"They deserted their posts in the passes. Rome needs not such

soldiers."

So, company by company, the guards of the defiles, terrified or lured

away to the ridges by the ruse of the cattle and the blazing fagots,

fell ingloriously before their comrades' eyes, as being men not worth

the effort to succour. The rear-guard of the invaders had already made

its way through the pass, while the Carthaginian van was well on into

the valley of the Volturnus. Now, too, the African light troops

disappeared, and, at last, the white tunics of the Spaniards, gay with

their purple borders, glittered for a moment on the hilltops, and then,

their work of death completed, sank away behind the ridges to fall back

and join their comrades in a march of new destruction through a new

country.

VIII.

DISGRACE.

While these things were happening, for the most part in the sight of

all, Sergius had been able to gain a moment's speech with the dictator.

Forcing his way through the crowd of tribunes and officers who thronged

the praetorium, he had found Fabius seated before his tent, and had

told his story in the fewest words possible.

Naked but for his torn tunic and his cothurni, covered from head to

foot with blood and mire, his left arm hanging useless, and his face

like the face of a dead man, neither his miserable plight nor his story

brought softness to the stern lips and brow of the general.

"You have come to tell me this?" he said, when the other had finished

speaking. "Do I not know it _now_?" and he pointed to the heights.

Then he turned away and spoke with some one at his side, while Sergius

stood, with downcast eyes, swaying and scarcely able to keep his feet.

Among those around him his fate seemed hardly a matter of conjecture,

but a thrill went through the company when Minucius, who had been

vainly urging the dictator to support the guards of the passes, now

turned away in disgust, and, noting the disgraced officer, as if for

the first time, cried out in a loud voice:--

"What, my friend! have not the lictors attended to you, yet, for

venturing to play the man?"

Sergius felt the added danger to which the master-of-the-horse had

exposed him by using his insubordination to point such a moral to his

commander; but the face of the dictator gave no sign that he had even

heard the taunting challenge. Calmly he gave his orders for cautious

scouting, for breaking camp, and for the army to resume its patient

march of observation, along the flank of the retiring foe. Then, when

one after another had retired to fulfil his commands, he turned again

to the waiting tribune.

"I have been considering your fault," he said slowly, "and I had marked

you out as a much needed victim for the rods and axe. Go to my

master-of-the-horse and thank him for your life. His taunt was

doubtless meant to destroy you, in order that he might play the

demagogue over your fate. I accept it as a challenge to my

self-control. It is more necessary that I should show myself wise and

forbearing than that one fool should perish for his folly. Go back to

Rome, and tell them that I have many soldiers who can fight, and that I

want only those who can obey."

Utterly exhausted, Sergius struggled vainly to withstand this last,

crushing blow. His composure was unequal to the task, and, sinking

upon his knees, as the dictator turned toward the tent, he could only

stretch out one hand and murmur:--

"The axe, my master; I pray you, the axe."

Fabius paused a moment and eyed him grimly. Then his rugged, weary

face softened slightly.

"I trusted you," he said. "Could you not trust me for a little while?

But go to Rome, as I bade you--only there shall others go with you, and

you shall bear for your message, instead of that one, this: that there

is no room for wounded men in my camp."

"But I shall be well in two days--in one--I am well now if you say it."

Fabius shook his head slowly.

"Aesculapius has not been unhonoured by me," he said, "and he has told

me that you will be but a burden for many days. For this reason go to

Rome, and for two others that you shall not tell of: one, for

punishment because you could not obey, and one, because the time will

come soon when Rome shall need even the men who can only fight."

Sergius saw the hopelessness of struggling against his softened fate,

bitter though it was. Open disgrace, indeed, had been turned aside;

but, on the other hand, he was doomed to inaction during times when all

Rome longed only to strike, and he could not but feel that he had

fallen far in the estimation of his general.

IX.

HOME.

The Appian Way was still safe, even from the chance of Numidian foray,

and it was along its lava-paved level that the long convoy of sick and

wounded writhed slowly northward that afternoon.

Half reclining in the rude chariot, each jolt of which brought agony to

his injured shoulder, Sergius watched, with far deeper pain than that

of body, the last troop of allied horse winding up the pass toward

Allifae: the rear-guard of Rome's line of march. Then he fell to

brooding upon his fate, while the night followed the day and the day

the night, and still the dreary, groaning caravan dragged on, resting

only during the heated hours.

On, over the Liris at Minturnae, upward, over the mountains behind

Tarracina and descending again into the Pontine plain; through the

shady groves of Arician ilex that crown the Alban Hills, down to

Bovillae, and then away across the Campagna to Rome--a marvel of deep

cuttings through the hills,--a marvel of giant superstructures over

valleys,--the Appian, the Queen of Ways.

There were long, green ridges now, swelling from the plain and breaking

away into little rocky cliffs tufted with wild fig trees: sluggish

streams wound down from the east where, far away, loomed the

snow-tipped summits of Apennine, while toward the west the sky

reflected a brighter light from the sea that glittered beneath it.

At last the eyes of the vanguard of weary wayfarers could descry,

through the morning mists, the crowned cluster of hills that was to be

a crown to all the world. Nearer they came and yet nearer, through the

vineyards and cornfields of the Campagna--the southern Campagna teeming

with its herds of mouse-coloured cattle, whose great, stupid eyes were

only less stupidly beautiful than those of the rustics that watched

over their grazings.

And now wounds and sickness were, for the moment, forgotten, as man

pointed out to man this and that landmark of home: temples on this hill

and on that; Diana on the Aventine, the hill of the people; Jupiter

Stator on the Palatine; the grim mass of the citadel above the rock of

Tarpeia; the great quadriga that surmounted the greatest fane of

all--the house of Capitoline Jove. To the right of these were the

clustered oaks of the Caelian Mount, while, farthest away, but highest

of all, the white banner fluttering from the heights of Janiculum told

them that the city was still safe, still unassailed. They were passing

where the road was bordered by its houses of the dead; tombs of the

great families, above which the funereal cypresses bent their heads and

shed peace and shade alike over the dead and the living. The hum of

the city came to their ears, and, as the convoy drew nearer to the

Capenian Gate, the throng, pouring out to meet them, grew thicker and

more dense, blocking the way until the cavalry of the escort cleared it

with their spear-butts. Then the press divided, running along on both

sides of the carriages, in two fast-filling streams whose murmurs

swelled into a very torrent's roar of questions and prayers for news of

the general and the army.

"Was Hannibal beaten? Had he been slain, or was he waiting in chains

to grace the Fabian triumph? Was it true that he measured twice the

height of common men, and that a single eye blazed cyclops-like in the

middle of his forehead? How many elephants would be seen in the

triumph?"

Such and a hundred queries, equally wild, assailed the escort and the

occupants of the wagons; for this was the rabble: poor citizens,

freedmen, slaves, for whom no story of Hannibal and Carthage was too

improbable. Nevertheless Sergius imagined he could discern a spirit of

irony underlying much that he heard.

When they had reached the low eminence that, crowned by the Temple of

Mars, faced the city gate, he bade the attendants help him descend from

the army carriage, that he might wait the coming of his slaves with a

litter. A messenger was soon found, and hurried off, charged with

necessary directions.

The crowd had rolled on through the gate, together with the convoy, and

the sick man was left alone save for the attendants of the temple in

whose care he had placed himself. Day by day, as he had jolted along

his journey, he had felt the fever coming on--fever born of his injury

and the terrible strain to which he had been subjected: now it was only

necessary to reach his home and rest. Last of his race but for two

older sisters who had married several years since, the spacious mansion

of the family of Fidenas was his alone, with its slaves and its

ancestral masks and its cool courts and its outlook over the seething

Forum up to the opposite heights of the Capitol. There he would find

care and comfort for the body if not for the soul.

And now the patter of running feet sounded from the pavement below.

They were come, at last, with the litter, and Sergius, entering it, was

borne swiftly through the gate, on, between the tall houses that backed

up against the hills, turning soon to the left into the New Way; on,

past the altar of Hercules in the cattle market, past the Temple of

Vesta, along the Comitia, and into the Sacred Way by the front of the

Curia. Thence they swung westward to the Roman Gate, the gate in the

ancient Wall of the City of Romulus that fenced the Palatine alone,--a

stately entrance, now, to the residence portion of the city most

favoured by the great families. Near by stood the house that marked

the ending of the journey, bustling with its slaves and bright with a

hundred lamps; while the physician, an old freedman of the tribune's

father, stood upon the threshold to greet and care for his late

master's son.

Gravely shaking his head at the discouraging aspect of the invalid and

muttering to himself in Greek, for he was born in Rhodes, he led the

way back to the great hall between the peristyle and the garden.

"Here, master," he said, "I have caused your couch to be laid, at the

moment I learned of your arrival and condition. You observe, the air

and light will be better than in your apartment, and the space better

calculated for those whose duty it shall be to minister to you, until

the divine Aesculapius and Apollo's self unite to grant success to my

efforts."

"It is well, Agathocles," said Sergius, wearily, "and I thank you."

His voice seemed to die away with the last words, and a sort of stupor

fell over him. Agathocles watched him closely, as he lay upon the

couch, noted the heavy breathing, and drew his brows together with a

deep frown. Behind him a group of the household slaves whispered

together and cast frightened glances, now at their master, now at the

disciple of the healing art; for Sergius had been brought up among

them, and the terms of their service were neither heavy nor harsh.

Then the surgeon set to work examining the shoulder, nodding his head

to observe that the bone had been replaced in its socket, but waxing

troubled again over the inflammation and swelling that told the story

of torn tendons and blood-vessels too long neglected, and of the

hardships of the journey. Slaves were sent scurrying, in this

direction and that, to compound lotions and spread poultices, while

Agathocles himself proceeded to the ostentatious mixing of some cooling

draught calculated to ward off, if possible, the fever that was already

claiming its sway.

X.

CONVALESCENCE.

The many weeks of hovering between life and death that followed these

days were a dense blank to Sergius. First, there was his injury, more

serious than he had imagined, and the fever that had followed it,

complicated again by the malaria of the marshes through which he had

journeyed in so vulnerable a plight. Then came other weeks of such

lassitude that he had neither power nor desire to learn of the world to

which he felt himself slowly returning, as did Aeneas from the realms

of Pluto. There were times when he had been vaguely conscious of

whisperings around his couch upon subjects that should have interested

him and did not. Was it his fault? or had everything become

commonplace and of no account?

At last there came a time of convalescence. His haggard face

frightened him when he looked at it in the bronze mirror; but the air

of the winter was fresh and keen, bringing health and life to the mind,

if not entirely to the body. So, lying one day in the entrance hall

and gazing out over the Forum below, he turned to Agathocles, who sat

close by.

"And now you shall tell me," he began, "of the things that have

happened while I have lain here, helpless as a bag of corn in the

granary, and of even less importance."

