his loving
accents in reply! She almost fancied in her dream that this had actually
come to pass, so vividly did her heart imagine to itself its dearest
longings. Then she saw another figure in the place that ought to be her
own—another face into which he was looking as he had never looked in hers.
It was the dark‐eyed girl’s! The dark‐eyed girl, who had been her rival
throughout! Would she have done as much for him with her pale face and her
frightened, shrinking ways? And now, ere this, he had reached her home,
was whispering in her ear, with his arm round her waist. Perhaps he was
boasting of the conquest he had made over the haughty Roman lady, and
telling her that he had scorned Valeria for her dear sake. Then all that
was evil in her nature gained the ascendant, and with the bitter
recklessness that has ruined so many an undisciplined heart, she said to
herself—“There is no reality but evil. Life is an illusion, and hope a
lie. It matters little what becomes of me now!”
When Myrrhina entered she found her lady busied in rearranging the folds
of her robe and her disordered tresses. It was no part of Valeria’s
character to show by her outward bearing what was passing in her mind, and
least of all would she have permitted her attendant to guess at the
humiliation she had undergone. The waiting‐maid, indeed, was a little
puzzled; but she had gained so much knowledge, both by observation and
experience, of the strange effects produced by over‐excitement on her sex,
that she never suffered herself to be surprised at a feminine vagary of
any description. Now, though she wondered why Esca was gone, and why her
mistress was so reserved and haughty, she refrained discreetly from
question or remark, contenting herself with a silent offer of her
services, and arranging the brown hair into a plaited coronet on Valeria’s
brows, without betraying by her manner that she was conscious anything
unusual had taken place.
After a few moments’ silence, her mistress’s voice was sufficiently
steadied for her to speak.
“I did not send for you,” said she. “What do you want here?”
Myrrhina’s hands were busied with the long silken tresses, and she held a
comb between her teeth. Nevertheless, she answered volubly.
“I would not have disturbed you, madam, this warm, sultry evening—and I
rebuked the porter soundly for letting him in; only as he said, to be
sure, he never was denied before, and I thought, perhaps, you would not be
displeased to see him, if it was only for a few minutes, and he seemed so
anxious and hurried—and, indeed, he never has much time to spare, so I
bade him wait in the inner hall while I came to let you know.”
Hoping even against hope! She knew it was impossible, yet her heart leapt
as she thought—“Oh! if it were only Esca who had turned back!”
“I will see him,” said she quietly, prolonging the illusion by purposely
avoiding to ask who this untimely visitor might be.
In another minute Hippias stood before her—Hippias, the fencing‐master, a
man in whose dangerous career she had always taken a vague interest; whose
personal prowess she admired, and whose reputation, such as it was,
possessed for her a wild fascination of its own. He was reckless, too,
from the very nature of his profession; and she, in her present mood, more
reckless, more desperate than any gladiator of them all. It would have
done her good to stand, with naked steel, against some fierce wild beast
or deadly foe. There was nothing, she felt, that she could not dare to‐
day. Nerve and brain wound up to the highest pitch of excitement—heart and
feelings crushed, and wounded, and sore. When the reaction came, it would
necessarily be fatal; when the tide ebbed, it would leave a wearied,
helpless sufferer on the shore.
Such was the frame of mind in which Valeria received the gladiator;
outwardly impassive—for her colour did not even deepen, nor her breath
come quicker at his unexpected appearance—inwardly vexed by a conflict of
tumultuous feelings, and longing for any change—any anodyne that could
deaden or alleviate her pain. How could she but respond to his manly,
respectful farewell? How could she but listen to the few burning words in
which he spoke of long‐suppressed and hopeless adoration, or pretend not
to be interested in the desperate enterprise which he hinted might prevent
his ever looking on her fair face again. He soothed her self‐love; he
roused her curiosity; he set her pride on its broken pedestal again, and
propped it with a strong, yet gentle hand; and so the two thunder‐clouds
drew nearer still and nearer, ere they met, to be destroyed and riven by
the lightning their own contact had engendered.
CHAPTER VIII
TOO LATE!
Esca, treading on air, hastened from Valeria’s house with the common
selfishness of love, ignoring all the pain and disappointment he had left
behind him. The young blood coursed merrily through his veins, and, in
spite of his anxiety, he exulted in the sense of being at liberty once
more. He was alive, doubtless, to the generosity and devotion of the woman
who had set him free, nor was he so blind as to be unaware of the
affection that had driven her to such desperate measures for his sake; and
in the first glow of a gratitude, that had in it no vestige of tenderer
feelings, he had resolved, when his mission was accomplished and Mariamne
placed in safety, he would return and throw himself at the Roman lady’s
feet once more. But the farther he left her stately porch behind, the
weaker became this generous resolution, and ere long he had little
difficulty in persuading himself that his first duty was to the Jewess,
and that in his future actions he must be guided by circumstances, or, in
other words, follow the bent of his own inclinations. Meanwhile, in spite
of his wounded foot, he sped on towards the Tiber as fast as, in years
gone by, he had followed the lean wolf, or the foam‐flecked boar, over the
green hills of Britain. The sun had not been down an hour when he entered
the well‐known street that was now enchanted ground; yet, while he looked
up into the darkening sky, his heart turned sick within him at the thought
that he might be too late, after all.
The garden‐door was open, as she must have left it. She was not,
therefore, in the house. He might find her at the riverside, and have the
happiness of a few minutes alone with her, ere he brought her back and
placed her, for the second time, in safety within her father’s walls. The
more prudent course, he confessed to himself at the time, would have been
to alarm Eleazar, and put him on the defensive at once; but he had been so
long without seeing Mariamne, the peril in which she was placed had so
endeared her to him, and his own near approach to death had stamped her
image so vividly on his heart, that he could not resist the temptation of
seeking her at the water‐side, and telling her, unwatched by other ears or
eyes, all he had felt and endured since they last parted, and how, for
both their sakes, they must never part again.
Full of such thoughts, he ran down to the water’s edge, and sought the
broken column where she was accustomed to descend and fill her pitcher
from the stream. In vain his eager eye watched for the dark‐clad figure
and the dear pale face. Once in the deepening twilight his heart leapt as
he thought he saw her crouching low beneath the bank, and sank again to
find he had been deceived by a fallen slab of stone. Then he turned for
one more searching look ere he departed, and his glance rested on a
pitcher, broken into a dozen fragments, at his feet. He did not know that
it was Mariamne’s. How should he, when a thousand pitchers carried by a
thousand women to the Tiber every evening were precisely alike? Yet his
blood ran cold through his veins and his fears hurried him back, almost
insensibly, to Eleazar’s door, which he burst open without going through
the ceremony of knocking.
Her father and his brother were in the house. The former leapt to his feet
and snatched a javelin from the wall ere he recognised his visitor. The
latter, less prone to do battle at a moment’s notice, laid his hand on
Eleazar’s arm, and calmly said—
“It is the friend who is always welcome, and whom we have expected day by
day in vain.”
Everything looked so much as usual that for a moment Esca felt almost
reassured. It was possible Mariamne might be even now busied with
household affairs, safe in the inner chamber. A lover’s bashfulness
brought the blood to his cheeks, as he reflected if it were so it would be
difficult to account for his unceremonious entrance; but the recollection
of her danger soon stifled all such trivial considerations, and he
confronted her father impetuously, and asked him, almost in a threatening
tone—
“Where is Mariamne?”
Eleazar looked first simply astonished, then somewhat offended. He
answered, however, with more command of temper than was his wont.
“My daughter has but now left the house with her pitcher. She will be home
again almost immediately; but what is this to thee?”
“What is it to me?” repeated Esca in a voice of thunder, catching hold of
his questioner’s arm at the same time with an iron grasp for which the
fierce old Jew liked him none the worse—“What is it to thee, to him, to
all of us? I tell thee, old man, whilst we are drivelling here, they are
bearing her off into captivity ten thousand times worse than death! I
heard the plot—I heard it with my own ears, lying chained like a dog on
the hard stones. The wicked tribune was to make her his own this very
night, and though he has met his reward, the villains that do his bidding
have got her in their power ere this. The pure—the loved—the
beautiful—Mariamne—Mariamne!”
He hid his face in his hands, and his strong frame shook with agony from
head to heel.
It was the turn of Calchas now to start to his feet, and look about him as
if in search of a weapon. His first impulse was resistance to oppression,
even by the strong hand. With Eleazar, on the contrary, the instincts of
the soldier predominated, and the very magnitude of the emergency seemed
to endow him with preternatural coolness and composure. He knit his thick
brows indeed, and there was a smothered glare in his eye that boded no
good to an enemy when the time for an outbreak should arrive, but his
voice was low and distinct, as in a few sharp eager questions he gathered
the outline of the plot that was to rob him of his daughter. Then he
thought for a few seconds ere he spoke.
“The men that were to take her? What were they like? I would fain know
them if I came across them.”
His white teeth gleamed like a wild beast’s with a smile ominous of his
intentions on their behalf.
“Damasippus and Oarses,” replied the Briton. “The former stout, sleek,
heavy, and beetle‐browed. The latter pale, dark, and thin. An Egyptian
with an Egyptian’s false face, and more than an Egyptian’s cruelty and
cunning.”
“Where live they?” asked the Jew, buckling at the same time a formidable
two‐edged sword to his side.
“In the Flaminian Way,” replied the other. “High up in some garret where
we should never find them. But they will not take her there. She is by
this time at the other end of the city in the tribune’s house.” And again
he groaned in anguish of spirit at the thought.
“And that house?” asked Eleazar, still busied with his warlike
preparations. “How is it defended? I know its outside well, and an easy
entrance from the wall to the inner court; but what resistance shall we
encounter within? what force can the tribune’s people raise at a moment’s
outcry?”
