CHAPTER I.

THE QUEEN OF THE WAYS.

There was much bustle and confusion throughout the little inn at

Sinuessa. August was just closing, and the midday summer sun beat down

too fiercely to permit of comfortable travel save toward morning or

night. The inn-keeper had hurried out and stood in the roadway, bowing

and wreathing his face with smiles of welcome, while, behind him, were

grouped his servants, each bearing some implement of his or her

calling--a muster well calculated to impress the wayfarer with the

assurance of comfort and good cheer.

The occasion of all this demonstration was a party that had halted,

apparently for refreshment and the customary traveller's siesta; a

rheda or four-wheeled travelling carriage, closely covered and drawn by

three powerful horses yoked abreast. Two armed outriders, one

apparently a freedman and the other a slave, made up the company, the

former of whom, a stout, elderly man with gray hair and beard, had

reined in his horse before the obsequious host, while the other

remained by the carriage wheel, as if to aid the driver in guarding the

rheda's occupants from intrusion.

The innkeeper, short and fat, was breathing hard from the haste in

which he had sallied out, but his words came volubly:--

"Let the gentlemen alight and enter--or, if they be ladies, so much the

better. They shall make trial of the best inn along the whole length

of the Queen of Ways. Such couches as they have never seen, save,

doubtless, in their magnificent homes, fit for the gods to lie

upon!--such dishes!--such cooking! guinea-hens fed and fattened under

my own eye, mullet fresh from the water with all greens of the season,

and such wine as only the Massic Mount can grow--"

Here, however, he paused to take breath, and the freedman succeeded in

interrupting the flow of words.

"By the gods! will you be silent?" he said. "Perhaps we shall try your

fare, if you do not take up the whole day in telling us about it.

First, however, it is necessary for us to learn certain things. How

many miles is it to Capua?"

The innkeeper's face took on a grieved look in place of the beaming

smile of a moment since, but he answered promptly and humbly:--

"The matter of twenty-five miles, my master."

"At what hour do they close the gates?"

The innkeeper glanced back at the group of domestics with a frightened

expression.

"That is a military question," he said. "How can I answer it in these

times? It is dangerous to talk about such things."

"Not dangerous for you," insisted the other, rather scornfully. "Since

you Campanians have become pulse-eaters, not the wildest Numidian would

dare disturb you. The cruel one is very tender of you all--_now_; but

wait till Rome shall fall, then you will know what his tenderness is

worth--when you are all busy grinding corn for Carthage--"

"By all the gods! speak lower--if you must say such words," whispered

the innkeeper, white with terror. "If one of my servants should betray

me! Like enough the gate is closed at all times. It is said that

Hannibal enters the town to-night."

"Hannibal in Capua to-night!" came a voice from the rheda--a woman's

voice, softly and delicately modulated, yet deep and rich in its tones.

At the same moment the curtains were drawn aside, and she looked out,

beckoning imperiously to the would-be host. "Come near, my good man, I

wish to speak with you more closely."

The innkeeper stood as one dazed, with open mouth and bulging eyes. He

had looked upon great and beautiful ladies before, for many such

travelled by the Appian Way, but the beauty and the nobility of this

face seemed to him more than mortal. With all the grace, all the

freshness, all the radiant charm of the girl Marcia, were now joined

the calm and deep-eyed crown of womanhood. The perfect lines that

could so perfectly respond to playful or tender emotions were still

unmarred, and yet sorrow that had left no other trace had endowed them

with new possibilities of devotion and high resolve.

"Come," repeated Marcia, and the little inn-keeper trotted up to the

rheda and stood watching her with an expression of canine wonder and

subservience in his big, dull eyes.

"Did I not hear you say that Hannibal was to be in Capua to-night?

Have these false Campanians indeed carried out the treachery rumoured

of them?"

The man had forgotten all his fears of a few moments since, nor did the

slur upon his race rouse aught of indignation. Held fast under the

spell of the dark eyes before him, he made haste to answer:--

"The rumour, madam, that a traveller left with me some hours since is

that Marius Blossius, praetor of Campania, has led all Capua out to

meet Hannibal, who is to feast to-night at the house of the Ninii

Celeres, Stenius and Pacuvius--"

"But how was this done?" she interrupted. "It was said at Rome that

some few evil spirits, like Vibius Virrius and Pacuvius Calavius, were

ill-disposed, but surely the senators of Capua are faithful?"