"You mistake, my master," replied the physician, quickly. "Surely you

must know that your condition has been a matter of deep anxiety to

many, both within and without your walls."

"Within, perhaps, yes," said Sergius, slowly. "I treat them well, and

such of them as do not get freedom by my will would doubtless find

harder masters in Sabinus and Camerinus. My sisters' husbands are

patricians of the old school. As for without,--am I not a man useless

in times of action?--well-nigh disgraced?--"

Agathocles hastened to interrupt:--

"Ah! my master, you do not know. Could you but see the crowd of

clients who have gathered at your door each morning, waiting for it to

creak upon the pivots, and, later in the day, such of your friends as

were not away with the army--ay," he continued, with a sharp glance at

the invalid, "and a pretty female slave who has come at each nightfall

and has questioned the doorkeeper."

The strong desire to hear of two things had come into Sergius' mind

while the physician was speaking. He must learn about this female

slave who had inquired so assiduously, and he must hear of the army,

the war, the Republic; for these last three were really but one. After

something of an effort, and not without a certain sentiment of

self-approval, he said:--

"Let me hear of friends later, my Agathocles. Tell me now of the war."

There was a troubled expression in the physician's eyes, but he

answered volubly:--

"It progresses famously, in Spain, my master. Oh!--ay--famously.

Their fleet has been swept from the seas, and Scipio slays and drives

them as he wills. Doubtless by now they are all back in Africa--"

"Not of Spain," interrupted Sergius, as the narrator caught his breath.

"Tell me of Italy, of Hannibal and Fabius. Have the standards opposed

each other?"

"They say Hannibal is in winter quarters at Geronium, and the consuls

watch him," began Agathocles, in more subdued tones.

"Tell me of Fabius. Tell me of what has happened--all, do you hear?"

cried Sergius, raising himself impatiently on one elbow. "If your

story seems to lack coherence and truth, I swear to you that I will go

down into the Forum at once and learn what I wish."

Thus adjured, the physician answered, but with evident reluctance:--

"Truly, my master, all things have not been as we might wish, and yet

they could easily have run worse. When your dictator let the invaders

out of Campania, there was much complaint among the people that he was

protracting the war for his own advantage; but when he came to Rome for

the sacrifices and left Minucius in command, with orders not to engage,

and when the master-of-the-horse, as some say, evading the orders,

fought and gained an advantage, then, you may believe me, the city was

in a turmoil; nor were there wanting friends of Minucius and emissaries

from his camp to sound his praises as a general and decry the dictator

and his policy, not to say his courage and his honesty."

"I warrant," said Sergius, gloomily, "that every pot-house politician

from the Etruscan Street was declaiming on how much better _he_ could

command than could Quintus Fabius."

"Until at last," went on Agathocles, "Marcus Metilius--"

"The tribune?--a corrupt knave!" broke in Sergius.

"Surely; yes. Well, this Marcus Metilius made a speech--"

"Full of rank demagoguery, I warrant."

"Surely, and saying that it was intolerable for Minucius, who was the

only man who could fight, to be put under guard lest he beat the enemy;

intolerable that the territory of the allies should have been given up

to ravage, while the dictator protected his own farm with the legions

of the Republic; and, finally, proposing, as a most moderate measure,

that Minucius, the victor, should be given equal command over the army

with Fabius the laggard."

"Unprecedented impudence!" murmured Sergius, "and what said the

dictator?"

"He did not trouble to go near the Comitia, and even in the Senate they

did not like to hear his praises of Hannibal and his troops, or listen

favourably when he spoke doubtfully concerning the magnitude of

Minucius' victory and claimed that, even were it all true, the

master-of-the-horse should be called to account for his

insubordination. So, after he had lauded prudence and supported his

own policy, and after Marcus Atilius Regulus was elected consul, the

dictator departed for the army, in the night, and left them to do as

they pleased."

"They passed the law?" asked Sergius, bitterly.

"It hung in doubt for some time," went on Agathocles; "for, though many

favoured, few were disposed to advance such a measure, until Caius

Terentius Varro, who was praetor last year--"

"The butcher's son," commented Sergius. "You know, my Agathocles, how

demagogues and tyrants crushed out the life of your Hellas. We have

yet to see the same ruin fall upon Rome, and from the same cause:

first, an ungovernable rabble, stirred up by the ignorant and vicious,

and then a king, and then a foreign conqueror. Flaminius lost one

army, Minucius will doubtless lose another, while Metilius and Varro

are well able to lose whatever may remain. Pah! Why did you not let

me finish my journey to Acheron? This is no city for men whose fathers

were able to teach them about war and honour. He whose tongue is most

ready to lie about the noble and the rich is counted on to wield the

sword best against an enemy. Well,--speak on; and what happened next?"

"As you say," continued the physician, "the measure was passed; but

when Minucius desired that he and the dictator should command on

alternate days, Fabius would only consent to a division of the army."

"Gods!" exclaimed Sergius. "Two legions apiece! That must have been

rare sport for Hannibal."

"Truly, yes; but it resulted well, for, to shorten the tale, the

Carthaginian trapped Minucius through his rashness, and was about to

cut him to pieces, when the dictator, who had foreseen all this, came

up and saved what was left; whereupon the master-of-the-horse marched

to the general's camp, and, saluting him as 'father' and 'saviour,'

surrendered his equal command, after having directed his soldiers,

also, to greet the others as patrons--"

"That, at least, was well done," said Sergius, nodding; "worthy of a

man better born than Minucius. I do him honour for learning from

experience. Metilius or Varro could not have done it."

"And, now," continued Agathocles, "both the dictator and the

master-of-the-horse have given up their commands, the time of their

appointments expiring, and the army is in winter quarters under the

consuls."

"Servilius and Atilius?"

"Truly."

"And the elections?"

"Are falling due."

"Who sue for the consulship?"

Agathocles hesitated and placed his fingers upon the patient's pulse.

"I have told you enough for the day--"

"Who are candidates?" reiterated Sergius, leaning forward impatiently.

"They say that Varro--" began Agathocles.

But the tribune had sprung to his feet. Then, as he swayed a moment

from weakness, leaning back against the couch, he raised both hands and

cried out:--

"Have they gone mad? The butcher's son!--the bearer of his father's

wares, to command against Hannibal! Do you think the Carthaginian a

bullock to stand still and stupid, while this soldier of the shambles

swings the axe? Gods! They will learn their error--only _we_ must pay

the price, together with the rabble that owe it. Gods! Was not the

lesson of Flaminius enough for these drinkers of vinegar-water? This

will be great news for them on the Megalia."

Then, seeming to gain strength from his excitement, he strode up and

down the atrium, while the physician watched him anxiously but without

venturing to interfere.

It was the doorkeeper's attendant that broke in upon the scene, pausing

a moment in doubt, as his eyes followed his master's rapid strides.

Finally, approaching Agathocles, he plucked him by the sleeve and

whispered:--

"The woman desires to know of the health of my lord."

Before the physician could answer, Sergius had caught the words, and,

wheeling about, faced the boy.

"What woman and where?" he asked.

"The gray stole; the slave woman who inquires for you. She waits her

answer at the door," said the boy, his tongue loosened by the question.

"Let her come to me," commanded Sergius, and he threw himself down upon

the deeply cushioned seat of a marble chair. Agathocles stood at his

elbow, with an expression of anxiety on his face, and, in a moment

more, the girl entered.

Muffled almost to the eyes, she glided forward, and the voice that

addressed him was soft and musical.

"May the gods favour you, my lord! even as they have favoured me in

permitting a sight of your improved health."

"You have been here often," began Sergius, "and I wished to see you and

bid you bear my thanks to her who sent you."

Slowly the stole dropped from the eyes--very pretty eyes, that, joined

with an equally pretty mouth, took on an expression of hurt

astonishment.

"That _sent_ me?" she murmured, half sadly. "Ah, well; doubtless it is

a matter of insolence for a poor slave girl to wish and ask concerning

the health of the noble Sergius."

The tribune watched her closely and with mingled feelings. He had

settled in his mind, from the moment of Agathocles' mention of the

fact, that the slave woman who called must be sent by Marcia, and it

was not without a pang of very poignant regret that he relinquished the

idea. That he could not place this girl--one of a class so far beneath

the notice of a Roman of rank--was not strange, and yet the face seemed

vaguely familiar to him, and--it was certainly little short of

beautiful. A man flouted, or, still worse, ignored by a mistress at

whose shrine he has worshipped, might well be pardoned a feeling of

satisfaction that his well-being was a matter of interest to at least

one pretty woman.

Meanwhile the girl stood before him, her arms hanging by her sides, her

eyes modestly cast down, and her whole attitude indicative of detected

audacity and submissive despair. Agathocles had transferred his

attention from his patient to the visitor, and his scrutiny seemed to

trouble her.

"So it was yourself alone who desired to learn of my welfare," said

Sergius, with a faint smile. "Believe me, my girl, no Roman is too

noble to value the interest of beauty like yours."

There was just the suspicion of a laugh in the downcast eyes, but it

sped away as swiftly as it came, and she made haste to answer:--

"Truly, my lord does not measure his own worth. There are many, as

much above me in beauty as they are in rank; many who cannot venture to

show the concern they doubtless feel. What has a poor slave girl to do

with maidenly modesty--the plaything of any master who chooses to smile

upon her for a moment?"

She spoke bitterly, and Sergius, half frowning, half smiling, reached

out his hand. The contrast between this girl's frankly spoken interest

and the courted Marcia's trivial indifference came to him more

powerfully. What a fool a man was to waste himself on some haughty

mistress who exacted all things and gave nothing! She had taken the

hand he held out, and now, suddenly, he drew her to him, and kissed her.

Then he found new occasion to marvel over the strange ways of women.

As if awakened from a dream or a part in a comedy, to some instant and

frightful peril, she wrenched herself from him and, wrapping her cloak

around her face, turned and ran like a deer through the hallway and out

into the street.

Sergius was dazed for a moment by the suddenness of it all; then he

rose.

"Quick, Smyrnus!" he called to the boy who attended on the porter.

"Follow, and bring me word where she goes."

The delay had been short, and Smyrnus was swift of foot, but when he

reached the street it was empty as far as he could see, and a dash to

each corner of the house gave no better results. Inquiries, likewise,

were unavailing, and he returned slowly and with shoulders that already

seemed to tingle under the expected rods.

Meanwhile, Agathocles had essayed to exert his authority over the

invalid, and was protesting volubly against the latter's imprudence.

Sergius was in excellent humour, despite the escape of his conquest.