“Alas!” answered Esca. “To‐night of all nights, the house of Placidus is
garrisoned like a fortress. A chosen band of gladiators are to sup with
the tribune, and afterwards to take possession of the palace and drag
Cæsar from the throne. When they find the banquet prepared for them, I
know them too well to think they will separate without partaking of it,
even though their host be lying dead on the festal couch. She will become
the prey of men like Hippias, Lutorius, and Euchenor. But if we cannot
rescue her, at least we may die in the attempt.”
Even in his anxiety for his daughter, such news as this could not but
startle the emissary of the Jewish nation. In an instant’s time he had run
over its importance, as it regarded his own mission and the probable
influence on the destinies of his country. Should the conspiracy succeed,
Vitellius might already be numbered with the dead, and instead of that
easy self‐indulgent glutton, over whom he had already obtained
considerable influence, he would have to do with the bold, sagacious, far‐
seeing general, the remorseless enemy of his nation, whom neither he nor
any of his countrymen had ever succeeded in deceiving by stratagem or
worsting by force of arms. When the purple descended on Vespasian the doom
of Jerusalem was sealed. Nevertheless, Eleazar concentrated his mind on
the present emergency. In a few words he laid out his plan for the rescue
of his daughter.
“The freedmen’s garret must be our first point of attack,” said he. “The
tribune would scarce have ordered them to bring their prize to his house
to‐night, where there would be so many to dispute it with him, and where
dissension would be fatal to his great enterprise. Calchas and I will
proceed immediately to the dwelling of this Damasippus and his fellow‐
villain. Your directions will enable us to find it. You, Esca, speed off
at once to the tribune’s house. You will soon learn whether she has been
brought there. If so, come to us without delay in the Flaminian Way. I am
not entirely without friends even here, and I will call on two or three of
my people to help as I go along. Young man, you are bold and true. We will
have her out of the tribune’s house if we pull the walls down with our
naked hands; and let me but come within reach of the villains who take
shelter there”—here his face darkened and his frame quivered in a paroxysm
of suppressed fury—“may my father’s tomb be dishonoured, and the name of
my mother defiled, if I dip not my hands to the very elbows in their
hearts’ blood!”
To be told he was brave and true by her father added fuel to Esca’s
enthusiasm. It was indeed much for Eleazar to confess on behalf of a
stranger and a heathen, but the fierce old warrior’s heart warmed to a
kindred nature that seemed incapable of selfish fear, and he approved
hugely, moreover, of the implicit attention with which the Briton listened
to his directions, and his readiness for instantaneous action, however
desperate. Calchas, too, clasped the young man warmly by the hand.
“We are but three,” said he, “three against a host. Yet I have no fear. I
trust in One who never failed His servants yet. One to whom emperors and
legions are as a handful of dust before the wind, or a few dried thorns on
the beacon‐fire. And so do you, my son, so do you, though you know it not.
But the time shall come when His very benefits shall compel you to confess
your Master, and when in sheer gratitude you shall enrol yourself amongst
those who serve Him faithfully even unto death.”
Many a time during that eventful and anxious night had Esca occasion to
remember the old man’s solemn words. Its horrors, its catastrophes, its
alternations of hope and fear, might have driven one mad, who had nothing
to depend upon but his own unaided strength and resolution. Few great
actions have been performed, few tasks exacting the noble heroism of
endurance fulfilled successfully, without extraneous aid, without the help
of some leading principle out of, and superior to, the man. Honour,
patriotism, love, loyalty, all have supported their votaries through
superhuman exertions and difficulties that seemed insurmountable, teaching
them to despise dangers and hardships with a courage sterner than mortals
are expected to possess; but none of these can impart that confidence
which is born of faith in the believer’s breast;—that confidence which
enables him to take good and evil with an equal mind, to look back on the
past without a sigh, forward on the future without a fear; and though the
present may be all a turmoil of peril, uncertainty, and confusion, to
stand calmly in the midst, doing the best he can with a stout heart and an
unruffled brow, while he leaves the result fearlessly and trustfully in
the hand of God.
Eleazar and Calchas were already equipped for the pursuit. The one armed
to the teeth, and looking indeed a formidable enemy; the other mild and
hopeful as usual, venerable with his white hair and beard, and carrying
but a simple staff for his weapon. In grave silence, but with a grasp of
the hand more emphatic than any spoken words, the three parted on their
search; Esca threading his way at once through the narrow and devious
streets that led towards the tribune’s house—that house which he had left
so gladly but a few short hours ago when, rescued by Valeria, he bade her
farewell, exulting in the liberty that enabled him to seek Mariamne’s side
once more. He soon reached the hated dwelling. All there seemed quiet as
the grave. From other quarters of the city indeed there came, now and
again, the roar of distant voices which rose and fell at intervals as the
tide of tumult ebbed and flowed, but, preoccupied as he was, Esca took
little heed of these ominous sounds, for they bore him no intelligence of
Mariamne. All was silent in the porch, all was silent in the vestibule and
outer hall, but as he ventured across its marble pavement, he heard the
bustle of preparation, and the din of flagons within.
It was at the risk of liberty and life, that he crept noiselessly forward,
and peeped into the banqueting‐hall, which was already partially lighted
up for the feast. Shrinking behind a column, he observed the slaves, many
of whom he knew well by sight, laying covers, burnishing vases, and
otherwise making ready for a sumptuous entertainment. He listened for a
few moments, hoping to gather from their conversation some news of the
Jewess and her captors. All at once he started and trembled violently.
Bold as he was, in common with his northern countrymen a vein of
superstition ran through his nature, and though he feared nothing tangible
or corporeal, he held in considerable dread all that touched upon the
confines of the spiritual and the unknown. There within ten paces of him,
ghastly pale, with dark circles round his eyes, and clad in white, stood
the figure of the tribune, pointing, as it seemed to him, with shadowy
hand at the different couches, and giving directions in a low sepulchral
voice for the order of the banquet.
“Not yet!” he heard the apparition exclaim in tones of languid, fretful
impatience. “Not come yet! the idle loiterers! Well, she must preside
there at the supper‐table and take her place at once as mistress here. Ho!
slaves! bring more flowers! Fill the tall golden cup with Falernian and
set it next to mine!”
Well did Esca know to whom these directions must refer. Though his blood
had been chilled for an instant by this reappearance, as he believed it,
of his enemy from the grave, he soon collected his scattered energies and
summoned his courage back, with the hateful conviction that, alive or
dead, the tribune was resolved to possess himself of Mariamne. And this he
vowed to prevent, ay, though he should slay his dark‐eyed love with his
own hand.
It was obvious now that Damasippus and Oarses would bring the captive
straight to their patron’s house, that Eleazar and Calchas had gone upon a
fool’s errand to the freedmen’s garret in the Flaminian Way. What would he
have given to be cheered by the wise counsels of the one, and backed by
the strong arm of the other! Would there be time for him to slip from here
unobserved, and to summon them to his aid? Three desperate men might cut
their way through all the slaves that Placidus could muster, and if they
had any chance of success at all it must be before the arrival of the
gladiators. But then she was obviously expected every minute. She might
arrive—horrible thought!—while he was gone for help, and once in the
tribune’s power it would be too late. In his despair the words of Calchas
recurred forcibly to his mind. “We are but three,” said the old man,
“three against a host, yet I have no fear.” And Esca resolved that though
he was but one, he too would have no fear, but would trust implicitly in
the award of eternal justice, which would surely interfere to prevent this
unholy sacrifice.
Feeling that his sword was loose in its sheath and ready to his hand,
holding his breath, and nerving himself for the desperate effort he might
be called upon at any moment to make, the Briton stole softly back through
the vestibule, and concealed himself behind a marble group in the darkest
corner of the porch. Here, with the dogged courage of his race, he made up
his mind that he would await the arrival of Mariamne, and rescue her at
all hazards, against any odds, or die with her in the attempt.
CHAPTER IX
THE LURE
[Initial L]
Like other great cities, the poorer quarters of Rome were densely crowded.
The patricians, and indeed all the wealthier class, affected rural tastes
even in the midst of the capital, and much space was devoted to the
gardens and pleasure‐grounds which surrounded their dwellings. The humbler
inhabitants were consequently driven to herd together in great numbers,
with little regard to health or convenience, and the streets leading to
and adjoining the Tiber were perhaps the most thickly populated of all.
That in which Eleazar’s house stood, was seldom empty of passengers at any
hour of the twenty‐four, and least of all about sunset when the women
thronged out of their dwellings to draw water for the household
consumption of the following day. Oarses was well aware of this, and
therefore it was that the cunning Egyptian had protested against an
abduction of the Jewish maiden by open force from her father’s door.
“Leave it to me,” said this finished villain, in discussing their infamous
project with his patron. “I know a lure to wile such birds as these off
the bough into my open hand. Stratagem first, force afterwards. There is
no need to waken the tongues of all the women in the quarter. It was the
cackling of a goose, my patron, that foiled the attack on the Capitol.”
[Illustration: ‘she was accosted by a dark sallow old woman’]
Mariamne, anxious and sad, was carrying her pitcher listlessly down to the
Tiber and letting her thoughts wander far from her occupation, into a few
sweet memories, and a thousand dreary apprehensions, when she was accosted
by a dark sallow old woman, whose speech and manners, as well as her
dress, betrayed an Eastern origin. The stranger asked some trifling
questions about her way, and prayed for a draught of cold water when the
pitcher should be filled. Mariamne, whose heart unconsciously warmed to
the homely Syriac, entered freely into conversation with one of her own
sex, and whose language denoted, moreover, that she was familiar with her
nation. Willingly she drew her a measure from the stream, which the other
quaffed with the moderation of one whose thirst is habitually quenched
with wine rather than water.
“It is somewhat muddy, I fear,” said the girl kindly, reverting in her own
mind to the sparkling fountains of her native land, and yet acknowledging
how she loved this turbid stream better than them all. “If you will come
back with me to my father’s house I can offer you a draught of wine and a
morsel of bread to cheer you on your way.”
The other, though with no great avidity, took a second pull at the
pitcher.