"I do not know as to that," said the fellow, with the stubborn dulness

of a peasant; "but I know it is hard to see your property and goods

destroyed and to hold fast to allies who do not protect you--and a

Roman garrison at Casilinum all the time. They say this African is

kind to his friends, and then, too, he sent home my son without ransom

when the young man was prisoner in the north--some battle by some lake

that I forget the name of--"

"Such talk is well enough for the poor-spirited rabble," cried Marcia,

impetuously; "but was there none of noble blood in the city? None who

could compel duty?"

A look of cunning crossed his face as he answered:--

"Pacuvius Calavius took care of that. He cooped up the senate in the

senate-house, by telling them the people sought their lives. Then he

went out and spoke against them to that same people, and offered to

surrender them for death, one by one; and then, when they had given up

hope, he made a clever turn and persuaded us to forego their just

punishment. So it is said in Capua that Pacuvius Calavius bought the

senators for his slaves, and not one but runs to do his bidding.

Senators, you see, do not like the rods and axe any better than humbler

people like the sword and the torch."

Marcia eyed him with disgust. Then her brow cleared. "What could be

expected from such a man," she thought. "Surely not exalted patriotism

or high ideals--especially when the class question had been brought

into play against public faith and public honour. Mere stupidity would

yoke him to the side that seemed to promise the most immediate

exemptions or rewards. It was possible, though, that the situation

might not be as bad as it was painted; that there might still be

faithful men in the second city of Italy--men who, while at present

held down by the skilful plotting of their enemies or the hopelessness

of open resistance, were yet waiting, vigilant to seize upon the first

promising opportunity to recover the lost ground. On the other hand,

innkeepers were apt to be a well-informed class, as to public

happenings, and this man told his tale with parrot-like precision. At

any rate, there was nothing to do but reach Capua as soon as possible;

for, the Carthaginian commander once within the walls, no one could

tell what precautions and scrutiny might be established at the gates."

She turned to the freedman.

"There is no time for resting and refreshment, Ligurius. We must not

lose the chance of entering the city before nightfall;" and to the man

who rode at the wheel: "Come, Caipor. A little weariness will not hurt

us."

The driver's whip curled about the horses' flanks, and they started

forward; but the disappointed innkeeper laid hold of one of the poles

that supported the covering of the rheda and gasped and sputtered as he

ran:--

"What now! Would you die of the heat? Am I to lose my custom because

I am good-natured and tell the news?"

Caipor turned in his seat and raised the thong used to urge on his

animal; but Marcia, hearing the clamour, thrust the curtain aside again

and, motioning the slave to restrain himself, threw several denarii to

her would-be host. At the same moment, the horses suddenly quickened

their gait, and the pursuer, keeping his hold, was jerked flat upon his

face.

"Be cautious!" shouted Caipor. "There is silver in the dust you are

swallowing," and they hurried on, unable to distinguish whether the

half-choked ejaculations that followed them were thanks or curses.

There was a short silence punctuated by the cracking of the whip, the

clatter of hoofs, and the crunching of wheels along the pavement; then

the curtains once more parted slightly, and Caipor, watchful to serve,

saw Marcia's beckoning hand and drew closer to the rheda.

"Bend down," she said, and, as he obeyed, she whispered:--

"You were my brother's servant, Caipor, and you bear his name. Will

you help me to avenge him?"

The slave's eyes flashed, and he straightened himself on his horse.

Then he lowered his head to hear more.

"Ligurius," she continued, "will be brave and faithful to my family in

all things. I want one who will be faithful to what is greater and to

what is less--to Rome and to me. I seek safety for the Republic; and I

seek revenge for those who are dead. Will you help me when Ligurius

halts?"

"The cross itself will not daunt me," he said simply. "Whatever you

shall do, lady, I will be faithful to the death."

"For me, perhaps, to the death, Caipor," she answered; "but for you, if

the gods favour me, to life and to freedom."

His cheek flushed with the rich blood of his Samnite ancestors, and, as

Ligurius glanced back from his post at the head of the party, the young

man made his horse bound forward, lest his attitude and perturbation

might bring some suspicion of a secret conference to the mind of the

old freedman.