"Nonsense, my Agathocles," he began, half guiltily at first, but

gaining confidence as he pursued his justification. "Do you not see,

all this has done me more good than a score of days spent in dull

reclining, with only nauseous draughts to mark the hours by? I have

learned that I am a man again, with an interest in the Republic and

myself. Surely such knowledge is worth a little risk. To-morrow, mark

you, if the gods favour me, I shall descend into the Forum and see if

nothing is to be effected against this rabble in the matter of the

elections. Had she not magnificent eyes, my Agathocles? not those of

the dull ox, as your Homer puts it, but rather of the startled fawn?"

"They seemed to me more of the fox," said the physician, dryly, "being

golden in colour and very cunning. I doubt you fathomed her smile,

though wherefore she should seek--"

"Sacrilege! Agathocles," cried Sergius, gayly; "but here comes Smyrnus.

Well, boy, where is the lair of this fox of our good Agathocles?"

The terrified boy had thrown himself upon his face.

"I hastened with all speed, master," he protested. "At your word I

flew, but she was gone, as if a god had snatched her up, nor was there

a passer-by who had seen aught--"

Sergius was frowning ominously; then his face cleared.

"Doubtless that was it, Smyrnus," he said. "Your judicious piety is

quicker than your heels in saving your back. If a god took her, he

showed excellent taste, and it would be utter sacrilege to punish you

for failing to learn her whereabouts. Come, Agathocles, be not so

gloomy. Do you think it is Aesculapius who has come to your aid? He,

at least, is no spruce, young rival. Be conciliatory, or I may,

perhaps, venture to try my fortune even against--"

"I am rather of the opinion that some cunning Hermes has tricked Eros

and Aesculapius and my Lord Lucius as well," said the physician. An

expression of grim humour lurked in his face, and Sergius felt

strangely uncomfortable.

"What is a physician if he talk not in the language of oracles," he

said, querulously. "Well, you may send me to my couch now, if you

will; but, mark you, to-morrow I go to the Forum."

XI.

POLITICS.

On the following day, Sergius, true to his purpose, ordered his litter

to be brought, and, reclining as his weakness compelled, was borne down

into the Forum crowded with its mass of turbulent and perspiring

humanity. Nor was the temper of the rabble doubtful. On every side he

heard arraignments of Fabius, and, through him, of all men guilty of

good birth or riches. Under every portico, speakers were pouring forth

harangues whose ignorance was only matched by their coarseness and

surpassed by their reckless malevolence. Once he bade his bearers set

him down, near where one Quintus Baebius Herennius, a plebeian tribune

and a relative of Varro's, was holding forth to a sympathetic crowd.

"Do you not know, ye foolish Romans," cried the orator, alternately

slapping his thigh, waving his arms, and casting up his eyes, "that

this Hannibal was brought into Italy by these very nobles, who are

always desiring war? Can you not see how they are protracting the war,

when you consider that one man of the people, our own Minucius, when he

commanded the four legions, was sufficient for the enemy? Behold how

this traitorous, this _noble_ Fabian schemed to expose the brave

Minucius and two legions of the people to destruction, and only rescued

the remnant that he might pose as their saviour and be saluted 'father'

and 'patron.' There, indeed, was our Minucius at fault, as what

honest, poor man is not, when confronted by the wiles of those bred to

craft and trickery! See, too, how the consuls have followed the same

dilatory measures, and can you doubt that it is all by agreement with

these traitor nobles? Know well, now, that this war will have no

ending until a man of the people ends it--a real plebeian; a new man.

See you not that both consuls, by tarrying with the army, have set up

an interregnum, that the wicked nobles may the better influence your

choice? But if you be true Romans, such as were those who camped upon

the Sacred Hill, you will remember that one consulship, at least, is

yours by law, and you will elect a man to fill it who is one of

yourselves and who will spurn the rich, as they now seek to spurn you

and me and all good men."

Sergius had listened to this harangue, and to the applause which

greeted it, with mingled feelings of indignation and sorrow--sentiments

to which was added surprise when he noted through the closed curtains

of his litter that several patricians passed by and smiled and nodded

to the speaker while he poured forth his diatribes. Now, however, a

new commotion seemed to agitate the throng, who, turning suddenly, ran

pell-mell in one direction, almost overturning the litter--a

catastrophe from which it was only saved by a vigorous use of the

bearers' staves upon the heads of the nearest.

Sergius thrust aside the curtains and half raised himself to see the

cause of the disturbance. The brightly fullered gown of a candidate

flashed before his eyes, and then he recognized Varro standing upon a

silversmith's counter, smiling this way and that, grasping the hands of

those nearest, kissing his own to the very outskirts of the mob, and

all the while crying out, to the promptings of his nomenclator:

"Greeting to you, Marcus!" "Health, Quintus!" "Commend me to your

brother, my Caius--yes, to be sure--when he shall return from the army.

Ah! friends, when I am consul, there will be a hasty returning from

such foolish wars. You shall see the African fork-bearers winding

through the Forum."

"And that is the first word of truth I have heard from you, Varro, or

from your Herennius here," cried Sergius, who had risen and now stood,

pale and gaunt, beside his litter. "With you and such as you to

command, we may well look to see the African fork-bearers winding

through the Forum--yes, and pillaging amid its ruins."

A roar of vituperation drowned whatever answer the candidate might have

made, as, with brandished clubs, cleavers, knives, styli--any weapon

that could be snatched up from the booths--the nearest score of the

crowd made a dash at the presumptuous noble.

The litter-bearers were sturdy fellows, and their staves were stout,

but the contest was far too unequal. One had gone down with a deep

gash in the shoulder, and the others were quickly forced back upon

their master.

Sergius stood with his back to one of the square pillars of peperino,

with folded arms and pale face upon which hovered a smile of ineffable

scorn. He recognized his peril: the fate that had befallen many noble

Romans in the election riots of the Republic; but his sentiment was

rather one of indifference than of perturbation, and he was about to

order his slaves to give up their hopeless defence, in order that the

crowd might let them, at least, go without further hurt, when an

entirely unexpected diversion brought him relief and safety.

Varro had viewed the attack upon his critic with a pleasure that he

scarcely tried to conceal. He kept begging his adherents to be

moderate and abstain from violence, but in so low a voice that his

counsels could not be heard except by those immediately around him, and

were entirely inaudible to the howling assailants to whom they were

presumably addressed. Another voice, however, a shrill, female voice,

came suddenly to Sergius' ears:--

"Would that my brother could come to life and command another fleet,

that the streets might be less crowded!"

Sergius recognized, in a rich litter that was tossed hither and thither

by the billows of the mob, the face of the sister of that Publius

Claudius who had lost for Rome the naval battle off Drepanum. The mob,

too, recognized her, and the scornful speech bit deeply. All around

arose a cry of--

"To the aediles with her! To the aediles! She has rejoiced in the

death of our brothers! May the gods curse the noble!" and, in a

moment, Sergius found himself alone but for his bruised and bleeding

servants, while the tide of riot swept up the Forum, bearing the litter

upon its tossing crests, and the virago within continued to scream out

her defiance and contempt.

Varro remained, surrounded by a few friends, and, as Sergius

approached, he drew himself up, as if to reënforce his courage with a

sense of his importance. The tribune was about to pass him without a

word; but the demagogue, emboldened by this seeming unwillingness for

an encounter, placed himself in his path.

"Did you hear the kindly wishes that the great express for the health

of their poorer countrymen?" he began, tauntingly.

"It is like your kind, Varro," replied Sergius, speaking slowly and in

tones of profound contempt, "to attribute to our party any intemperance

of a single opponent; but do you also credit us with the virtues of

individuals? I might with better grace attribute the murderous attack

just made--and with your connivance--upon myself, to the party of the

people. That I do not do so, you may lay to a moderation and

magnanimity that are not learned in the tradesman's booth or the

butcher's shambles."

Varro flushed crimson, and he looked from side to side, as if to call

upon his friends for new violence; but a company of young patricians

were descending from the Comitia, and his fellows were dull of

comprehension.

"Do you beware, though, Varro," continued Sergius, "lest, in striving

to attain power and place on the wings of calumny against those better

than yourself, or by the suggestion of false grievances to those who

are ignorant and weak, you may, by these things, incite one riot too

many. Beware, above all things, lest you win."

Then, drawing his toga close, as if to avoid a contaminating touch, he

strode by to join the approaching band of young men, leaving his

opponent vicious to snarl, but powerless to bite.

After the usual greetings and inquiries concerning his health, they

walked on together toward the Curtian Pool, and Sergius' thoughts took

on a deeper colour from the despondent speech of his friends. That

Varro would receive the votes of the centuries, beyond all doubt, was

unanimously conceded; and so great was the dissatisfaction with Fabius,

that their regret seemed only for the manner of the popular victory and

the man who was to gain it. A few hot-heads dropped hints to the

effect that it might become necessary to reorganize the patrician clubs

and meet violence with violence, in which event there could be but

little doubt as to the result; but the sentiment of the majority was

adverse to such measures, and they viewed the possibilities with an

indifference that to Sergius seemed even more ominous than the frenzy

of the rabble and the worthlessness of its leaders. His attempts to

defend the Fabian policy, speaking as one of its victims, were

hopelessly thrown away. All Rome was mad for battle, even at the cost

of sending the butcher's son to command the legions; and, two days

later, the result of low chicanery and indifferent lethargy took shape.

The trumpet had summoned the army of the city to the Field of Mars, and

century after century had entered the enclosure to cast its vote for

Varro--for Varro alone, until no one of the noble candidates, who

received the half-hearted support of their fellows, got even enough

pebbles to be proclaimed elected to the second consulship. To Varro

alone, cringing and insolent, was the oath administered; for Varro

alone was the prayer put up; for Varro was the declaration twice made,

according to the laws of the Republic, and into Varro's hands was

placed the presidency over the assembly that was to elect his colleague.

Then followed an exhibition of plebeian cunning. There were among the

supporters of the consul those who realized what he himself could not:

his military incompetence and the terrible necessity that, at such a

juncture, there should be at least one soldier-consul. Varro had won

on his merits as self-announced, on the strength of his own arraignment

of his adversaries' shortcomings. He stood forth the incarnation of

party and class hatred; and now the victors, half dazed by the very

completeness of their triumph, paused in mid career to look for a

soldier with whom the army might be entrusted. That he must be a

noble, was self-evident. Even the rabble, now that its first outburst

had passed, was not so mad as to attribute military skill to any of its

wordy leaders. The butcher's colleague must be a patrician, but he

must be such a patrician as would cast reproach upon his class, while

he supplied the one quality requisite to the plebeian situation. To

whose political acumen first occurred the name of Lucius Aemilius

Paullus, no one seemed to know; but, once suggested, there was none to

deny its entire appropriateness. Paullus was a veteran of several

wars, an experienced commander, a brave soldier; and there his merits

ended. He had been brought to trial for misappropriation of the

plunder taken in the Illyrian campaign, and, as many thought, acquitted

by means as scandalous as the crime itself, while his less influential

colleague suffered for both. Harsh and rude, no high-born Roman was

less popular; and his exaggeration of class insolence bade fair to

offer him as an illustration, ready to the tongue of every demagogue,

of what the people must always expect from patrician rule.