“Nay,” said she, “my daughter, I will not tax your hospitality so far. Nor
have I need. There is lore enough left under these faded locks of mine, to
turn the foulest cesspool in Rome as clear as crystal. Ay, to change this
tasteless draught to wine of Lebanon, and the pitcher that contains it to
a vase of gold.”
Mariamne shrank from her with a gesture of dismay. Believing implicitly in
their power, her religion forbade her to hold any intercourse with those
who professed the black art. The other marked her repugnance.
“My child,” she continued, in soothing tones, “be not afraid of the old
woman’s secret gifts. Mine is but a harmless knowledge, gained by study of
the ancient Chaldæan scrolls, such as your own wise king possessed of old.
It is but white magic, such as your high‐priest himself would not scruple
to employ. Fear not, I say—I, who have pored over those mystic characters
till mine eyes grew dim, can read your sweet pale face as plain as the
brazen tablets in the Forum, and I can see in it sorrow, and care, and
anxiety for him you love.”
Mariamne started. It was true enough, but how could the wise woman have
found it out? The girl looked wistfully at her companion, and the latter,
satisfied she was on the right track, proceeded to answer that questioning
glance.
“Yes,” she said, “you think he is in danger or in grief. You wonder why
you do not see him oftener. Sometimes you fear he may be false. What would
you not give, my poor child, to look on the golden locks, and the white
brow, now, at this very moment? And I can show them to you if you will.
The old woman is not ungrateful even for a draught of the Tiber’s muddy
stream.”
The blood mounted to Mariamne’s brow, but the light kindled at the same
time in her eyes, and the soft gleam swept over her face that comes into
every human countenance when the heart vibrates with an allusion to its
treasure as though the silver cord thrilled to the touch of an angel’s
wing. It was no clumsy guess of the wise woman, to infer that this dark‐
eyed damsel cherished some fair‐haired lover.
“What mean you?” asked the girl eagerly. “How can you show him to me? What
do you know of him? Is he safe? Is he happy?”
The wise woman smiled. Here was a bird flying blindfold into the net. Take
her by her affections, and there would be little difficulty in the
capture.
“He is in danger,” she replied. “But you could save him if you only knew
how. He might be happy too, if he would. But with another!”
To do Mariamne justice she heard only the first sentence.
“In danger!” she repeated, “and I could save him! Oh, tell me where he is,
and what I can do for his sake!”
The wise woman pulled a small mirror from her bosom.
“I cannot tell you,” she answered, “but I can show him to you in this.
Only not here, where the shadow of a passer‐by might destroy the charm.
Let us turn aside to that vacant space by the broken column, and you shall
look without interruption on the face you love.”
It was but a short way off, though the ruins which surrounded it made the
place lonely and secluded; had it been twice the distance, however,
Mariamne would have accompanied her new acquaintance without hesitation in
her eagerness for tidings of Esca’s fate. As she neared the broken column,
so endeared to her by associations, she could not repress a faint sigh,
which was not lost on her companion.
“It was here you met him before,” whispered the wise woman. “It is here
you shall see his face again.”
This was scarcely a random shaft, for it required little penetration to
discover that Mariamne had some tender associations connected with a spot
thus adapted for the meeting of a pair of lovers; nevertheless the
apparent familiarity with her previous actions was sufficient to convince
the Jewess of her companion’s supernatural knowledge, and though it roused
alarm, it excited curiosity in a still greater degree.
“Take the mirror in your hand,” whispered the wise woman, when they had
reached the column, casting, at the same time, a searching glance around.
“Shut your eyes whilst I speak the charm that calls him, three times over,
and then look steadily on its surface till I have counted a hundred.”
Mariamne obeyed these directions implicitly. Standing in the vacant space
with the mirror in her hand, she shut her eyes and listened intently to
the solemn tones of the wise woman chanting in a low monotonous voice some
unintelligible stanzas, while from the deep shadow behind the broken
column, there stole out the portly figure of Damasippus, and, at the same
moment, half a dozen strong well‐armed slaves rose from the different
hiding‐places in which they lay concealed amongst the ruins. Ere the
incantation had been twice repeated, Damasippus threw a shawl over the
girl’s head, muffling her so completely, while he caught her in his strong
arms, that an outcry was impossible. The others snatched her up ere she
could make a movement, and bore her swiftly off to a chariot with four
white horses waiting in the next street, whilst the wise woman, following
at a rapid pace, and disencumbering herself of her female attire as she
sped along, disclosed the cunning features and the thin wiry form of
Oarses the Egyptian. Coming up with Damasippus, who was panting behind the
slaves and their burden, he laughed a low noiseless laugh.
“My plan was the best,” said he, “after all. What fools these women are, O
my friend! Is there any other creature that can be taken with a bait so
simple? Three inches of mirror and the ghost of an absent face!”
But Damasippus had not breath to reply. Hurrying onward, he was chiefly
anxious to dispose of his prize in the chariot without interruption; and
when he reached it he mounted by her side, and bidding Oarses and the
slaves follow as near as was practicable, he drove off at great speed in
the direction of the tribune’s house.
But this was an eventful night in Rome, and although for that reason well
adapted to a deed of violence, its tumult and confusion exacted great
caution from those who wished to proceed without interruption along the
streets. The shouts that had disturbed the two freedmen in their garret
whilst preparing the enterprise they had since so successfully carried
out, gave no false warning of the coming storm. That storm had burst, and
was now raging in its fury throughout a wide portion of the city. Like all
such outbreaks it gathered force and violence in many quarters at once,
and from many sources unconnected with its original cause.
Rome was the theatre that night of a furious civil war, consequent on the
intrigues of various parties which had now grown to a head. The old
Prætorian guard had been broken up by Vitellius, and dismissed without any
of the honours and gratuities to which they considered themselves
entitled, in order to make way for another body of troops on whose
fidelity the Emperor believed he could rely, and who were now called, in
contradistinction to their predecessors, the New Prætorians. Two such
conflicting interests carried in them the elements of the direst hatred
and strife. The original body‐guard hoping to be restored by Vespasian,
should he attain the purple, had everything to gain by a change of
dynasty, and were easily won over by the partisans of that successful
general to any enterprise, however desperate, which would place him on the
throne. Trusting to this powerful aid, these partisans, of whom Julius
Placidus, the tribune, though he had wormed himself into the confidence of
Vitellius, was one of the most active and unscrupulous, were ready enough
to raise the standard of revolt and had no fear for the result. The train
was laid, and to‐night it had been decided that the match should be
applied. In regular order of battle, in three ranks with spears advanced
and eagles in the centre, the Old Prætorians marched at sundown to attack
the camp of their successors. It was a bloody and obstinate contest. The
new body‐guard, proud of their promotion, and loyal to the hand that had
bought them, defended themselves to the death. Again and again was the
camp almost carried. Again and again were the assailants obstinately
repulsed. It was only when slain, man by man, falling in their ranks as
they stood, with all their wounds _in front_, that a victory was
obtained—a victory which so crippled the conquerors as to render them but
inefficient auxiliaries in the other conflicts of that eventful night. But
this was only one of the many pitched battles, so to speak, of which Rome
was the unhappy theatre. The Capitol after an obstinate defence had been
taken by the partisans of the present Emperor and burned to the ground.
This stronghold having been previously seized and occupied by Sabinus, who
declared himself Governor of Rome in the name of Vespasian, and who even
received in state several of the principal nobility and a deputation from
the harassed and vacillating senate, had been alternately the object of
attack and defence to either party. Its possession seemed to confer a
spurious sovereignty over the whole city, and it was held as obstinately
as it was vigorously and desperately attacked.
An hour or two before sunset, an undisciplined body of soldiers, armed
only with their swords, and formidable chiefly from the wild fury with
which they seemed inspired, marched through the Forum and ascended the
Capitoline Hill. The assailants having no engines of war either for
protection or offence, suffered severely from the missiles showered upon
them by the besieged, till the thought struck them of throwing flaming
torches into the place from the roofs of the houses which surrounded it,
and which, erected in time of peace, had been suffered to overtop the
Roman citadel. In vain, after the flames had consumed the gate, did they
endeavour to force an entrance; for Sabinus, with the unscrupulous
resource of a Roman soldier, had blocked the way by a hundred prostrate
statues of gods and men, pulled down from the sacred pedestals on which
they had stood for ages; but the contiguous houses catching fire, and all
the woodwork of the Capitol being old and dry, the flames soon spread, and
in a few hours the stronghold of Roman pride and Roman history was
levelled with the ground. Callous to the memories around him, forgetful of
the Tarquins, and the Scipios, and the many hallowed names that shed their
lustre on this monument of his country’s greatness, Sabinus lost his
presence of mind in proportion as the necessity for preserving it became
more urgent. He was no longer able to control his troops, and the latter,
panic‐stricken with the entrance of their enemies, disbanded, and betook
themselves to flight. The majority, including one woman of noble birth,
were put ruthlessly to the sword, but a few, resembling their assailants,
as they did, in arms, appearance, and language, were fortunate enough to
catch the password by which they recognised each other, and so escaped.
In another quarter of the mighty city, a large body of troops who had
hoisted the standard of Vespasian, and had already suffered one repulse
which rather excited their animosity than quelled their ardour, were
advancing in good order, and, according to sound warlike tactics, in three
divisions. The gardens of Sallust, laid out by that elegant and
intellectual sensualist, with a view to pursuits far removed from strife
and bloodshed, were the scene of an obstinate combat, in which, however,
one of these columns succeeded in establishing itself within the walls;
and now the struggle that had heretofore been carried on in its outskirts,
penetrated to the heart of the Roman capital. The citizens beheld war
brought into their very homes and hearths—the familiar street slippery
with blood—the wounded soldier reeling on the doorsill, where the children
were wont to play—the dead man’s limbs strewed helpless by the fountain,
where the girls assembled with shrill laughing voices on the calm summer
evenings,—and worse than all, instead of the kindly grasp of friends and
fellow‐countrymen, the brother’s hand clutching at the brother’s throat.