So they descended within the hemicycle of hills. The heights of Mount

Tifata began to fall away on the left, the rough, precipitous line of

crags, sweeping around toward the east, seemed to dwindle into the

distance, even as they drew nearer, while the low jumble of Neapolitan

hills, beyond which towered Vesuvius with its fluttering pennon of

vapour, rose higher and higher upon the southern horizon. A turn of

the road, a temporary makeshift, led them around Casilinum, whose

little garrison lay close, nor opened their gates to friend or foe.

There, at last, in the midst of the level plain that stretched down to

the sea, lay Capua, gleaming white and radiant beneath the brush of the

now descending sun.

Gradually the great sweep of city walls grew lowering and massive. It

still lacked an hour of sunset, and the travellers had not urged

themselves unduly through the midday course. The foam, yellowed and

darkened by dust, had dried upon the horses' flanks save only where the

chafing of the harness kept it fresh and white. Marcia leaned far out

of the rheda and gazed eagerly at the nearing town, Caipor seemed

scarcely able to restrain his eagerness to dash forward, while Ligurius

shaded his eyes with his hand and viewed the spectacle like a general

counting the power of his approaching foe. Even at this distance they

saw, or began to imagine they saw, some indescribable change,--not a

flurry of motion or excitement,--they were too far away to note that,

had such been present. It was as though above, around every tower and

battlement hung an atmosphere of hostility and defiance; yet this was

the friend of Rome through days of weal and days of woe,--the second

city of Italy.

Nearer and nearer they drew. The horses threw their heads in the air,

and, presaging rest and provender, quickened their pace, without

urging. Suddenly an exclamation burst from the lips of Ligurius.

"Look!" he cried. "It is true. They are indeed here." Marcia and

Caipor strove to follow his hand. "My northern eyes, old though they

be, are better than yours of the south. Do you not see them--one, two,

three! Gods! They are thick on the walls."

"What? in the name of Jove!" exclaimed Marcia, impatiently, and then

Caipor started.

"I see! I see now," he cried. "Ah! mistress, they are the standards

of Carthage; the horses' heads, yellow, with red manes. Gods, how they

glitter! Gold and blood--gold and blood!"

"Drive on," said Marcia, for they had all drawn rein, half

unconsciously, and she lay back, behind the curtains of the rheda.

II.

THE GATE.

A harsh cry of command or warning rang out ahead, and the rheda stopped

short with a jolt. Ligurius had thrown his horse upon his haunches and

then backed him so as to take post at that side of the vehicle

unprotected by Caipor; but, a moment later, the rush of a dozen tall

figures thrust them both away, the curtains were torn aside, and Marcia

looked out into savage faces and great, staring, blue eyes. Three or

four overlapping circlets of iron just above the hips seemed the limit

of these men's defensive armour, and the skin of some animal was thrown

about the brawny shoulders of such as had not replaced their barbaric

mantles with the Roman military cloak; the hair of each, black or red,

but always long and indescribably filthy, was caught up in a knot at

the top of the head, whence it streamed away, loose or matted, like the

tail of an unkempt horse; their feet were bare, and their legs were

covered by linen breeches bound close with leathern thongs. It needed

not the great broad-swords slung about their shoulders to tell them for

Hannibal's Gauls--creatures scarcely half human, whose name brought

terror to the Roman maiden of the days of Cannae, as the sight of them

had carried death or slavery to her less-favoured sister of the blacker

days of the Allia.

But Marcia showed little of womanish weakness. To the jargon of a

dozen voices--a jargon that sounded like the yelping and barking of a

pack of dogs--she opposed a cold and dignified silence. A dozen hands

reached out to touch her, as they would touch something strange and

admirable; but she drew back, and the rude hands and staring, blue eyes

fell before the flash of her indignation.

At that instant, a man strode forward, hurling the soldiers from his

path to right and left, or striking them fiercely with his staff.

Taller by almost half a head than the others, his richer vesture and

arms, but, above all, the gold collar about his neck and the gold

bracelets upon his arms, marked the chief. Standing by the rheda, he

met Marcia's look of proud defiance, for a moment; then his eyes

shifted and seemed to wander; but, cloaking with martial sternness the

embarrassment of the barbarian, he spoke in Gallic:--

"Who are you?"