So, one by one, the five noble opponents of Varro were rejected, and

the word went out that, of their enemies, the people would have Paullus

and him alone.

XII.

BRAWLINGS.

More sick at heart, as he grew stronger in body, Sergius returned from

the final voting in the Field of Mars. For some reason the popular

party, sated with triumph, had permitted the election, as praetors, of

good men who had experience in military affairs; perhaps that these

might, together with Paullus, make surer the victory that was to

redound to the honour of the darling of the mob and proclaim to all the

Roman world the superiority of the butcher, Varro, over Fabius, the

well-fathered.

As Sergius was borne along toward the Palatine district, he found the

streets crowded with a populace he had hardly known to exist in the

city. Down from the lofty tenements of the Aicus, up from the slums of

the Suburra, the Gate of the Three Folds, and the Etruscan Street they

poured, drunk with joy and with hatred of all men who wore white togas

and had money to lend or lands to till. At each corner a denser throng

was gathered around jugglers, tumblers, wrestlers that writhed over the

road-way, actors who danced Etruscan pantomimes and carried their

make-up in little bags slung around their necks, singers of medleys,

and would-be popular poets who spouted coarse epigrams and ribald

satires levelled at the thieving, the effeminate, the adulterous

patricians who thought to rule Rome and had named an Aemilius Paullus

to stand beside and check the generous, the fearless, the incorruptible

Varro. Threatening looks and words were cast at Sergius and the

company of freedmen and clients that surrounded him, until he was not

ill-pleased to see the escort of another noble issue from a side street

and beat its way to where the exhausted bearers had set down the

tribune's litter, pausing to gain breath before attempting to push on

farther. When, however, he recognized in the sturdy old man who strode

along in the midst of the new company, no more distant acquaintance

than the father of Marcia, he was conscious of a strong revulsion.

Better the continued buffeting with an obstreperous mob than the

embarrassments he foresaw in such a rencontre; but it was too late to

avoid it: the interests and perils of the two parties were too nearly

identical, and he heard the gruff voice of his old friend crying out:--

"Back, exercisers of the whip! Back, colonizers of chains! To the

cross with you all! Is this Animula or Rome, where rude clowns do not

recognize their betters?" Then, for the first time, perceiving

Sergius: "Greeting to you, my Lucius! May the gods favour you better

than they have the Republic this day."

At that moment, a big, hulking fellow thrust himself forward in the

path of the advancing patrician and hiccoughed out:--

"May you meet with a plague, master! Truly there are to be no betters

or worsers in Rome--now that the noble Varro is consul and--"

The staff of Torquatus felled him to the ground, where he lay

shuddering and drawing up his legs, while a yell of rage and menace

broke from the crowd. Scarcely changing a line in his grim face, the

old man calmly trussed the folds of his toga about his left arm, freed

his right more fully, and drew a stylus of such size as to suggest a

dagger much more than an instrument for writing: such a weapon as was

born of the election brawls of earlier days, innocent under the law,

yet equally efficient as pen or sword.

Daunted at his aspect, the foremost assailants held back.

"Are there not more vinegar drinkers that wish to learn from an old

Roman the manners of old Rome?" asked Torquatus, sneeringly.

How the fight, once begun, would have ended seemed hardly uncertain,

for the crowd filled all the neighbouring streets: half were drunk, and

nearly half were provided with arms of some sort, many of them such as

were warranted by no pretext of law, save the knowledge that Varro was

consul, and the belief that he would protect his adherents in whatever

breach might please them. The dangerous front of Torquatus and his

company might have sufficed to check those who would have to lead a

rush, but they, unfortunately, had the least to say on the subject of

giving battle. Already the mobs, pouring in from the side streets at

the first scent of a brawl, were pushing the forlorn hope, all

unwilling, to its fate; three or four had already gone down with broken

heads, and a freedman of Torquatus had been stabbed in the side, when,

above the tumult, rose a voice crying:--

"Make way for the Consul, Paullus! Way! way!"

The matter, truly, was becoming serious, thought the outskirts of the

mob--all of them who could hear the shout. A brush with the fiercest,

the most hated, the most hating aristocrat that had been borne behind

the fasces for many a year, would mean punishment with a heavy hand.

The pressure was at once relieved, and though those in front saw no

sign of consul or lictor--saw only Sergius who had descended from his

litter and was leading his company in a vigorous attack--yet they were,

for the most part, only too glad to escape from the glaring eyes of

Titus Manlius and the broad sweep of his weapon. The old man was

puffing hard from the unwonted exertion when Sergius reached his side

through the fast-scattering assailants.

"The gods have punished my blasphemy with kindness," began Torquatus,

"in sending my Lord Paullus in such timely fashion."

"Say, rather, my father, in sending his name into the mind of one

Lucius Sergius," said Sergius, laughing.

For a moment the other frowned with a puzzled look; then his face

cleared, with as close an approach to a smile as it could wear.

"And our rescue is not due to the consul, then?" he asked, still slow

to fully grasp the ruse.

"To the consul's name and to the favouring cunning of Mercury," said

Sergius, bowing.

"Truly, you should command," exclaimed Torquatus. "A general so ready

in craft as you are might hope to match the African--and, by the gods!

no one else seems able to. Come, let us go on to my house."

Though harshly said, and in tones that one less acquainted with the

speaker might well have mistaken for sarcasm, Sergius knew that the

compliment was genuine. The aged patrician had turned and strode away,

as he finished speaking, and etiquette left to the younger man no

choice but to pay to the elder the reverence of his escort. That he

had asked what he might well have looked for as a matter of course, was

something of a condescension, according to the strict ceremoniousness

of the ancient usage; therefore Sergius hurried on and overtook him,

offering his litter, at which the other sniffed contemptuously.

"May the gods grant me to lie at rest by the Appian Way, before I

require such feet!" Then, as his sharp eyes noted the flush upon

Sergius' face, he added: "Fever, wounds, and death may pardon

effeminacy; and, truly, I would beg you to accompany me as you came,

were it not that a climb up the Palatine should bring new health to one

who could run ten miles with a broken shoulder. Believe me, my friend,

the dictator thought better of you than he spoke, and would have

regretted the axe. Jupiter grant that it be yours to justify his

opinion!"

No stimulant could have given such strength to the convalescent as did

these words, and from such a source. The dictator had not condemned,

then; he had even spoken well of him. The knowledge of it put to

flight the embarrassment he had felt when he realized that he was going

perforce to Marcia's house--perhaps into her presence; and he found

himself standing straighter and stepping out with longer and bolder

strides.

"Good words are better than bad ones for a good man," mused Torquatus,

wagging his head sententiously, and darting at his companion a

comprehensive glance, behind which lurked a grim smile. "If women

could ever learn as much, they might govern us the more readily--which

the gods forefend! as I doubt not they will."

Then the company halted. It was many months since Sergius had stood

before that door, and he could not, without grave discourtesy, refuse

the invitation to enter. Well, what mattered it? Marcia cared

nothing; why should he? Then, too, the stimulus of the dictator's

approval was still upon him, as the warning cry of the porter bade

those nearest stand back while the door swung out. Most of the party

took their leave here, but several followed into the atrium for adieus

more appropriate to their station.

At last all had departed save Sergius, who, having given orders that

his attendants should await him in the street, passed on into the

peristyle with his host.

There, beside the fountain, spinning, as he had so often seen her--as

he had seen her through all the days and nights of the campaign--sat

the lady Marcia. Two of her maidens were assisting: one who glanced up

at Sergius and smiled tauntingly; and another who turned her face away,

and seemed to be trying to hide it in the close inspection of a great

bunch of fleece. But both the forwardness of the one and the

bashfulness of the other were wasted upon the visitor. As a matter of

fact, he was so lost in wonder at his courage and self-control as to be

well past observing the idiosyncrasies of slaves; and, if his own

attitude was acceptable, even to himself, his admiration for that of

his hostess amounted to absolute bitterness. That she, a mere girl,

should rise and come forward with so conventional yet friendly a

greeting, that neither her lip should tremble nor her cheek flush, was

little short of intolerable. Nevertheless it helped to brace his own

resolves yet more firmly. Such poise, after all that had been between

them, could have its source only in the most absolute indifference.

"Health to the noble Lucius! Let him believe that there is no one of

his friends who thanks the gods more fervently for his recovery."

On its face the speech was cordial--much too cordial for love that has

quarrelled; therefore he bent his head and answered:--

"Were it not impiety, the noble Lucius would thank his well-wisher for

her words, more, even, than he thanks the gods for his recovery."

"Ah!" she replied lightly, "then he must scatter his thanks yet more

broadly, for there cannot be a defenceless woman in Rome who does not

rejoice that so brave a defender is spared to the State."

Sarcasm for sarcasm, he thought bitterly, but he answered as

carelessly:--

"In that case, I shall not bear my thanks beyond the gods; for if my

health be no greater care to you than to all the white stoles in the

city, I think I can measure its value."

An expression of almost infantile surprise and reproach crossed her

features.

"You are either very forgetful or very ungrateful," she said. "If

Venus has healed so faithful a votary, surely mortal women have not

been lacking in their sympathy; nor, if report tells truly, has the

noble Lucius been lacking in gratitude--until now."

That shaft struck home, and, for a moment, Sergius could find no

answer. He could only remember the episode of the girl who had come to

him, and wonder which one of his household could have borne treacherous

word to Marcia of his weakness and his discomfiture. Meanwhile she had

turned carelessly and dismissed her women, and one had gone, throwing

back laughing glances, the other, with her face still buried in the

wool with which she had filled her arms.

Torquatus had been standing near, somewhat puzzled by what he felt to

be a battle of words between his daughter and his guest, but a battle

whose plans of attack or defence he found himself at a loss to fathom.

Feeling at last that it was incumbent upon him as host to break in upon

badinage that bade fair to become embarrassing, he spoke briefly of his

encounter with the mob and of Lucius' timely aid and clever ruse.

Marcia listened closely, nodding her head from time to time, but her

colour had deepened and her hand was clenched tight when the story was

finished.

"Who will be safe in Rome, father!" she burst out. "The rabble elect

their magistrates, and the magistrates, in return, let them do as they

please. When it comes to attacking you; a consular--a Manlius! We

must sleep no more in our houses unless the household be in arms and on

guard."

Sergius gazed in astonishment. A Marcia spoke whom he had never known;

but the old man smiled grimly.

"It is the blood," he said. "She is truly 'Manlia,' though called,

against custom, for my dead Marcius. When Claudians change the toga

for the paludamentum, and Ogulnians cease to babble of Greek

philosophy, then shall a Manlian be lacking in the spirit of our

order--ay, and in the courage to act."