Such horrors, however, did but more demoralise a population already
steeped to the very lips in cruelty, vice, and foul iniquity. Trained to
bloodshed by the ghastly entertainments of the amphitheatre, the Roman
citizen gloated on no spectacle with so keen a pleasure as on the throes
of a fellow‐creature in the agony of violent death. The populace seemed
now to consider the contest waged at their doors as a goodly show got up
for their especial amusement. Loud shouts encouraged the combatants as
either party swayed and wavered in the mortal press, and _Euge!_—_Bene!_
were cried as loudly for their encouragement, as if they had been paid
gladiators, earning their awful livelihood on the sand. Nay, worse, when
some wounded soldier dragged himself into a house for safety, instead of
succour, he was received with yells of reprobation, and thrust out into
the street that he might be despatched by his conquerors according to the
merciless regulations of the amphitheatre.
Nor was man the only demon on the scene. Unsexed women with bare bosoms,
wild eyes, streaming hair, and white feet stained with blood, flew to and
fro amongst the soldiers, stimulating them to fresh atrocities with wine
and caresses and odious ribald mirth. It was a festival of Death and Sin.
She had wreathed her fair arms around the spectral king, and crowned his
fleshless brows with her gaudy garlands, and wrapped him in her mantle of
flame, and pressed the blood‐red goblet to his lips, maddening him with
her shrieks of wild, mocking laughter, the while their mutual feet
trampled out the lives and souls of their victims on the stones of Rome.
Through a town in such a state of turmoil and confusion, Damasippus took
upon himself to conduct in safety the prize he had succeeded in capturing,
not, it must be confessed, without many hearty regrets that he had ever
embarked in the undertaking. Devoutly did he now wish that he could shift
the whole business on to the shoulders of Oarses; but of late he had been
concerned to observe in the patron’s manner a certain sense of his own
inutility as compared with the astute Egyptian; and if the latter were now
permitted to conclude, as he had undoubtedly inaugurated, the adventure,
Placidus might be satisfied that there was little use in entertaining two
rogues to do the work of one. He knew his patron well enough to be aware
of the effect such a conviction would have on his own prospects. The
tribune would no more scruple to bid him go starve or hang, than he would
to pull out a superfluous hair from his beard. Therefore, at all risks,
thought Damasippus, he must be the man to bring Mariamne into his lord’s
house. It was a difficult and a dangerous task. There was only room for
himself and one stout slave besides the charioteer and the prisoner. The
latter had struggled violently, and required to be held down by main
force, nor in muffling her screams was it easy to observe the happy medium
between silence and suffocation. Also, it was indispensable, in the
present lawless state of affairs, to avoid observation; and the spectacle
of a handsomely gilded chariot with a female figure in it, held down and
closely veiled, the whole drawn by four beautiful white horses, was not
calculated to traverse the streets of a crowded city without remark.
Oarses, indeed, had suggested a litter, but this had been overruled by his
comrade on the score of speed, and now the state of the streets made speed
impossible. To be sure this enabled the escort to keep up with him, and
Damasippus, who was no fighter at heart, derived some comfort from their
presence. The darkness, however, which should have favoured him, was
dispelled by the numerous conflagrations in various parts of the city; and
when the chariot was stopped and forced to turn into a by‐street to avoid
a crowd rushing towards the blazing Capitol, Damasippus felt his heart
sink within him in an access of terror, such as even he had never felt
before.
CHAPTER X
FROM SCYLLA TO CHARYBDIS
Up one street, down another, avoiding the main thoroughfares, now rendered
impassable by the tumult, his anxious freedmen threaded their way with
difficulty in the direction of the tribune’s house. Mariamne seemed either
to have fainted, or to have resigned herself to her fate, for she had
ceased to struggle, and cowered down on the floor of the chariot, silent
and motionless. Damasippus trusted his difficulties were nearly over, and
resolved never again to be concerned in such an enterprise. Already he
imagined himself safe in his patron’s porch, claiming the reward of his
dexterity, when he was once more arrested by a stoppage which promised a
hazardous and protracted delay.
Winding its slow length along, in all the pomp and dignity affected by the
maiden order, a procession of Vestals crossed in front of the white
horses, and not a man in Rome but would have trembled with superstitious
awe at the bare notion of breaking in on the solemn march of these sacred
virgins, dedicated to the service of a goddess, whose peculiar attributes
were mystery, antiquity, and remorseless vengeance for offence. Dressed in
their long white garments, simple and severe, with no relief save a narrow
purple border round the veil, they swept on in slow majestic column, like
a vision from the other world, led by a stately priestess, pale and calm,
of lofty stature and majestic bearing. They believed that to them was
confided the welfare of the State, the safety of the city; nay, that with
the mysterious symbols in their temple, they guarded the very existence of
the nation; therefore on all public occasions of strife or disorder, the
Vestal Virgins were accustomed to show themselves confidently in the
streets, and use their influence for the restoration of peace. Nor had
they need to fear either injury or insult. To touch the person of a
Vestal, even to obstruct the litter in which she was carried, was
punishable with death, and public opinion in such a case was even more
exacting than the law. Immunities and privileges of many kinds were
granted to the order by different enactments. When the Vestal went abroad,
she was preceded and followed by the lictors of the State; and if she met
a criminal under sentence of death, honestly by accident, during her
progress, he was pardoned and set free for her sake, on the spot.
It may be that Mariamne had some vague recollection of this custom, for no
sooner were the horses stopped to let the procession pass, than she
uttered a loud shriek, which brought it to a halt at once, and caused her
own guards to gather round the chariot and prepare for resistance, Oarses
wisely keeping aloof, and Damasippus, while he strove to wear a bold
front, quaking in every limb. At a signal from the superior priestess, the
long white line stood still, while her lictors seized the horses, and
surrounded the chariot. Already a crowd of curious bystanders was
gathering, and the glare of the burning Capitol shed its light even here,
on their dark, eager faces, contrasting strangely with the veiled figures
that occupied the middle of the street, cold and motionless as marble.
Two lictors seized on Damasippus, each by a shoulder, and brought him
unceremoniously to within a few paces of the priestess. Here he dropped
upon his knees, and began wringing his hands in ludicrous dismay, whilst
the populace, gathering round, laughed and jeered at him, only refraining
from violence on account of the Vestal’s presence.
“She is a slave, our slave, bought with our own money in the market,
sacred virgin. I can swear it. I can prove it. Here is the man who paid
for her. O accursed Oarses, hast thou left me in the lurch at last?”
The wily Egyptian now came up, composed and sedate, with the air of a man
confident in the justice of his cause. Mariamne, meanwhile, could but
strive to release herself in vain. So effectually had she been bound and
muffled, that she could scarcely move, and was unable to articulate. She
struggled on, nevertheless, in the wild hope of succour, writhing her
whole body to set her lips free from the bandages that stifled them. With
the quiet dignity which was an especial attribute of her office, the
priestess pointed to the chariot containing the prisoner, and from beneath
her veil, in clear, low tones, while the bystanders listened with
respectful awe, came the question—
“What crime has she committed?”
“No crime, sacred virgin, no crime whatsoever,” replied the wily Oarses,
well knowing that the privilege of pardon, which the Vestals loved to
exercise, was less likely to be exerted for a refractory bondswoman than a
condemned criminal. “She is but a runaway slave, a mere dancing‐girl. How
shall I tell it in your august presence? I bought her scarce a week ago,
as my friend here knows, and can swear. Canst thou not, Damasippus, worthy
citizen? I gave but two thousand sesterces, nevertheless it was a large
sum for me, who am a poor man; and I borrowed the half of it from my
friend here. I bought her in the open market, and I took her home with me
to my wife and children, that she might beat flax and card wool, and so
gain an honest livelihood—an honest livelihood, sacred virgin; and that is
why she ran away from me; so I informed the ædile, and I sought her
diligently, and to‐day I found her with her cheeks painted, and her bosom
gilt, in her old haunts, drunk with wine. Then I bound her, and placed her
in a litter, and the litter breaking down, for I am poor, sacred virgin,
and of humble birth, though a Roman citizen—the litter, I say, breaking
down, and my patron’s chariot passing by, I placed her within it, that I
might take her home, for she is insensible still. All this I swear, and
here is my friend who will swear it too. Damasippus, wilt thou not?”
The latter worthy had indeed been accompanying every syllable of his
confederate’s statement with those eager Italian gestures which signify so
much of argument and expostulation. These were not without effect on the
bystanders, predisposed as such generally are to believe the worst, and
prone to be influenced by the last speaker, especially when supported by
testimony, however unworthy of reliance. They crowded in as near as their
awe of the priestess would allow, and angry looks were shot at the poor,
dark figure lying helpless in the chariot.
Under the Vestal’s long white veil, there might have been a gleam of pity
or a flash of scorn on the unseen face, according as she felt a kindly
sympathy or womanly indignation for the sins of an erring sister. But
whatever was her private opinion, with a priestess of her order, such an
appeal as that of Oarses could have but one result. The pale slender hand
made a gesture of contempt and impatience. The tall ghostly figure moved
on with a prouder, sterner step, and the procession swept by, carrying
away with it the last fragile hope of succour that had comforted
Mariamne’s heart. Like a poor hunted hind caught in a net, when the sharp
muzzle of the deerhound touches her flank, the Jewess made one convulsive
effort that loosened the shawl about her mouth. In her agony, the beloved
name flew instinctively to her lips, and hopelessly, unconsciously, she
called out, “Esca! Esca!” in loud piercing tones of terror and despair.