Unable to understand the question, much less to answer it, she turned

away and ignored both the man and his words. Again the look of

indecision and embarrassment returned to his face; but, glancing round,

he saw Ligurius struggling in the hands of his captors, and caught some

words of Gallic in his half-throttled remonstrances.

"Bring him," he said shortly, with a motion of his staff, and the

freedman, who had been roughly pulled from his horse, was thrust

forward, his clothes hanging in tatters, and his face bruised and

bleeding from his efforts to break loose and guard his mistress from

intrusion or insult.

"Who is _she_, and who are you?" asked the chief, sternly; for his

eyes, now that they looked into those of a man and an inferior, had

regained all their wild fierceness.

Ligurius hesitated, partly from lack of wind and partly from a doubt as

to how much or what it would be wise to tell.

"Speak!" cried the other, impatiently.

Marcia threw aside the curtains which had been allowed to fall back in

their place, and leaned out. The scene looked critical; the Gaul's

face was working with nervous irritation, while his followers, scarcely

recovered from his sudden onslaught, stood around in a ring, some

fingering their swords, and with expressions whose wonder and stupidity

seemed fast giving place to the lust of blood and plunder. Caipor had

been knocked senseless at the beginning, and the driver was in the

hands of several soldiers.

Ligurius looked inquiringly at his mistress.

"He asks who we are," he said. "What shall I say?"

"Ah! you plot to deceive me," cried the Gaul, losing control of his

temper, and, before Marcia could answer, he struck the freedman down

with his staff. One of his followers shifted his sword belt, and, half

drawing the great weapon, stepped forward; but Marcia had sprung from

the rheda, and stood, with clenched hands and flashing eyes, above her

prostrate attendant.

"Bandits! Murderers!" she cried. "Does your general permit you to rob

and kill travellers that seek to enter a friendly city?"

Understanding the act rather than the words, the soldier halted, and

the chief's eyes began again to shift nervously; but soon an expression

of mingled lust and cunning came into them.

"You are beautiful," he said. "You shall not die, you shall dwell in

my hut."

Marcia shuddered at the glance and change of tone. He reached out his

arms, tattooed in blue designs, and made as if to advance. She drew a

dagger from her girdle. Infuriated by the sight of what he took to be

a hostile weapon, the barbarian's sword was out in an instant. Then he

perceived that the dagger was directed not at his breast, but at the

woman's. The point of the great sword, already half raised, dropped

slowly to the ground, and a new look of embarrassed amazement took the

place of the momentary glare of savage fury.

How it would have ended never transpired, for a commotion at the gate

attracted the attention of all. A small detachment of soldiers was

advancing, at a leisurely pace, headed by a young officer whose arms

blazed with gold and silver. No Hannibalian veterans these. As they

came near, even Marcia could note the sleek, soft look of the men, and

their listless, muscleless gait; while their leader's hair and person

literally reeked with perfumes. His eyes turned slowly from the huge

Gaul to the woman; then a flash of animation lent them light.

"How is this?" he asked. "Why this tumult? Who are these people?"

The Gaul shook his head defiantly, as if ignorant of the speech of his

interrogator, while his followers began to nudge each other, pointing

out the round limbs and fresh complexions of the Capuans, and laughing

scornfully.

The young officer flushed, and, turning to Marcia, repeated the

question.

"I am a Roman. Do you not understand my tongue?" she said.

He glanced fearfully at the Gauls. Then, reassured by their evident

failure to comprehend, he regained his assurance and answered:--

"Surely, lady, an educated Capuan cannot fail to understand all

languages, civilized or barbarous. I speak the Greek, the Roman--all;

only permit me to beg you to be less frank in naming your city: 'Roman'

is a dangerous word to use here. What has led one so beautiful and so

accomplished to run the risk of such a journey? Do you not know that

Hannibal and his men are in Capua? That is why these beasts have been

able to disturb you; but fear not," he continued, as she was about to

speak, "_I_ also am here to protect you," and he accompanied the words,

with a glance that left the nature of the protection offered more than

equivocal.