Marcia did not seem to hear his words. Her brows were drawn together

in what Sergius considered a very pretty frown. She turned toward him.

"They have gotten their butcher for consul," she went on; "now let him

lead them. How long before they will be begging for the swords they

have despised! Let them alone! Let Hannibal work his will; then we

shall stand forth, like the exiled Camillus, to defend a Rome purged of

its black blood--a Rome worth defending--"

But Sergius had recovered from his surprise, and his face was serious,

as he interrupted the torrent of words.

"Patrician and plebeian must stand or fall together, my Marcia," he

said quietly. "It is the Republic that we shall defend, and defend the

more bravely because it is, in a way, defenceless. If a time of

madness come upon a parent, do we not guard her the more tenderly who

cannot guard herself?--ay, and even against the foolish acts she may

herself attempt?"

"And you--you--a Sergius, will serve under this Varro?" she exclaimed.

"Truly," he said bowing, "I am a Roman, and the barbarians are in

Italy. When they are gone, I will fight Varro on the rostra, in the

Senate. Perhaps I shall even lead my clients to drag him, stabbed,

from his house."

She was gazing at him with great, round eyes in which the contempt and

anger began to give place to a softer look--a look which no man might

hope quite to interpret; then she threw her head to one side and

laughed, but the laugh was short and nervous.

"I congratulate your eloquence and patriotism, as I sympathize with

your unpropitious gallantry. May Venus make happy your next pursuit of

a pretty slave."

Again she laughed, and this time her laugh was unfeignedly malicious.

Sergius flushed crimson; Torquatus looked scandalized and stern; but

before either could answer, she was gone.

"You will return to the army, then?" said the old man, hurriedly and as

if to cover his annoyance. "How soon will your strength be sufficient?"

"I shall set out to-night," said Sergius. The flush had gone from his

face, and he was very pale, while his voice sounded as if from far

away. "By so doing I shall journey by easier stages, and shall avoid

accompanying the consul; nor will he reach the camp before me."

"There is talk of new levies," said Torquatus, vaguely.

"Yes, and there will be fighting soon."

"Flaminius fought."

"May Jupiter avert the omen! and you will forgive me, my father, if I

bid you a too hasty farewell? I had not determined to go so soon--but

it is best. And there is preparation to be made."

Torquatus followed him silently to the door, and watched the light of

his torches till it died out below the hill; then he shook his head

with a puzzled, sad expression.

"Yes, truly," he said; "let the omen be lacking."

XIII.

THE RED FLAG.

The red flag fluttered in the breeze above the tent of Varro.

Months had come and gone since the plebeians had triumphed in the Field

of Mars; months of weary lying in camp, months of anxious watching,

months of marches and countermarches. Contrary to the expectations of

Sergius, neither of the new consuls had gone straight to the legions,

and the pro-consuls, Servilius and Regulus, remained in command.

Paullus had busied himself in preparing for the coming spring, levying

new men and new legions, and directing from the city a policy not

unlike that of Fabius; while Varro, on the other hand, as if maddened

by his sudden elevation, rushed from Senate House to Forum and from

Forum to every corner where a mob could congregate; everywhere rolling

his eyes and waving his hands, now shrieking frantic denunciations

against the selfish, the criminal, the traitorous nobles who had

brought the war to Italy and sustained it there by their wicked

machinations and contemptible cowardice; now congratulating his hearers

that the people had at last taken the conspirators by the throat and

had elected a fearless consul, an incorruptible consul, an able consul,

one who would soon show the world that there were men outside of the

three tribes. Then he would fall to mapping out his campaign--a

different plan for each cluster of gaping listeners, but each ending in

such a slaughter of invaders as Italy had never seen, and a picture of

the long triumph winding up the Sacred Way, of Hannibal disappearing

forever within the yawning jaws of the Tullianum. At times, when his

imagination ran riot most, he went so far as to depict with what

luxuriance the corn would grow on the farm of that happy man whose land

should be selected by the great consul, the plebeian consul, the consul

Varro, for his slaughter of the enemies of the Roman people.

To these harangues Paullus and the nobles listened in wonder and

disgust--even in terror; and when, at length, the consuls set out to

take command of the greatest army Rome had ever put into the field, the

story was passed from mouth to mouth of how Fabius had spoken with

Paullus and warned him that he must now do battle against two

commanders: Hannibal and his own colleague; and of how Paullus had

answered in words that told more of foreboding than of hope.

Even the Senate seemed to have fallen under the coarse spell of this

mouthing ranter. News had come that Hannibal was at Cannae, had seized

upon the Roman stores in the citadel there; that, strongly posted, he

was scouring the country in all directions; that the allies could not

be expected to stand another season of ravage; and so, when the consuls

set out to take command of the legions, it was with the express

direction of the fathers to give battle on the first favourable

opportunity.

Still, there was room left them for some discretion, and when Paullus

had viewed the country along the banks of the Aufidus, level as it lay

and open to the sweep of cavalry, his soldier eye told him that the

opportunity was not here, and that, with a short delay, the enemy must,

in the lack of safe forage, retire to more favourable ground.

Then followed quarrels and denunciations and furious mouthings; but

Varro did not neglect to use one day of his command to lead the army

forward to a point between the Carthaginians and the sea, whence it

would be impossible for Paullus to hope to withdraw them safely in the

face of the foe.

It was on the first of Sextilis that Hannibal offered battle; but this

was Paullus' day, and he had lain quiet in camp, "Sulking," as his

colleague exultantly put it, "because a plebeian's generalship had kept

another do-nothing patrician commander from running away." Then the

next morning broke--Varro's day--and the red flag fluttered from the

spear above Varro's tent.

A group of men were gathered before the quarters occupied by certain of

the special cavalry: mounted volunteers, for the most part of rank, who

served out of respect to the consul, Paullus. Fully armed, with horses

held near by, they were already prepared to ride out at the word, and

they listened to the din of preparation going on on every side, and

watched the crimson signal of battle that now flapped lazily in the

wind and again hung limp against its staff.

"The butcher has his way at last," remarked a youth who had scarce

offered up his first beard; but the man he addressed, Marcus Decius,

growled in reply:--

"Wait, only wait, my little master, and we shall see who is the butcher

and who is the fat steer."

"But," put in another of the company, "have you not heard that our camp

beyond the stream had no water yesterday? that the Numidians cut them

off from it? Doubtless we are to cross over to its relief."

Decius rose from his buckler, upon which he had been resting, and swept

his arm out across the country.

"All one," he said; "water or blood; this bank or that! Look! No room

for our infantry to spread out; level ground for their horse to sweep

clean. You have never been close to the Numidians, my master?" and he

pointed to the scar across his forehead. "They ride fast and strike

hard--when the country pleases them."

The boy laughed carelessly, but said nothing, while he who had spoken

third hesitated a moment and frowned. Then he said in a lower voice:--

"You are an old soldier, Marcus,--a head decurion once,--and you would

do better than try to terrify men of less experience."

Decius ground his teeth, and his eyes flashed, but he lowered his voice

when he replied:--

"I thank you, Caius Manlius, for the reminder; and I also may recall to

you that I am neither the only nor the highest officer who is serving

as volunteer to-day, because Varro must have legions commanded by

butchers and bakers and money-lenders. I, too, am a plebeian, and I

cast my pebble for my order (whereat the infernal gods are doubtless

now rejoicing); but I am also, as you say, an old soldier, and hold the

camp to be no place for the tricks of the Forum. As for frightening

recruits, if words and the sight of old scars will frighten them, they

had best ride north to-day hard and fast."

Manlius' face flushed at the reminder of his own lost command, and, as

if by consent, both men glanced over at another who stood near them,

leaning on his spear. Drawn by the centred attention of the two,

Lucius Sergius turned from his inspection of the rising mists, beyond

which lay the Carthaginian forces, and looked silently and sadly at his

friends: Manlius, the brother of his mistress, parted from him for a

while by petty embarrassments and diverse duties, but, for the last

days, closer than ever in kindred service and fellowship; and Decius,

the sturdy comrade of the Campanian raid, the man who talked, now like

Ulysses, now like Thersites, but who always fought like Diomed; the

very Nisus who had saved his life. It seemed, too, as if the others

understood the import of his glance, for Decius turned away

ostentatiously, and sought to arrange the leathern straps of his

corselet skirt, while Manlius strode over and grasped Sergius' hand.

"The butcher showed us better favour than he intended, when he put

others in our commands," he said gayly. "We shall fight side by side,

and perhaps my sister may be pleased to play the siren no longer.

Besides, I am well satisfied to be free from any of the

responsibilities of this day."

"Marcia is no songstress of the rock, my Caius," said Sergius, half

sadly, half playfully; "unless her heart be the rock from which she

sings--a rock to me; but the gods have given men other things, when

women do not choose to love:--things that will serve to stir us today.

Afterward we shall be still." Then, noting that the young man who had

first addressed Decius was now watching their talk with troubled face,

he raised his voice cheerfully. "Tribune or volunteer, it is all one

to me. Do we not serve under Aemilius Paullus and his Illyrian

auspices? After this day, friends, we shall see no more pulse-eaters

in Italy."

Suddenly, a blast of trumpets rang clear, above the noise of

preparation; lieutenants dashed hither and thither, their legs bent

along their horses' sides; several cohorts marched past, to man the

rampart nearest the foe, while from behind came the louder rattle of

arms, and the earth shook under the tread of the legions, pressing on

through the porta dextra, and spreading out in three great columns that

plunged down the slope into the Aufidus, and rose again, and pushed out

into the plain on its southern bank. Hastati, principes, triarii--they

marched in order of battle, ready to face about at the moment of

attack, while, as they deployed, the famished Romans across the river

swarmed down, under shelter of the protecting lines, and, lying thick

in the turbid water below, drank as if their parched tongues and lips

would never soften.

The morning mists were clearing. Strange sounds and rumblings came

also from the south and west, and the red flag hung limp upon the spear.

Still the legions streamed on, but no orders had come to the special

volunteers, and Sergius began to wonder whether they were to be left to

guard the camp, as an added indignity to their rank. He ascended the

rampart, with Manlius and Decius, and strove to pierce the distance in

the west. Now and then a broad flash of light seemed to shine before

his eyes, and ever there came to his ears the rumble of tramping

thousands; the dust, too, was thickening, to take the place of the

scattered mists, and the wind blew it up in blinding clouds into the

face of Rome's battle.

"Gods! what is Terrentius Varro doing!" cried Decius suddenly, and the

three turned at his voice. A nodding forest of crests, red and black,

rising a cubit above the uncovered helmets of the legionaries, seemed

to fill the eastern plain and extend almost to where the Adriatic beat

upon the shingle. "Look at his front! Look at how closely the

maniples are crushed together! Gods! they are almost 'within the

rails' already."

Sergius looked, and the frown upon his brow deepened.