The Vestals had indeed passed by, and the chariot was again set in motion,
but the Briton’s name seemed to act as a talisman on the crowd, for no
sooner had she pronounced it, than the bystanders were seen to give way on
each side to the pressure of a huge pair of shoulders, surmounted by the
fearless, honest face of Hirpinus the gladiator. That professional, in
common with a few chosen comrades, had found the last few hours hang
exceedingly heavy on his hands. Bound by oath to keep sober, and, what was
perhaps even a more galling restriction, to abstain from fighting, this
little party had seen themselves deprived at once of their two principal
resources, the favourite occupations which gave a zest to their existence.
But the saying that there is “Honour among thieves” dates farther back
than the institution of an amphitheatre; and as soon as the gladiator had
made his bargain, he considered himself, body and soul, the property of
his purchaser. So, when Hippias gave his final orders, insisting on the
appearance of his myrmidons at a given place and a given time, fresh,
sober, and without a scratch, he had no fear but that they would be
punctually and honestly obeyed.
Accordingly, Hirpinus, Rufus, Lutorius, and a few of the surest blades in
the Family, had been whiling away their leisure with a stroll through the
principal streets of Rome, and had met with not a few incidents peculiarly
pleasing to men of their profession. They had been good enough to express
their approval of the soldierlike manner in which the gardens of Sallust
were attacked and carried; they had also marked, with a certain grim
satisfaction, the assault on the Capitol, though they complained that when
it was fired the thick volumes of smoke that swept downwards from its
walls obstructed their view of the fighting, which was to them the chief
attraction of the entertainment, and which they criticised with many
instructive and professional remarks; it was difficult, doubtless, to
abstain from taking part in any of these skirmishes, more particularly as
each man was armed with the short, two‐edged Roman sword; but, as they
reminded one another, it was only a temporary abstinence, and for a very
short period, since, from all they could gather, before midnight they
might be up to their necks in wine, and over their ankles in blood. Now,
supper‐time was approaching, and the athletes were getting fierce, hungry,
and weary of inaction. They had stood still to watch the procession of
Vestals pass by, and even these wild, unscrupulous men had refrained from
word or gesture that could be construed into disrespect for the maiden
order; but they had shown little interest in the cause of stoppage, and
scarce condescended to notice a discussion that arose from so mean a
subject as a runaway slave. Suddenly, however, to the amazement of his
comrades and the discomfiture of the bystanders, Hirpinus burst hastily
through the crowd, unceremoniously thrusting aside those who stood in his
way, and lifting one inquisitive little barber clean off his legs, to hurl
him like a plaything into a knot of chattering citizens, much to their
indignation and the poor man’s own physical detriment. Hands were
clenched, indeed, and brows bent, as the strong square form forged through
the press, like some bluff galley through the surf, but _Cave! cave!_ was
whispered by the more cautious, and in such dread was a gladiator held by
his peaceful fellow‐citizens, that the boldest preferred submission under
insult to a quarrel with a man whose very trade was strife. The chariot
was already in motion, when a strong hand forced the two centre horses
back upon their haunches, and the bold, frank voice of Hirpinus was heard
above the trampling hoofs and general confusion.
“Easy, my little fellow, for a moment,” said he to the indignant
Automedon. “I heard a comrade’s name spoken just now, from within that
gilded shell of thine. Halt! I tell thee, lad, and keep that whip quiet,
lest I brain thee with my open hand!”
Automedon, little relishing the business from the beginning, pulled his
horses together, and looked very much disposed to cry. Damasippus,
however, confident in the support of his companion, and the presence of
half a dozen armed slaves, stepped boldly forward, and bade the gladiator
“make way there” in a high, authoritative voice. Hirpinus recognised the
freedman at once, and laughed loud and long.
“What now?” said he, “my old convive and boon‐companion. By Pollux! I knew
thee not in thy warlike array of steel. In faith, a garland of roses
becomes that red nose of thine better than the bosses of a helmet, and the
stem of a goblet would fit thy hand more deftly than the haft of that
gaudy sword. What stolen goods are these, old parasite? I’ll wager now
that the jackal is but taking home a lump of carrion to the lion’s den.”
“Stay me not, good friend,” replied the other, with importance. “It is
even as you say, and I am about the business of your employer and mine,
Julius Placidus the tribune.”
Hirpinus, in high good‐humour, would have bade him pass on, but Mariamne,
whose mouth was now released, gathered her exhausted energies for a last
appeal.
“You are his comrade! you said so even now. Save me, save me, for Esca’s
sake!”
Again at that name the gladiator’s eye glistened. He loved the young
Briton like a son—he who had so little to love in the world. He had
brought him out, as he boasted twenty times a day. He had made a man—more,
a swords‐man—of him. Now he had lost sight of him, and, as far as his
nature permitted, had been anxious and unhappy ever since. If a dog had
belonged to Esca, he would have dashed in to rescue it from danger at any
risk.
“Stand back, fool!” he shouted to Damasippus, as the latter interposed his
person between the gladiator and the chariot. “Have a care, I tell thee! I
want the woman out into the street. What! you will, will
you?—One—two.—Take it then, idiot! Here! comrades, close in, and keep off
this accursed crowd!”
Damasippus, confident in the numbers of his escort, and believing, too,
that his adversary was alone, had, indeed, drawn his sword, and called up
the slaves to his assistance, when the gladiator moved towards the chariot
containing his charge. To dash the blade from his unaccustomed grasp, to
deal him a straight, swift, crushing blow, that sent him down senseless on
the pavement, and then, drawing his own weapon, to turn upon the shrinking
escort a point that seemed to threaten all at once, was for Hirpinus a
mere matter of professional business, so simple as to be almost a
relaxation. His comrades, laughing boisterously, made a ring round the
combatants. The slaves hesitated, gave ground, turned and fled; Hirpinus
dragged the helpless form of Mariamne from the chariot, and Oarses, who
had remained in the background till now, leaped nimbly in, to assume the
vacant place, and, whispering Automedon, went off at a gallop.
The poor girl, terrified by the danger she had escaped, and scarcely
reassured by the mode of her rescue, or the appearance of her deliverers,
clung, half‐fainting, to the person of her supporter, and the old
swordsman, with a delicacy almost ludicrous in one of his rough exterior,
soothed her with such terms of encouragement as he could summon at the
moment: now like a nurse hushing a child off to sleep, anon like a
charioteer quieting a frightened or fretful horse.
In the meantime, the crowd, gathering confidence from the sheathed swords
and obvious good‐humour of the gladiators, pressed round with many rude
gestures and insulting remarks, regardless of the fallen man, who, on
recovering his senses, wisely remained for a while where he was, and
chiefly bent on examining the features of the cloaked and hooded prize,
that had created this pretty little skirmish for their diversion. Such
unmannerly curiosity soon aroused the indignation of Hirpinus.
“Keep them off, comrades!” said he angrily; “these miserable citizens.
Keep them off, I say! Have they never seen a veiled woman before, that
they gape and stare, and pass their rancid jests, as they do on you and me
when we are down on our backs for their amusement in the arena? Let her
have air, my lads, and she will soon come to. Pollux! She looks like the
lily thy wife was watering at home, when we stopped there this morning,
Rufus, for a draught of the five‐year‐old wine, and a gambol with those
bright‐haired kids of thine.”
The tall champion to whom this remark was addressed, and who had that very
morning, in company with his friend, bidden a farewell, that might be
eternal, to wife and children, as indeed it was nothing unusual for him to
do, softened doubtless by the remembrance, now exerted himself strenuously
to give the fainting woman room. Without the use of any but nature’s
weapons, and from sheer weight, strength, and resolution, the gladiators
soon cleared an ample space in the middle of the street for their comrade
and his charge; nor did they seem at all indisposed to a task which
afforded opportunities of evincing their own physical superiority, and the
supreme contempt in which they held the mass of their fellow‐citizens.
Perhaps it was pleasant to feel how completely they could domineer over
the crowd by the use of those very qualities which made their dying
struggles a spectacle for the vulgar; perhaps they enjoyed the repayment
in advance of some of the ribaldry and insult that would too surely
accompany their end. At anyrate they shouldered the mob back with
unnecessary violence, drove their spiked sandals into the feet of such as
came under their tread, and scrupled not to strike with open hand or
clenched fist any adventurous citizen who was fool enough to put himself
forward for appeal or resistance. These, too, seemed terror‐stricken by
this handful of resolute men. Accustomed to look on them from a safe
distance in the amphitheatre, like the wild beasts with whom they often
saw them fight, they were nearly as unwilling to beard the one as the
other; and to come into collision with a gladiator in the street, was like
meeting a tiger on the wrong side of his bars. So Hirpinus had plenty of
room to undo the girl’s bands, and remove the stifling folds that muffled
her head and throat.
“Where am I?” she murmured, as she began to breathe more freely, looking
round bewildered and confused. “You are Esca’s friend. Surely I heard you
say so. You will take care of me, then, for Esca’s sake.”
Instinctively she addressed herself to Hirpinus, instinctively she seemed
to appeal to him for protection and encouragement. The veil had been taken
from her head, and the beauty of the sweet pale face was not lost on the
surrounding gladiators. Old Hirpinus looked at her with a comical
expression, in which admiration and pity were blended with astonishment
and a proud sense of personal appropriation in the defenceless girl who
seemed utterly dependent on him. He had never seen anything so beautiful
in his life. He had never known the happiness of a home; never had wife
nor child: but at that moment his heart warmed to her as a father’s to a
daughter.
“Where are you,” he repeated, “pretty flower? You are within a hundred
paces of the Flaminian Way. How came you here? Ay, that is more than I can
tell you. Yonder knave lying there.—What? he is gone, is he? Ay! I could
not hit hard enough at a man with whom I have emptied so many skins of
Sabine.—Well, Damasippus brought thee here, he best knows why, in his
master’s gaudy chariot. I heard thee speak, my pretty one, and who loves
Esca, loves me, and I love him, or her, or whoever it may be. So I knocked
him over, that fat freedman, and took thee from the chariot, and pulled
off these wraps that were stifling thee, and indeed I think it was about
time.”