Suppressing her mingled feelings of disgust and amusement, Marcia

answered haughtily:--

"May Jove favour you for your offer; but has it come that the expected

guest of Pacuvius Calavius needs protection at the gate of Capua?"

Amazement and deference were at once apparent in his changed manner.

"Ah!" he said slowly, as if trying to gather his wits; "that is

different--very different. It is a double regret that these vermin

have troubled you; but you are safe now."

Marcia found herself wondering whether he would allude to the Gauls so

scornfully had they been able to understand his words.

The Capuan turned to the Gallic chief, who, together with his

followers, had drawn nearer.

"Make way!" he cried. "Loose the slave that drives." Then to his own

men, "Raise up the two that are hurt;" and to Marcia, "And you, lady;

will it please you to return to your carriage?"

But the Gauls, although evidently understanding the nature of his

orders, showed no disposition to obey them. On the contrary, at a few

words from their chief, they pushed closer yet, and some of them even

began to jostle the soldiers of the Capuan guard. A light blow or a

sharp word bade fair to precipitate a conflict that, despite the

numerical equality, could hardly be doubtful in its outcome, when a

sharp, commanding voice rang out behind.

All swung around, as if to meet a blow, and the press opened. A rider,

glittering in arms of simple but rich design, and mounted upon a black

horse, was advancing from the gate. Two Spaniards, who rode several

spear lengths behind him, were his sole escort; but, alone or at the

head of a legion, it was all the same: no eye of Gaul or Capuan saw

aught but the one horseman; and yet it was not easy to tell wherein the

force lay. He was a young man, probably twenty--possibly twenty-five,

for life advanced quickly under the sun of Africa. His figure was

slender and boyish, his face thinly bearded, a lack which was

accentuated by the beard being divided into two points. Yes, now they,

saw; it was his eyes that had dispelled the boast and swagger of the

Gaul, the superciliousness of the Capuan, and whatever of brawling

boldness had been in either. These eyes were black and large and

flashing with courage and energy and the pride of noble birth. No

detail of the scene seemed to escape their first glance, and he asked

no question, as he rode into the crowd.

"Ardix," he said, addressing the Gaul in his own tongue, "back to your

gate! and you," turning to the Capuan officer and changing his language

with ready ease, "it would be wise for you to consider the unwisdom of

quarrelling with our veterans."

There was just enough of contempt in the inference of the last word to

check the flow of explanation and complaint that was rising to the lips

of the young exquisite. The newcomer had turned his back. The Capuan

saw his followers slinking away with Ardix and his Gauls. It was hard

to lose a chance of talking with a great man, and surely a few of the

words he could choose and speak so well would compel the Carthaginian

to value him at his worth. Still, there was something that impressed

upon him the unwisdom of speech, and, after a moment of embarrassed

indecision, he turned and strode away after the rest, seeking to

conceal the humiliation of his retreat by the swagger of his gait and

the fierceness of his expression--which there was no one to see.

While this little comedy was passing, he, whose advent had been its

occasion, was regarding Marcia fixedly; but he now looked into eyes

that neither quailed nor wandered before his own. At last he spoke,

and in Latin:--

"I am Mago, the son of Hamilcar. What brings a Roman woman to Capua in

these days?"

This youth, then, was the famous brother of Hannibal; the commander of

the ambush at the Trebia. His voice was cold, harsh, and metallic, and

in his eyes there was none of the rude lust of the Gaul or the polished

licentiousness of the Capuan. They burned only with the fires that

light the souls of patriots and leaders of men.

"I come," said Marcia, slowly, "for several reasons, and believing that

Carthage does not make war upon women."

The eyes lost nothing of their cold scrutiny at the implied compliment

or the covert reproach.

"And what reasons?" he asked sharply.

"For the one," replied Marcia, and she was conscious of an effort in

holding her voice to its steady inflection; "that my house is bound in

hospitality to that of Pacuvius Calavius--"

Mago's brow cleared for an instant.

"Our friend," he said. "He is married to one of your Claudians." Then

it darkened again as he continued: "Well, and you seek him for what?

To tempt him back to Rome?"