"Eighty thousand men," he muttered; "and we shall scarce outflank their

forty thousand. Does Varro wish to cast aside every advantage! Gods!

what gain is there in such depth? and he might--"

"Evidently you do not understand the strategy of great commanders who

have studied war."

The voice that interrupted was cynical and scornful, to a degree that

men hated the speaker even before they saw him; and, when the three

wheeled quickly, his face gave nothing to dispel the bad impression. A

tall, gaunt man, in plain and somewhat battered armour; a face

sharp-featured, very dark, and deeply lined wherever the wrinkles lay

that expressed pride and contempt and violent passions; lowering brows

from beneath which shone little beady, cunning eyes that opponents

feared and distrusted: this was Lucius Aemilius Paullus, the conqueror

of Illyria, the man who had barely escaped conviction for his

peculations, the colleague of Varro the butcher, a patrician of the

bluest blood in Rome, a knave in pecuniary matters, selfish and

ungoverned, but a brave and wary soldier from cothurni to crest.

"You seem to be criticising a Roman consul: even my brother, Varro;" he

said again, for the three had only bowed in reply to his former speech.

"Are you not presumptuous?--you, Lucius Sergius; and you, Caius

Manlius--boys in war--and you, Decius, or whoever you may be--a man of

Varro's order, if I mistake not?"

"Yes, my father, I criticise," replied Sergius, at last, for the others

said nothing.

"Perhaps you were thinking that he has extended his front too far?"

said the consul, and there was infinite sarcasm in his tones.

Sergius grew crimson under the taunting voice and the little, shifty

eyes.

"I have ventured to say," he replied haughtily, "that the consul,

Varro, is not using our numbers as he might. As you have noted, the

front _is_ contracted, where we might easily lash around their flank

like the thongs of a scourge. Nevertheless had I known that the noble

colleague of the general was near me, I would have restrained my words."

"Ah! then you have doubtless grown more respectful of commanders since

you disobeyed your dictator in Campania;" but now the anger in Sergius'

face told the speaker that the limit of endurance had been reached, and

his tone became less offensive. "That is in the old days, though, and

you _did_ run twelve miles with a broken shoulder: you see I know

all--only I am sure that you are not realizing how deeply your general

has studied the Punic wars, or perhaps you do not know how necessary is

depth to the battle that would stand against the great war-beasts. It

is possible, barely possible, that our most scientific commander has

forgotten that the enemy has no elephants here; but what is that to a

great genius? He has learned that Carthage wars with elephants, that

these are best met by deepening the files, and that we are about to

fight Carthage; therefore he deepens the files, though the last

elephant in Italy died two years ago in the northern marshes. If you

are beaten, you will at least have the satisfaction of being beaten

while fighting most learnedly."

As Sergius noted the bitterness and agony in the voice that spoke, he

found his resentment giving place to pity for the hard, grim man who,

powerless to avert, yet saw clearly every cord of the snare into which

he was being driven.

"Do we guard the camp, my father?" he asked, gently, when Paullus had

finished.

The latter started from the gloomy stare with which he was regarding

the fast-forming lines.

"I have been offered the command of the camp," he said, almost

fiercely. "I have refused it. Escape to the north would be too

easy--and I do not wish to escape. What do you think the centuries

would do if I came home beaten? I who escaped so narrowly before?" He

leered cunningly at his listeners; then his face grew set, and his

voice cold and even. "I have solicited command of the Roman cavalry.

We shall fight on the right wing, beside the river, and I do not think

many of us will ride from the battle. Varro commands the cavalry of

the allies on the left, and the pro-consuls"--he hesitated a

moment--"the pro-consuls market their beeves in the centre. You will

cross with me now. My volunteers ride about my body. It is time. It

is time."

The breeze from the southward freshened every minute, and the red flag

lashed out angrily toward the sea.

XIV.

CANNAE.

The cavalry trumpets rang out their clear notes, and Sergius and his

companions threw themselves upon their kneeling chargers. Then they

rode out and down the bank, behind the consul who, with head hanging

upon his breast, had turned his rein the moment he had given the word.

What if the dust did swirl up in blinding sheets from the south?

Before them lay the Roman battle, horse and foot--such an army as the

city had never sent forth. What if its masses were somewhat cramped?

its front narrow? its general an amateur? They were to fight at last,

and how should a mongrel horde of barbarians, but half their number,

stand firm against the impetus of such a shock. A moment's hush; then

measured voices rose in calm cadence--the voices of the tribunes

administering the military oath to each cohort, "Faithful to the

senate, obedient to your imperator." What Roman could doubt that the

voice of victory spoke in the thunderous response!

And now the clangour of cymbals and the roll of drums came up on the

breezes from the south, and, with them, a strange uproar of barbarous

shouts and cries. Then it was that the Roman legionaries began to

crash their heavy javelins against their great, oblong shields until

the din drowned everything else, and the thunder of Jove himself might

have roared in vain.

Sergius had ridden up the bank, almost at the consul's rein, and his

eyes wandered eagerly over Varro's array. Eight full legions with

their quota of allies seemed welded into one huge column: Romans on the

right, Italians on the left. The sun was well up, and its rays played

upon a very sea of bronze from which the feathered crests rose and

shivered like foam. Far beyond the column, on the extreme left, he

could make out squadrons of allied horse, and then he turned to take

his place amid the cavalry of the city: young men well born, burning

with courage and ardour and wrath. Despite himself his heart rose with

a leap of triumph. A moment later he caught the little, beady eyes of

the consul looking through him, as it were, while the thin mouth

beneath writhed itself into a sneer.

"You hope? That is well," said Paullus. "Young men fight better and

die better when they hope; but I will show you how a Roman soldier can

give up his life for naught. I would wish," he added with lowered

voice and speaking as if in self-communion, "that more of our horsemen

had adopted the Greek arms. Reed spears and ox-hide bucklers will not

stand long against heavy cavalry. A temple to Mars the avenger, if I

had but a front of Illyrian horse! See now! There are the scum!"

His voice rose eagerly at the last words, and Sergius turned from the

dark face now flashing with a sudden animation, and looked southward

over the plain. For a moment the dust was too thick; then it seemed to

clear away, and the Carthaginian army burst into view.

Undulating like the open sea and rolling steadily on like the long,

slow sweep of billows upon a level shore, the glory of barbaric war

drew near. On their left, resting upon the river's bank, rode the

Spanish and Gallic cavalry, strengthened here and there by a horse and

man in full armour like those of the Clinabarians; and the face of

Paullus clouded again when he noted what opponents he must meet: men,

horses, arms--all heavier than his own with the exception of a few

turmae newly equipped in the Greek fashion. Beyond them, thrown back

in echelon, marched Africans in little squares of sixteen front. These

had substituted for their own equipment the Roman spoils of Trasimenus

and Trebia. Then, and again somewhat in advance, came alternate

companies of Gauls and Spaniards spread out in long thin array; the

former stripped to the navel, their hair tied up in a tufted knot, and

bearing their great swords upon their shoulders; the Spaniards

glittering in their purple-bordered tunics of snowy linen. The waving

pikes of phalanges told of more Africans who seemed to lie in echelon

beyond, while far away, toward the low hills overgrown with copsewood

that formed the eastern horizon, clouds of swift-moving dust, amid

which shadows darted hither and thither at seeming random, marked the

presence of the wild riders of Numidia who were to face the horsemen of

Italy and of the Latin name. In front of all, the plain was dotted

with naked men advancing at regular intervals and bearing small

bucklers of lynx-hide--the famous Balearic slingers that always opened

the day of battle for Carthage. The heart of Sergius swelled within

him, beating hard and fast under the tension of the moment. Only a few

minutes more, and those magnificent armies would crash together, not to

part until the plain should be heaped with corpses that were now men;

until the gods should adjudge the sovereignty of Italy. Then he grew

calm, calm as the consul himself, and gazed enraptured upon the

picture, as if it meant no more than art and show--only the wind came

fresher from the south, and the fine dust, ground up by marching

thousands, smarted and blinded his eyes.

Nearer and nearer they drew, with steady, slow advance, while Rome

stood still and awaited their coming. And now a commotion seemed to

start from the far distant south: the roar of voices, the blinding

flash of the sun on tossing swords, a cloud of dust distinct upon the

plain, a clump of horse-head standards rising amid it, and a group of

riders urging their galloping steeds along the invaders' front. Rich

armour of strange pattern shone among them, and, a length ahead of the

rest, Sergius could see a white stallion with close-cropped mane, and

hoofs and fetlocks stained vermilion, that danced and curvetted and

arched its proud neck under the touch of a master. He was not an

over-tall man, but his figure as he rode seemed well knit and graceful.

His armour was of brown-bronze scale-work, rich with gold and jewels,

while a white mantle fringed with Tyrian purple hung from his

shoulders; a helmet of burnished gold, horned and crested, gleamed like

a star upon his head, while, even at the distance, even through the

swirl, of dust, Sergius saw the crisp curled, black beard, and dreamed

that he caught the flash of dark, deep-set eyes. There was no need of

the beating of weapons against shields, no need of the roar and howls

and shrill screaming in a score of tongues to tell the stranger's name.

Most of the soldiers kept ranks, but here and there a Gaul would bound

forward, dancing with strange leaps and whirling his sword about his

head, to throw himself prone before and beneath the vermilion hoofs

that never paused or swerved in their gallop. Not a movement, not a

glance of the rider gave sign of acknowledgment or recognition; not a

look was cast upon the grovelling form, safe or hurt or maimed--only

the soldier's comrades howled their plaudits, mingled with laughter and

rude jeers whenever the devotee lay still or writhed or rose staggering

from some stroke of the vermilion hoofs.

But when the horseman drew bridle before the extreme left of the

centre, and, with eyes shaded by his hand, gazed long and earnestly at

the Roman array, the plaudits that had greeted his passage died away

into low murmurs and then silence. "The general is studying the enemy.

Be silent! Who knows but he would commune with Baal and Moloch? Be

silent!" So the word ran around and through the African squares.

Suddenly peals of laughter broke from the group of Carthaginian

officers that had ridden behind and who now clustered around him. The

calm that no devotion, no suffering, no danger of men could move, was

gone; the schalischim had turned from his measuring of the enemy to

smile and jest with his friends. Thereupon they threw back their heads

and laughed loud and long; and then the Africans noted it, and hoarse

cries of joy broke from their ranks. "The schalischim must be sure of

victory. Praise be to Melkarth!" Sergius saw a captain of one of the

squares run out and touch his forehead to the earth before his

commander; but no Roman heard the man's words pregnant with fate.

"Now, my father, let The Lion's Brood lead the beasts of all the fields

to their feast. We hunger, father, we hunger!"

And Hannibal had made answer, pointing northward toward the

plume-crested sea of blazing bronze, "Lo! friend; there are your meat

and wine."