He had raised her while he spoke, and supported her on his strong arm,
walking slowly on, while the gladiators, closing round them, moved
steadily along the street, followed, though at a safe distance, by much
verbal insult and abuse. At intervals, two or three of the rear‐guard
would turn and confront the mob, who immediately gave back and were
silent. Thus the party proceeded on its way, more, it would seem, with the
view of leaving the crowd than of reaching any definite place of shelter.
“Where are we going? and who are those who guard us?” whispered Mariamne,
clinging close to her protector. “You will take care of me, will you not?”
she added, in a confiding tone.
“They are my comrades,” he answered soothingly; “and old Hirpinus will
guard you, pretty one, like the apple of his eye. We will take you
straight home, or wherever you wish to go, and not one of these will
molest you while I am by—never fear!”
Just then, Euchenor, who was one of the band, and had overheard this
reassuring sentence, clapped the old swordsman on the shoulder.
“You seem to forget our compact,” said he, with his evil, mocking laugh.
The face of Hirpinus fell, and his brow lowered, for he remembered then
that Mariamne was not much better off here than in the captivity from
which he had rescued her.
CHAPTER XI
THE RULES OF THE FAMILY
The Jewess had indeed but escaped one danger to fall into another. Bold
and lawless as were these professional swordsmen, they acknowledged
certain rules of their own, which they were never known to infringe. When
a band of gladiators had been mustered, and told off for a particular
service, it was their custom to bind themselves by oath, as forming one
body, unanimous and indivisible, until that service was completed. They
swore to stand by each other to the death, to obey their chief implicitly,
and to take orders from him alone—to make common cause with their fellows,
in defiance of all personal feelings of interest or danger, even to the
cheerful sacrifice of life itself; and to consider all booty of arms,
gold, jewels, captives, or otherwise, however obtained, as the property of
the band; subject to its disposal, according to the established code of
their profession. Therefore it was that Hirpinus felt his heart sink at
Euchenor’s malicious observation. Therefore it was that though he strove
to put on an appearance of good‐humour and confidence, a perceptible
tremor shook his voice while he replied—
“I found her first. I dragged her from the chariot. I put that foolish
citizen on his back to make sport for you all. I am the oldest swordsman
in the band. I think you might leave her to me!”
Euchenor’s eye was on the frightened girl, and, meeting its glance, she
shrank yet closer to her protector, while the Greek observed, with a
sneer—
“You had better make a new set of rules for us then, since you seem
inclined to break through the old. Comrades, I appeal to you; doth not the
booty belong to us all, share and share alike?”
The others were crowding in now, having reached a narrower street, and
left the populace behind.
“Of course, of course!” was re‐echoed on all sides; “who doubts it? who
disputes it?”
“What would you have, man?” exclaimed Hirpinus, waxing wroth. “You cannot
cut a captive into twenty pieces and give every man a portion! I tell you,
she is mine. Let her alone!”
“You cannot cut a wineskin into twenty pieces, nor need you,” replied the
Greek; “but you pass it round amongst your comrades, till every man’s
thirst be slaked. ’Faith, after that, you may keep the empty skin for your
own share, if you like!”
He spoke in a cold derisive tone, and although Mariamne could not
understand half he said, garnished as his speech was with the cant terms
of his calling, she gathered enough of its import to be terrified at the
prospect before her. Old Hirpinus lost patience at last.
“Will you take her from me?” he burst out, knitting his bushy brows, and
putting his face close to the Greek’s. “Stand up then like a man and try!”
Euchenor turned very pale. It was no part of his scheme to provoke his
robust old comrade to a personal encounter; and, indeed, the pugilist was
a coward at heart, owing his reputation chiefly to the skill with which he
had always matched himself against those whom he was sure to conquer. Now
he fell back a step or two from his glaring adversary, and appealed once
more to their companions. These gathered round, speaking all at once,
Hirpinus turning from one to the other, and ever shielding his charge with
his body, as an animal shields its young. He was determined to save the
girl, because he understood dimly that she belonged in some way to Esca,
and the loyal old swordsman would not have hesitated one moment in
flinging his life down, then and there, to purchase her safety.
“Hold, comrades!” shouted he, in a stentorian voice that made itself heard
above the din. “Will ye bay me altogether like a pack of Molossian wolf‐
hounds? Hounds, forsooth! nay, the Molossians are true‐bred, and there is
one cur amongst us here at least, to my knowledge. Rather, like a knot of
jabbering old women in a market‐place! Talk of rules! Of course we abide
by our rules, ay, and stick to our oath. Rufus, old friend, we have stood
with our swords at each other’s throats for hours together, many a time
during the last ten years, and never had an angry word or an unkindly
thought. Thou wilt not fail me now? Thou wilt not see old Hirpinus
wronged?”
The champion thus appealed to by such tender associations, thrust his tall
person forward in the throng. Slow of speech, calm, calculating, and
reflective, Rufus was held an oracle of good sense amongst his fellow‐
swordsmen.
“You are both wrong,” said he sententiously. “The girl belongs to neither
of you. If this had happened yesterday, Hirpinus would have had a right to
carry her where he chose. But we have taken the oath since then, old
comrade, and she is the joint property of the band by all our laws.”
“I said so!” exclaimed Euchenor triumphantly. “The prize belongs to us
all. Every man his turn. The apple seems fair and ripe enough. Mine shall
be the hand to pare its rind.”
As he spoke, he pulled aside the veil which Mariamne had modestly drawn
once more about her head, and the girl, flushing scarlet at the insult,
stamped passionately with her foot, and then, as if acknowledging her
helplessness, burst into tears, and hid her face in her hands. Hirpinus
caught the aggressor by the shoulder, and sent him reeling back amongst
the rest. His beard bristled with anger, and the foam stood on his lip
like some old boar at bay.
“Hands off!” roared the veteran. “Rules or no rules, another such jest as
that and I drive a foot of steel through the jester’s brisket! What!
Rufus, I came not into the Family yesterday. I was eating raw flesh and
lentil porridge when most of these were sucking their mothers’ milk. I
tell thee, man, the old law was this: When gladiators disputed on any
subject whatever—pay, plunder, or precedence—they were to take short
swords, throw away their shields, and fight it out by pairs, till they
were agreed. Stand round, comrades! Put the little Greek up at half‐sword
distance; clear a space of seven feet square, not an inch more, and I’ll
show you how we used to settle these matters when Nero wore the purple!”
“Nay, nay!” interposed Mariamne, wringing her hands in an agony of terror
and dismay. “Shed not blood on my account. I am a poor, helpless girl. I
have done no one any harm. Let me go, for pity’s sake! Let me go!”
But to this solution of the difficulty objections were offered on all
sides. Rufus indeed, and one or two of the older swordsmen, moved by the
youth and tears of the captive, would willingly have permitted her to
escape; but Euchenor, Lutorius, and the rest, objected violently to the
loss of so beautiful a prize. Rufus, too, when appealed to, though he
would fain have supported his old comrade, was obliged to confess that
justice, according to gladiator’s law, was on Euchenor’s side. Even the
proposal to fight for her possession by pairs, popular as it was likely to
be in such a company, was rendered inadmissible by the terms of the late
oath. The band, indeed, when purchased as they had been by Hippias for a
special duty to be performed that night, had become pledged, according to
custom, not only to the usual brotherhood and community of interests, but
also to refrain from baring steel upon any pretence or provocation either
amongst themselves or against a common foe, until ordered to do so by
their employer. Hirpinus, though he chafed and swore vehemently, and kept
Mariamne close under his wing through it all, was obliged to acknowledge
the force of his comrade’s arguments; and the puzzled athlete racked his
unaccustomed brains till his head ached to find some means of escape for
the girl he had resolved to save. In the meantime, delay was dangerous.
These men were not used to hesitate or refrain, and already the hour was
approaching at which they were to muster for their night’s work, whatever
it might be, in the tribune’s house. The old swordsman felt he must
dissemble, were it but to gain time; so he smoothed his brows, and, much
against the grain, assumed an appearance of good‐humour and satisfaction.
“Be it as you will,” said he; “old Hirpinus is the last man to turn round
upon his comrades, or to break the laws of the Family, for the sake of a
cream‐coloured face and a wisp of black hair. I will abide by the decision
of Hippias. We shall find him at the tribune’s house, and it is time we
were there now. Forward, my lads! Nay, hands off! I tell thee once more,
Euchenor, till we have brought her to the master’s she belongs to me.”
Euchenor grumbled, but was compelled to submit; for the other’s influence
amongst the gladiators was far greater than his own. And the little party,
with Mariamne in the centre, still clinging fast to Hirpinus, moved on in
the direction of the tribune’s house.
Esca, crouching in his place of concealment, silent and wary, as he had
ofttimes crouched long ago, when watching for the dun deer on the
hillside, was aware of the tramp of disciplined men approaching the porch
in which he lay in ambush. Every faculty was keenly, painfully on the
stretch. Once, at the sound of wheels, he had started from his lair, ready
to make one desperate attempt for the rescue of his love; but greatly to
his consternation, the gilded chariot returned empty, save of Automedon,
looking much scared and bewildered. The wily Oarses, indeed, having made
his escape from the gladiators, had betaken himself to his lodging, and
there determined to remain, either till his patron’s wrath should be
exhausted, or till the events which he foresaw the night would bring forth
should have diverted it into another channel. So Automedon went home in
fear and trembling by himself. As the Briton revolved matters in his mind,
he knew not whether to be most alarmed or reassured by this unforeseen
contingency. Though the chariot had returned without Mariamne, the
freedmen and armed slaves were still absent. Could they have missed their
prey, and were they still searching for her? or had they carried her
elsewhere?—to the freedmen’s garret, perhaps, there to remain concealed
till the night was further advanced. Yet the words of Placidus, or of his
ghost, which he had overheard, seemed to infer that the Jewess was
expected every minute. Every minute indeed! and those racking minutes
seemed to stretch themselves to hours. With the natural impatience of
inaction, which accompanies uncertainty, he had almost made up his mind to
return in search of Eleazar, when the steady footfall of the approaching
party arrested his attention.