Then a new roar of acclamation broke upward and rolled away to the

east. Two richly armed riders parted from the group and dashed off:

Maharbal, light and slender, bending far over his horse's neck, rode

headlong in Numidian fashion to his Numidians; Hasdrubal, erect and

dignified, galloped to head the Gaulish and Spanish horse upon the

banks of Aufidus; trumpets, drums, cymbals, crashed out in mad,

barbaric discords; and, with their horse-head standards tossing amid

the forest of spears, the Carthaginian line drove forward to the attack.

Running fast before the line of battle, Sergius could still make out,

even through the dust, those same naked men with lynx-hide bucklers,

dotting the plain at regular intervals, and each man's right arm seemed

always whirling about his head. The Roman light troops had pushed on

to skirmish, and now they began to fall back, though no arrow or

javelin could have reached them--could have flown to the foe. Sergius

watched in surprise their confusion and terror as they sought to plunge

among the legionaries or hide themselves behind the horsemen; nor had

they fled unscathed. Here a man ran by screaming and clasping his

shattered hand to his breast; then another staggered up, with arm

hanging broken at his side, while the big drops of blood fell slowly

from his fingers; and yet a third appeared, pale and helpless,

supported between two companions.

Sounds, too, now dull and heavy, and again ringing and metallic, seemed

to punctuate the roar of the advancing host. Sergius saw a horseman

near him clap his hand to his forehead and plunge headlong to the

earth: horses reared and snorted, some fell with ugly, red blotches on

their breasts and throats; the clangour and the thuds came

faster--faster; for now the clay and leaden bullets of the slingers

fell in showers, like hailstones, and it was good armour that turned

them.

Manlius had leaped down to aid a friend who was reeling helplessly,

with both eyes beaten out, and, a moment later, he approached Sergius,

holding up a slinger's bullet. The red had sunken into the lines of

the stamped inscription, and displayed them in hideous relief, "This to

your back, sheep!"

"That is always the way with barbarians," sneered Marcus Decius. "No

blow without an insult--look! They shall have blows themselves, soon,

that will need no insults to piece them out."

Paullus had watched with eagerness, with anxiety, for the signal to

advance. Varro seemed to hesitate, while the great masses of Rome,

lashed by the bitter rain of the slings, writhed and groaned in anguish

and rage; the light troops had disappeared, and the Balearians, now

close at hand, leaped and slung without let or hindrance. Then it was

that Paullus, waiting no longer, made a sign to his trumpeters.

"Scatter me that rabble!" he cried, and the cavalry clarions raised

their voices in one long, swelling peal of sound.

"Close! close!" rose the shout of battle, and the Roman horse dashed

forward into the dust cloud--forward upon the slingers that suddenly

were not there, had vanished, as it were, into the earth itself.

The straight trumpets and curved horns of the legions were ringing

behind them, stirred to life at last, but the horsemen did not hear.

What were those looming up ahead? Not naked slingers--armoured

cavalry! Hasdrubal with his Gauls and Spaniards were before them--upon

them; and all sense and volition were lost in the terrific shock.

Line after line went down, as if at touch, while fresh lines poured on

over the heaving mass of men and horses, until those who were face to

face seemed to fight upon a hill. Fiercer grew the pressure, tighter

and more dense the throng; horses, crushed together, powerless to move,

snorted and tossed their heads in terror, while the riders leaned

forward and grappled with those opposite. Weapons first, then hands

clutching at throats were doing the deadly work, and the dead, man and

horse, stood fast amid the press, unable even to fall and become merged

into the hideous, purple thing beneath their feet.

Mere weight, though, was beginning to tell. The human ridge that had

marked the joining of battle seemed far back among the enemy, and

squadron after squadron, in close array, breasted its top and plunged

down to mingle with the living or take their places among the dead.

The Romans were giving ground, slowly, stubbornly, but unmistakably,

and still, above the shouts and shrieks, the trampling and the clash of

weapons, the groans and the hard, short breathing, they could hear the

harsh voice of the consul, Paullus, urging his men to make battle

firmly.

Backward, steadily backward; and now, in one of those mad rushes, in

which men who seemed immovably wedged were swirled about like the water

in a maelstrom, Sergius found himself close to the consul, with Manlius

but a few paces in front. The thin, cruel lips had writhed away from

the white teeth, the helmet was gone, and the scant, black hair was

dabbled with blood that flowed from a slight cut upon the general's

brow; the snake-like eyes sought those of the young patrician with a

look wherein exultation and despair were strangely mingled.

"To the earth! to the earth, all!" he cried, at the same moment

plunging his sword into his horse's throat, and lighting firmly on his

feet, as the animal sank suddenly down. "We _must_ stand. Gods! where

are the legions? Clashing shields and waving javelins, while we are

cut to pieces! Gods! they shall pay for it!" Then he drew close to

Sergius' ear and whispered as calmly as if in the praetorium: "Learn,

now, a lesson of war, my son. Hannibal destroys us piecemeal, choosing

where he is strong and we are weak, while Varro allows _his_ strength

to stand and rest and wait for its turn to come. Down! down all!"

Outnumbered, outarmed, borne down and back, the Roman cavalry still

fought, but the press had grown looser, the mass less dense; and now,

at the word of the consul, all that could hear his voice obeyed the

order of despair, ancient as the day of Lake Regillus. Man after man

sprang to earth. Here was freer swing for weapons, here was surer

foothold, better chance to stand fast, and, for a moment, the thronging

foe seemed to recoil before the determined onslaught.

But it was not recoil. It was only the devouring of the foremost by

that red monster underneath. Who could recoil, with the squadrons

still pouring on, over the hill of corpses behind? Beaten, a man could

but die in his place, and that much they did. Many, too, had followed

the Roman example, leaping from their steeds and fighting hand to hand,

till the cavalry battle had changed into a thousand combats of man

against man.

It was here that Caius Manlius fell. Sergius was but a few feet from

him when he saw the youth sway gently, and, bowing his head, sink down.

He had made an effort to push to his side, and then the front of the

enemy seemed to receive some new impetus and surged forward over the

spot. What mattered it? He had seen the red spear point peeping out

between his friend's shoulders. He was dead, as they would all soon

be, and the couch was purple and kinglike. At that moment, he felt his

arm gripped hard, and turned to look into the consul's face.

"Do you not see it is over?" said Paullus, sharply.

"How?"

"We are falling back--_forced_ back--faster and faster. We are where

we first stood. Do you see that sapling by the river? I marked it

before we rode out. Soon we shall break; come!"

"Where?" asked Sergius.

"Where there may yet be hope, if the gods will it,--if they strike down

Varro: the centre, the legions. I do not believe they have fairly

advanced their standards yet."

"Do we fly?" and, as he spoke, Sergius frowned darkly.

"Fool! We _fight_. Later, perhaps, we shall die, but not here. In

the _centre_--"

As he spoke, a new, swirling rush seemed to carry them away, still

together, first with furious violence, then more slowly.

"Ah! it has come," said the consul, quietly. "This way. The dust is

blinding, but I think the sun is behind us." Pushing on and striking

right and left as he went, Aemilius Paullus fought a pathway through

flying and pursuing men. Sergius followed and once, when he saw the

consul cut down the boy who had stood near and talked to them that

morning, he stopped still and shuddered.

Paullus paused and laughed at him over his shoulder.

"A flying man in the path of a general is much worse than a dead one,"

he said. "Besides, none of them can save his life in that

direction--so it is nothing."

At that moment, indeed, the prophecy that no man of the Roman cavalry

would escape, seemed fair for fulfilment. Few fought on, and these

were soon ridden down, while Gauls and Spaniards thundered upon the

rear of such as sought safety of the rein, and slew them with steady,

measured strokes. Only the consul with perhaps a dozen others were,

for the time, safe. They were clear of the rout; within the protecting

reach of the great, legionary column, that was but just beginning to

move, and they turned, gasping for breath, and, with dazed eyes,

watched the flight and pursuit sweep by along the river bank.

XV.

"WITHIN THE RAILS."

It was then that Sergius first realized that Caius Manlius, his friend,

the brother of Marcia, was indeed dead; but the time for such thoughts

ivas short. Clenching his teeth in a paroxysm of anger, he again

turned to follow Paullus and Decius, who had passed into the ranks of

the legions and joined themselves to the personal volunteers of the

pro-consul, Servilius.

The great column was moving now, steadily gathering impetus, and there

was little speech between the generals. Servilius gazed with gloomy

brows at the consul and the half dozen men that remained to him, and no

question as to the fate of the right wing was asked or answered.

"How fight they on the left?" asked Paullus, after a moment's pause.

"The allies skirmish with the Numidians," replied Servilius.

"You mean that the Numidians skirmish with them," said Paullus.

That was all, and the two soldiers turned to their task.

The slingers' bullets fell no longer, or only scattering ones, dropping

from above, told that these hornets had fallen back and sought refuge

behind their lines; but the roar of battle rolled furiously from the

front.

"It is the standards that oppose at last," commented Paullus. "The

ranks are not too close--yet. Let us go forward."

Servilius protested, but the other waved him back.

"Here is _your_ place who command, my Servilius," said the consul; and

a smile, sad rather than bitter, lit up the harsh lines of his face.

"It is I, having no command, who can justly ply the sword."

Sergius followed, and in a few moments the increasing pandemonium told

that the front was not far ahead. The dust filled their eyes, and they

could see nothing beyond; but the signs were for the veteran to read.

Soon there was no more headway to be made through the dense mass; the

corpses of the slain were thick beneath their feet, half-naked Gauls

and Spaniards in white and purple mingled with the dead of the legions,

and still the column pushed forward and still the slain lay closer.

"They give ground. We are driving in their centre," gasped Sergius.

Paullus had been frowning grimly, but now he turned to Marcus Decius

and showed his wolfish teeth in his old-time smile.

"What do you say, decurion?" he asked.

"We drive them, surely; but--"

"Yes, truly, _but_--do you hear those cries on the flank? We drive

their Iberians, their Celts; it is the Africans that let us plunge on

like one of Varro's stupid bulls: then they put the sword in our side.

Could you fight now? I tell you we are already driven within the

rails. If the gods keep Hasdrubal slaying my runaways, there may be

hope; if he be a general, there is none."

And still the column's headway seemed hardly checked, though the cries

and the clashing of arms resounded, now, from both flanks as well as

from the front, while, in the depths of its vitals, men were crushed

together till they could scarce breathe. A rumour, too, like those Pan

sends to dismay soldiers, ran quickly from heart to heart, rather than

from lip to lip. It was that Hasdrubal had circled the rear and,

falling upon the allied cavalry, had scattered the left wing as he had

the right; that the Numidians pursued and slaughtered: but where now

were the cavalry of Gaul and Spain, the winners of two victories? A

sullen roar from the far distant rear seemed to answer; but the

language was one that few could read--few of that host. Oh! for an

hour of the veterans that slumbered on the shores of Trebia and

Trasimenus! Oh! for an hour of Fabius, who lingered at Rome, powerless

and discredited. Who were these that wore the armour, that wielded the

ponderous javelins of Rome's legions? From under the bronze helmets

gorgeously fierce with their great crests peered eyes--stupid,

wondering eyes dazed by the uproar, blinded by the dust; eyes wherein,

while as yet there was little of fear, still less was there of the

knowledge of danger to be met and overcome; eyes that had but lately

watched sheep upon the Alban hills, eyes that were used only to the

flour dust when their owners kneaded dough behind the Forum.