There was a bright moon shining above, and the open space into which the
gladiators advanced was clear as day. With a keen feeling of confidence he
recognised the square frame of Hirpinus, and then, as he caught sight of
the dark‐robed figure at the swordsman’s side, for one exulting moment,
doubt, fear, anxiety, all were merged in the delight of seeing Mariamne
once more. With the bound of a wild deer, he was in the midst of them,
clasping her in his arms, and the girl sobbing on his breast felt safe and
happy, because she was with him. Hirpinus gave a shout that startled the
slaves laying the tables in the inner hall.
“Safe, my lad!” he exclaimed, “and in a whole skin. Sound and hearty, and
fit to join us in to‐night’s work. Better late than never. Swear him,
comrades! swear him on the spot! Send in for a morsel of bread and a pinch
of salt. Here, Rufus, cross thy blade with mine! Thou art in the nick of
time, lad, to take thy share with the rest, of peril, and pleasure, and
profit to boot!”
This speech he eked out with many winks and signs to his young friend, for
Hirpinus, guessing how matters stood between the pair, could think of no
better plan by which Esca should at least claim a share in the prey they
had so recently acquired. His artifice was, however, lost upon the Briton,
who seemed wholly occupied with Mariamne, and to whom the girl was
whispering her fears and distresses, and entreaties that he would save her
from the band. The young man drew her to his side.
“Give way,” said he haughtily, as Euchenor and Lutorius closed in upon
him. “She has made her choice, she goes with me. I take her home to her
father’s house.”
The others set up a shout of derision.
“Hear him!” they cried. “It is the prætor who speaks! It is the voice of
Cæsar himself! Yes, yes, go in peace, if thou wilt. We have had enough and
to spare of your yellow‐haired barbarians, but the girl remains with us.”
She was not trembling now. She was past all fear in such a crisis as this.
Erect and defiant she stood beside her champion—pale indeed as the dead,
but with eyes in which flashed the courage of despair. His lips were white
with the effort of self‐command as he strove to keep cool and to use fair
words.
“I am one of yourselves,” said he. “You will not turn against me all at
once. Let me but take the maiden home, and I will come back and join you,
true as the blade to the haft.”
“Ay, let them go!” put in Hirpinus. “He speaks fairly, and these
barbarians never fail their word!”
“No, no,” interposed Euchenor. “He has nothing to do with us. Why, he was
beaten in the open circus by a mere patrician. Besides, he is not engaged
for to‐night. He has no interest in the job. Who is he, this barbarian,
that we should give up to him the fairest prize we are like to take in the
whole business?”
“Will you fight for her?” thundered Esca, hitching his swordbelt to the
front.
Euchenor shrank back amongst his comrades. “Our oath forbids me,” said he;
and the others, though they could not refrain from jeering at the
unwilling Greek, confirmed his decision.
Esca’s mind was made up.
“Pass your hands under my girdle,” he whispered to Mariamne. “Hold fast,
and we shall break through!”
His sword was out like lightning, and he dashed amongst the gladiators,
but he had to do with men thoroughly skilled in arms and trained to every
kind of personal contest. A dozen blades were gleaming in the moonlight as
ready as his own. A dozen points were threatening him, backed by fearless
hearts, and strong supple practised hands. He was at bay; a desperate man
penned in by a circle of steel. He glanced fiercely round, defiant yet
bewildered, then down at the pale face at his breast, and his heart sank
within him. He was at his wits’ end. She looked up—loving, resolute, and
courageous.
“Dear one,” she said softly, “let me rather die by your hand. See, I do
not fear. Strike! You only have the right, for I am yours!”
Even then a faint blush came into her cheek, while the pale hands busied
themselves with her dress to bare her bosom for the blow. He turned his
point upon her, and she smiled up in his face. Old Hirpinus dashed the
tears from his shaggy eyelashes.
“Hold! hold!” said he, in a broken voice; “not till I am down and out of
the game for one! Enough of this!” he added in an altered tone, and with a
ludicrous assumption of his usual careless manner. “Here comes the
master—no more wrangling, lads! we will refer the matter to him!”
While he spoke, Hippias entered the open space in front of the tribune’s
house, and the gladiators gathered eagerly around him, Euchenor alone
remaining somewhat in the background.
CHAPTER XII
A MASTER OF FENCE
Hippias knew well how to maintain discipline amongst his followers. While
he interested himself keenly in their training and personal welfare, he
permitted no approach to familiarity, and above all never suffered a
syllable of discussion on a command, or a moment’s hesitation in its
fulfilment. He came now to put himself at their head for the carrying out
of a hazardous and important enterprise. The consciousness of coming
danger, especially when it is of a kind with which habit has rendered him
familiar, and which practice has taught him to baffle by his own skill and
courage, has a good moral effect on a brave man’s character. It cheers his
spirits, it exalts his imagination, it sharpens his intellects, and, above
all, it softens his heart. Hippias felt that to‐night he would need all
the qualities he most prized to carry him safely through his task—that
while failure must be inevitable destruction, success would open out to
him a career of which the ultimate goal might be a procuratorship or even
a kingdom. How quickly past, present, and possible future, flitted through
his brain! It was not so long since his first victory in the amphitheatre!
He remembered, as if it were but yesterday, the canvas awnings, the blue
sky, and the confused mass of faces, framing that dazzling sweep of sand,
all of which his sight took in at once, though his eyes were fixed on
those of the watchful Gaul, whom he disarmed in a couple of passes, and
slew without the slightest remorse. He could feel again, even now, the hot
breath of the Libyan tiger, as he fell beneath it, choked with sand and
covered by his buckler, stabbing desperately at that sinewy chest in which
the life seemed to lie so deep. The tiger’s claws had left their marks
upon his brawny shoulder, but he had risen from the contest victorious,
and Red and Green through the whole crowded building, from the senators’
cushions to the slaves’ six inches of standing‐room, cheered him to a man.
After this triumph, who such a favourite with the Roman people as handsome
Hippias? Again, he was the centre of all observation, as, confessedly the
head of his profession, he set in order Nero’s cruel shows, and catered
with profuse splendour for the tastes of Imperial Rome. Yes, he had
reached the pinnacle of a gladiator’s fame, and from that elevation a
prospect opened itself that he had scarcely even dreamed of till now. A
handful of determined men, a torch or two for every score of blades, a
palace in flames, a night of blood (he only hoped and longed that there
might be resistance enough to distinguish strife from murder), another
dynasty, a grateful patron, and a brave man’s services worthily
acknowledged and repaid. Then the future would indeed smile in gorgeous
hues. Which of Rome’s dominions in the East would most fully satisfy the
thirst for royal luxury that he now experienced for the first time? In
which of his manlier qualities was he so inferior to the Jew, that Hippias
the gladiator should make a lowlier monarch than Herod the Great? and men
had not done talking of that warlike king, even now!—his wisdom, his
cruelty, his courage, his splendour, and his crimes. A Roman province was
but another name for an independent government. Hippias saw himself
enthroned in the blaze of majesty under a glowing Eastern sky. Life
offering all it had to give of pomp and pageantry and rich material
enjoyment. Slaves, horses, jewels, banquets, dark‐eyed women, silken
eunuchs, and gaudy guards with burnished helmets and flashing shields of
gold. Nothing wanting, not even one with whom to share the glittering
vision. Valeria would be his. Valeria was born to be a queen. It would,
indeed, be a triumph to offer the half of a throne to the woman who had
hitherto condescended by listening to his suit. There was a leavening of
generosity in Hippias that caused him to reflect with intense pleasure on
the far deeper homage he would pay her after so romantic a consummation of
his hopes. He felt as if he could almost love her then, with the love he
had experienced in his boyhood—that boyhood which seemed now to have been
another’s rather than his own. He had put it away long since, and it had
not come back to him for years till to‐day; but gratified vanity, the
pleasure which most hearts experience in grasping an object that has been
dangling out of reach, beyond all, the power exerted by a woman, over one
who has been accustomed to consider himself either above or below such
pleasing influences, had softened him strangely, and he hardly felt like
the same man who made his bargain with the tribune for a certain quantity
of flesh and blood and mettle, so short a time ago.
It is not to be thought, however, that in his dreams of the future, the
fencing‐master neglected the means by which that future was to be
attained. He had mustered and prepared his band with more than common
care; had seen with his own eyes that their arms were bright and sharp and
fit for work; had placed them at their appointed posts and visited them
repeatedly, enjoining, above all things, extreme vigilance and sobriety.
Not one of those men saw beneath his unruffled brow and quiet stern
demeanour anything unusual in the conduct of their leader; not one could
have guessed that schemes of ambition far beyond any he had ever cherished
before, were working in his brain—that a strange, soft, kindly feeling was
nestling at his heart. He stood in the moonlight amongst his followers,
calm, abrupt, severe as usual; and when Hirpinus looked into his stern set
face, the hopes of the old gladiator fell as did his countenance, but
Mariamne perceived at once with a woman’s eye something that taught her an
appeal to his pity on this occasion would not be made in vain.
With habitual caution, his first proceeding was to count the band ere he
took note of the two figures in their centre. Then he cast a scrutinising
glance at their arms to satisfy himself all were ready for immediate
action. After that he turned with a displeased air to Hirpinus, and asked—
“What doth the woman amongst us? You heard my orders this morning? Who
brought her here?”
Half a dozen voices were raised at once to answer the master’s question;
only he to whom it was especially addressed kept silence, knowing the
nature with which he had to do. Hippias raised but his sheathed sword and
the clamour ceased. Not a maniple in all Rome’s well‐drilled legions
seemed in better discipline than this handful of desperate men. Then he
turned to Esca, still speaking in short incisive tones.
“Briton!” said he, “you are not one of us to‐night. Go your ways in
peace!”
“Well said!” shouted the gladiators. “He is no comrade of ours! He hath no
share in our spoil!”
But Hippias only wished to save the Briton from the perils of the coming
night, and this from some vague feeling he could hardly explain to
himself, that Valeria was interested in the stalwart barbarian. It was not
in the fencing‐master’s nature to entertain sentiments of jealousy upon
uncertain grounds. And he was just fond enough of Valeria to value anyone
she liked for her sake. Moreover Esca knew their plans. He would alarm the
palace, and there would be a fight. He wished nothing better.
Esca was about to make his appeal, but Mariamne interposed.
“Where he goeth I will go,” said she, almost in the words of her own
sacred writings. “I have to‐night lost father, and home, and people. This
is the second time he hath saved me from captivity worse than death. Part
us not now, I beseech thee, part us not!”
Hippias looked kindly on the sweet face with its large imploring eager
eyes.
“You love him,” said he, “foolish girl. Begone then, and take him with
you.”
But again a fierce murmur rose amongst the gladiators. Not even the
master’s authority was sufficient to carry out such a breach of all laws
and customs as this. Euchenor, ever prone to wrangle, stepped forward from
the background, where he had remained so as to appear an impartial and
uninterested observer.
“The oath!” exclaimed the Greek. “The oath—we swore it when the sun was
up—shall we break it ere the moon goes down? She is ours, Hippias, by all
the laws of the Family, and we will not give her up.”
“Silence!” thundered the master, with a look that made Euchenor shrink
back once more. “Who asked for your vote? Hirpinus, Rufus, once again, how
came this woman here?”
“She was bound hand and foot in a chariot,” answered the former, ignoring,
however, with less than his usual frankness, to whom that chariot
belonged. “She was carried away by force. I protected her from ill‐usage,”
he added stoutly, “as I would protect her again.”
The girl gave him a grateful look, which sank into the old swordsman’s
heart. Esca, too, muttered warm broken words of thanks, while the band
assented to the truth of this statement.
“Even so!” they exclaimed. “Hirpinus speaks well. That is why she belongs
to us, and we claim every man his share.”
Hippias was too experienced a commander not to know that there are times
when it is necessary to yield with a good grace, and to use artifice if
force will not avail. It is thus the skilful rider rules his steed, and
the judicious wife her husband—the governing power in either case inducing
the governed to believe that it obeys entirely of its own free will. He
smiled, therefore, pleasantly on his followers, and addressed them in
careless good‐humoured tones.
“She belongs to us all without doubt,” said he, “and, by the sandals of
Aphrodité, she is so fair that I shall put in my claim with the rest!
Nevertheless there is no time to be wasted now, for the sake of the
brightest eyes that ever flashed beneath a veil. Put her aside for a few
hours or so. You, Hirpinus, as you captured her, shall take care that she
does not escape. For the Briton, we may as well keep him safe too—we may
find a use for those long arms of his when to‐night’s business is
accomplished. In the meantime, fall in, my heroes, and make ready for your
work. Supper first (and it’s laid even now) with the noblest patrician and
the deepest drinker in Rome, Julius Placidus the tribune!”
_Euge!_ exclaimed the gladiators in a breath, forgetful at the moment of
their recent dissatisfaction, and eager to hear more of the night’s
enterprise, about which they entertained the wildest and most various
anticipations; nothing loth, besides, to share the orgies of a man whose
table was celebrated for its luxuries amongst all classes in Rome. Hippias
looked round on their well‐pleased faces, and continued—
“Then what say you, my children, to a walk through the palace gardens? We
will take our swords, by Hercules, for the German guards are stubborn
dogs, and best convinced by the argument each of us carries at his belt.
It may be dark, too, ere we get there, for the moon is early to‐night, and
we have no need to stir till we have tasted the tribune’s wine, so we must
not forget a few torches to light us on our way. There are a score at
least lying ready in the corner of that porch. So we will join our
comrades in a fair midnight frolic under Cæsar’s roof. Cæsar’s, forsooth!
my children, there will be a smouldering palace and another Cæsar by to‐
morrow!”
_Euge!_ exclaimed the gladiators once more. “Hail, Cæsar! Long live
Cæsar!” they repeated with shouts of fierce mocking laughter.
“It is well,” remarked Rufus sagaciously, when silence was restored. “The
pay is good and the work no heavier than an ordinary prætor’s show. But I
remember a fiercer lion than common, that Nero turned loose upon us once
in the arena, and we called him Cæsar amongst ourselves, because he was
dangerous to meddle with. If the old man’s purple is to be rent, we should
have something over the regular pay. They have not lasted long of late;
but still, Hippias, ’tis somewhat out of the usual business. We don’t
change an emperor every night, even now.”
“True enough,” answered the master good‐humouredly. “And you have never
been within the walls of a palace in your life. Something beyond your pay,
said you? Why, man, the pay is but a pretext, a mere matter of form. Once
in Cæsar’s chambers, a large‐fisted fellow like Rufus here, may carry away
a king’s ransom in either hand. Then think of the old wine! Fifty‐year‐old
Cæcuban, in six‐quart cups of solid gold, and welcome to take the goblet
away with you, besides, if you care to be encumbered with it. Shawls from
Persia, lying about for mere coverings to the couches. Mother‐of‐pearl and
ivory gleaming in every corner. Jewels scattered in heaps upon the floor.
Only get the work done first, and every man here shall help himself
unquestioned, and walk home with whatever pleases him best.”
It was not often Hippias treated his followers to so long a speech, or
one, in their estimation, so much to the purpose. They marked their
approval with vehement and repeated shouts. They ceased to think of Esca,
and forgot all about Mariamne and their late dissatisfaction; nay, they
seemed now but to be impatient of every subject unconnected with their
enterprise, and to grudge every minute that delayed them from their
promised spoil. At a signal from Hippias and his intimation that supper
was ready, and their host awaiting them, they rushed tumultuously through
the porch, leaving behind them Mariamne and Esca, guarded only by old
Hirpinus and Euchenor, the latter appearing alone to be unmoved by the
glowing prospects of plunder held out, and obstinately standing on his
rights, determined not to lose sight of the captured girl, the more so
that she was now overlooked by the rest of his comrades.
This man, though deficient in the dashing physical daring which is so
popular a quality amongst those of his profession, possessed,
nevertheless, a dogged tenacity of purpose, totally unqualified by any
moral scruples or feelings of shame, which rendered him formidable as an
antagonist, and generally successful in any villany he attempted. As in
the combats he waged with or without the heavy lacerating _cestus_, his
object was to tire out his adversary by protracted and scientific defence,
taking as little punishment as possible, and never hazarding a blow save
when it could not be returned, so in everything he undertook, it was his
study to reach the goal by unrelaxing vigilance, and unremitting recourse
to the means which experience and common sense pointed out for its
attainment. Slinking behind the broad back of Hirpinus, he concealed
himself in the darkest corner of the porch, and watched the result of
Mariamne’s appeal to the fencing‐master.
Hippias pushed the gladiators on before him, with boisterous good‐humour
and considerable violence; as they crowded through the narrow entrance, he
remained behind for a moment, and whispered to Esca—
“You will take the girl home, comrade. Can I trust you?”
“Trust me!” was all the Briton answered, but the tone in which he spoke,
and the glance he exchanged with Mariamne, might have satisfied a more
exacting inquirer than the captain of gladiators.
“Fare thee well, lad,” said Hirpinus, “and thee, too, my pretty flower. I
would go with you myself, but it is a long way from here to Tiber‐side,
and I must not be missing to‐night, come what may.”
“Begone, both of you!” added Hippias hurriedly. “Had it not been for the
plunder, I should scarce have found my lambs so reasonable to‐night; were
you to fall in with them again, the Vestals themselves could not save you.
Begone, and farewell.”
They obeyed and hastened off, while the fencing‐master, with a well‐
pleased smile, clapped Hirpinus on the shoulder, and accompanied him into
the house.
“Old comrade,” said he, “we will drink a measure of the tribune’s Cæcuban
to‐night, come what may. To‐morrow we shall either be on our backs gaping
for the death‐fee, or pressing our lips to nothing meaner than a chalice
of burnished gold. Who knows? Who cares?”
“Not I for one,” replied Hirpinus; “but I am strangely thirsty in the
meantime, and the tribune’s wine, they tell me, is the best in Rome.”
CHAPTER XIII
THE ESQUILINE
[Initial W]
With attentive ears, and faculties keenly on the stretch, Euchenor,
lurking in the corner of the porch, listened to the foregoing
conversation. When he gathered that Tiber‐side was the direction the
fugitives meant to take, his quick Greek intellect formed its plan of
operation at once.
There was a post of his comrades, consisting of some of the gladiators
purchased by Placidus, and placed there a few hours since by the orders of
Hippias, in the direct road for that locality. He would follow the pair,
noiseless and unsuspected, for he had no mind to provoke an encounter with
the Briton till within reach of assistance, then give the alarm, seize the
wayfarers, and appeal to the club‐law they all held sacred, for his
rights. Esca would be sure to defend the girl with his life, but he would
be overpowered by numbers, and it would be strange if he could not be
quieted for ever in the struggle. There would still be time enough,
thought Euchenor, after his victory to join his comrades at the tribune’s
table, leaving the girl to the tender mercies of the band. He could make
some excuse for his absence to satisfy his companions, heated as they
would by that time be with wine. Indeed, for his own part, he had no great
fancy for the night’s adventure, promising as it did more hard knocks than
he cared to exchange in a fight with the German guard, fierce blue‐eyed
giants, who would give and take no quarter. He did not wish, indeed, to
lose his share of the plunder, for no one was more alive to the advantages
of a full purse, but he trusted to his own dexterity for securing this,
without running unnecessary risk. Meanwhile, it was his method to attend
to one thing at a time; he waited impatiently, therefore, till Hippias
entered the house, and left him at liberty to emerge from his hiding‐
place.