Ahead, around, the standards were tossing as if upon the billows of an

angry sea. Was that a silver horse's head that flashed far to the

right?

"Look!" cried Sergius, striking Decius with his elbow.

"You can see better now," muttered the veteran. "The flour is bread,

and the bread of battle is mire kneaded of dust and blood."

The eyes of Paullus were turned upward in strange prayer.

"Grant me not, O Jupiter, my life this day!"

It needed no eye of veteran to read the sentence that was writ.

Driven, at last, within the rails, as went the saying, there was no

room in all that weltering mass to use the sword, much less the pilum.

On every side the barbarians of Africa, of Spain, of Gaul raged and

slew--for even advance now was checked, and the Celts had turned and

lashed the front with their great swords that rose and fell, crimson to

the hilt, crimson to the shoulder, crimson to every inch of their

wielders' huge bodies. The Spaniards, too, were stabbing fast and

furiously, while all along both flanks the African squares, between

which the weight of the column had forced its narrow length, thrust

with their long sarissas and rained their pila upon the doomed monster

in their midst: a war elephant, wounded to the death, with sides hung

with javelins and streaming with blood, rocking and trumpeting in

helpless agony.

Sergius watched the dull, hopeless look deepening in the eyes of the

young soldiers. They reminded him of the beeves in the shambles of the

elder Varro. Even the voice of Pan could not wake such men. Were they

not there to die for the traditions of Rome? It was true that every

path leading to Pan's country bristled with spears, but only a few

could fully know this, and these awaited their turn with the rest.

The press seemed to loosen somewhat. Perhaps the assailants had drawn

back to gain breath for a final onslaught; but, instinctively, the

staggering lines of the Roman column opened out into the space

afforded, and its four faces writhed forward bravely, pitifully. It

was then that Sergius saw the consul for the last time. He had turned

back from where he had forced his way to the head of the column; his

arms were battered and blood-stained, and he reeled painfully in his

saddle, for Paullus had mounted again, that he might the better be seen

by the legionaries. His wandering eyes took in every detail of their

hopeless plight; the last sparks of fire seemed to die out in him, and

his head drooped upon his chest. Then, slowly, he dismounted, having

ordered his horse to kneel, and the beast, unable to rise again, rolled

over on its side. Paullus watched it with almost an expression of

pity, and then dragged himself to a flat rock and sat down.

Decius had sought to aid him, but the other thrust him rudely back.

"It is only the smaller bone," he said. "One of their accursed

stingers hit me."

At that moment a rider covered with foam and dust and blood dashed up

to the group and, reining his steaming animal to its haunches, leaped

to the ground.

Paullus raised his eyes.

"It is time for you to escape, Cneius Lentulus," he said. "You have a

horse."

"It is for you, my father; that this day be not further darkened by the

death of a consul. My horse is good, and there are still gaps between

their squadrons. Ride to the east--"

"And you?"

"I am but a tribune."

"And a young man, my Cneius. Where is Varro?"

"Fled."

"And the pro-consuls?"

"Both fallen."

"And you would have it said, my Cneius, that the Republic degenerates?

that not one of this year's consuls dares die with his men, while both

of last year's were Romans? Truly, it would be a much darker day

should I escape with Varro than if I die with Regulus and Servilius;

besides, I have no humour for further charges and trials, in order that

the rabble may vindicate their favourite butcher. But do you go,

Cneius, and tell them that you have seen me sitting in my colleague's

shambles."

There were tears in Lentulus' eyes, and he still strove to persuade his

general to accept the horse, but, at that moment, new shoutings and

clashing of arms announced what must prove the final attack.

"They come again, my father," said Decius calmly.

The roar of battle swelled up, all about the doomed column. In front

and flanks, Africans, Gauls, and Spaniards charged in unbroken lines,

and soon forced the deploying but weakened maniples back into their

weltering mass; in the rear, the attack was less continuous, for

Hasdrubal's horsemen were exhausted with slaying, and he hurled them in

alternate squadrons, now on this point, now on that, wherever the Roman

line showed relics of strength or firmness. So the front worked back,

driven by sheer weight in the direction where the pressure was least.

Paullus still sat, with drooping head, faint with fatigue and loss of

blood, while Decius, Sergius, and Lentulus stood by him, helplessly

awaiting the end. A rush of fugitives swept by and almost overwhelmed

the wounded man; but Decius passed his arm around him, and the press

slackened.

"It is time for you to mount and ride, Cneius Lentulus;" and the consul

raised his head again, while the old-time spirit of command flashed in

his eyes. "You shall be my envoy to the fathers. Bid them fortify and

garrison the city; go--"

A new rush broke in upon his words,--a rush, in which the whole front

was borne back a spear's length beyond them. Sergius was thrown down,

but some one raised him, dazed and stunned, and seemed to bear him

along. A moment, and he found himself standing once more upon his

feet. Cneius Lentulus and his horse were gone; Paullus and Marcus

Decius were left alone far beyond--no, not alone. He saw the tunics of

the Iberians, now all as purple as their borders, thronging around; he

saw his general and his comrade give their throats to the sharp,

slender swords; and then he saw, far ahead, amid the Carthaginian

syntagmata, a swarthy, smiling face with crisp, curling beard; he saw

the brown-bronze corselet rich with gold, the meteor helmet with

ostrich plumes floating between its horns, the snowy mantle bordered

with Tyrian purple; and he saw the white head of the horse whose feet

needed now no dye of art to stain them vermilion. All the fury of

battle, all the madness of revenge overwhelmed him in an instant;

despair was gone, thoughts of past and future were swept away by the

surge of one overmastering idea: he must reach that man and kill him.

He looked around at the scattered, reeling maniples. A standard bearer

was lying at his feet, striving with his remnant of strength to wrench

the silver eagle from its staff, that he might hide it under his cloak;

but the death rattle came too quickly. Sergius picked up the standard.

"Come," he said, "there is the enemy." And then, without a glance to

note whether his appeal was regarded, he rushed blindly forward.

It was a discipline inspired by tradition rather than taught by drills

and punishments that came to the Roman recruit, and now it played its

part. These peasants, these artisans whose eyes had seen naught save

unaccustomed horrors through all the day, turned at once to answer the

summons of the eagle. Sergius heard the feeble shout of battle that

rose behind him, heard the scattered clanging of sword and shield, and

when he struck the long pikes of the first square, it was with the

force of half a dozen broken maniples welded into a solid mass.

Still the sarissas held firm. Perhaps two lines went down, but the

pila rained their slant courses from the rear; the feeble rush was

stopped, and the legionaries struggled helplessly upon the spears.

Sergius saw nothing but the dark, bearded face among the

squares--scarcely nearer than before. Had he not read in a little book

written by one, Xenophon, a Greek, and purchased, at great cost, at the

shop of Milo, the bookseller in the Argiletum, how Oriental armies won

or lost by the life or death of their leaders? He would kill Hannibal!

Would to the gods that Paullus had fallen in the Cinctus Gabinus!

Paullus, too much of an infidel to think of such old-time immolation;

but there was yet one last appeal.

Seizing the tough staff of the standard almost at the end, he whirled

it around his head and let it go at full swing; the silver eagle

flashed in the light of the setting sun, as it described great arcs,

and plunged down amid the hostile ranks; a hoarse cry went up: the very

deity of the legion was amid its foes! no Roman so untried as not to

hear its call. The short swords hacked and stabbed among the spears;

the first square swayed and rocked, shivered into fragments, and,

hurled back upon the second, bore it, too, down in the mingled rush of

pursuers and pursued. On every side of the dwindling band of

assailants, front, flanks, and rear, the pikes dipped and plunged, the

Gallic swords hissed through the air, the Spaniards ravened and

stabbed; but, to the Romans, flanks and rear were nothing: it was the

front, the Libyans, the lost eagle.

And now, at last, it was won; the advance had been checked by the

closer welding of the syntagmata, half his men were down; but Sergius,

still unhurt, had stooped and raised the standard, kissing its crimson

beak and wings. Then he looked up.

Half the space between himself and the bearded horseman had vanished,

and the latter was no longer talking carelessly with those about. His

steady gaze was fixed upon the young Roman, as if studying the exact

measure of strength that remained to him. There was nothing else for

it. Again the great staff described great circles through the air, and

again the crimson eagle soared and stooped, and the white stallion

reared and snorted, as it struck the earth before him; again the

shattered fragment of an army hurled itself, wounded and weary and

bleeding, among the ever thickening spears; yes, and forced its way a

quarter, half the remaining distance, until Sergius, whose eyes had

never for a moment forsaken those of the Carthaginian, saw them grow

troubled, saw the black, bushy brows draw together. Then his enemy

turned and spoke a few hurried words to an attendant, gesticulating

freely, until the man whirled his horse about and drove back through

the throng. When Sergius looked into the face of the general again, it

wore a disdainful smile--the smile of a Zeus that watches the sons of

Aloeus pile mountain on mountain in the vain effort to storm Olympus.

Again Hannibal was careless and unconcerned; again he laughed and joked

gayly with his attendants; his soldier's eye had set the limit of

Rome's last paroxysm, and it fell short of the spot where he sat--not

by much, but enough. All that remained was for the arrows of Apollo to

do their work, and now he had set these to the string.

Wearily and yet more wearily the wolves bit and tore their way; then

they came staggering to a stand, three spear lengths from the lost

eagle, and then the pressure behind seemed to slacken, and the serried

spears in front bore them slowly backward.

All was over. Sergius' eyes, dim and bloodshot, wandered, at last,

from the contemptuous smile that had held them, and rested upon the

score of men, for the most part wounded, that remained about him. For

an instant the spears and swords ceased their work, and the dense mass

of lowering faces that surrounded the last of the legions rolled back.

Lanes appeared between the syntagmata; a chorus of wild cries swelled

up--swept nearer, and the furious riders of the desert came galloping

through every interspace. To them had been granted, for a mark of

honour, the ending of the battle. It was only a single rush, a

brandishing and plunging of javelins retained in grasp, a little more

blood spattered upon the horses' necks and bellies. No legionary was

standing when the tempest had gone by, and there, among his men, with

face turned from the red earth to the reddening sky, lay Lucius Sergius

Fidenas, in slumber fitting for a Roman patrician when the black day of

Cannae was done.