"I seek him," said Marcia, boldly, "because I am wise. Have I not seen

the narrowing of Rome's resources? the quarrels of the factions? I

have come from there, and I tell you that, if Hannibal have patience

until the spring, it is Rome that will beg him to take her. What part

has a woman with a man who cannot protect himself! Let her look for a

new defender, if she be wise."

An odd look had come into the Carthaginian's face as she spoke, a look

more scornful but less threatening.

"You speak true woman's philosophy," he said. "That is the philosophy

of these times. I am convinced that there _were_ days, and women--but

pah! now it is only glory that is worthy to be a man's bride. Come, I

will lead you to the house of Calavius."

Ligurius had recovered sufficiently to remount his horse, while Mago's

attendants had laid the still senseless Caipor in the rheda to which

their master now assisted Marcia. Then he rode on, by the wheel of the

carriage.

As for the daughter of Torquatus, not even the consciousness of her

purpose, and of the high and bitter motives that had shaped it, could

drive the touch of shame from her cheeks. It galled her when she

considered how she must appear to this man--a mere youth and a

Carthaginian, and it galled her the more that she should care for his

opinion. That she had inspired only his contempt, was quite evident;

and she, whose glances had always gone straight as the arrows of Love

to the hearts of men, now found herself more annoyed by the

indifference of an enemy than she had been by the dangers from which he

had rescued her. She was not certain whether it was with a desire to

gain in his sight, or only in the pursuance of her plans, that she

spoke again.

"Does my lord think worse of me for what I have said?"

"I thought you a woman; now I know you for one," he replied, carelessly.

"Ah! but my lord did not ask as to my other reasons for seeking the

camp of Carthage."

"That is a matter for Calavius to look to. If you come as an enemy--so

much the worse for him."

"And if I come as a woman who would escape a hated marriage--to seek a

lover who has won her heart afar off?--"

"Calavius?" laughed Mago, the boy in him suddenly flashing out. "They

say even the old men here are hunters of women. Have a care of the

Claudian, though. She may bite."

Marcia flushed crimson. Mago was not an easy subject for female

influence. Besides, she began to realize that the respect she could

not help feeling for the attitude of the young soldier might hamper

whatever efforts she could put forth to ensnare and control him. His

closeness to Hannibal, however, would make his conquest as advantageous

as it seemed difficult, and it was some such thought as this that

prompted her next words.

"Happy the leader and brother that has so single and so firm a

counsellor!"

She spoke as if half unconsciously, but Mago shot a sharp glance

straight into her eyes. Then he answered, carelessly:--

"My brother is the captain-general of Carthage, and I am only a young

soldier. Doubtless he is wise to ignore my opinions; and yet, had he

harkened to Maharbal and myself at the close of the day of Cannae--had

he let us press on with the cavalry and followed, with such speed as

the gods could grant,--I am convinced that within five days he had

supped in the Capitol."

His tone changed, as he spoke, to one of fierce enthusiasm, and his

listener shuddered. Then, sinking his voice, he went on, as if

speaking to himself:--

"Even now--even now--before the winter closes in, there might be a

chance. Later, they will recover strength and courage, and we--we

shall become--Capuans."

Marcia hid her agitation behind the curtains of the rheda. She was

terrified by his vehemence and by the justice of his reasoning. Here

was the man whose whole influence would be pitted against the purpose

of her journey; and her woman's intuition told her that no argument or

allurement could turn his mind. It was with a feeling of relief that

the halting of the vehicle before the porch of a stately house checked

the unwise retort that trembled on her lips. Later, she could oppose

him better than if, yielding now to an impulse to controvert his views,

she had aroused suspicion.

III.

PACUVIUS CALAVIUS.

The house of Pacuvius Calavius was well situated, near the centre of

the town, accessible to the Forum, and upon a street of considerable

width. The porch of the ostium was supported by four columns

delicately fluted and painted, the lower half in dull crimson, the

upper in ochre. A porter, in costume much richer than those worn by

most free Romans, lounged on a stool set upon the mosaic pavement, and

roused himself lazily to shuffle down and inquire why the rheda had

halted before his door.

"Ah! It was a lady"--and he smirked with insolent meaning--"who

desired to see his master?" He threw out his hands with a deprecatory

gesture. "The gods were, in truth, very friendly to Pacuvius Calavius;

but then he was very old--a complaint which few could guard against.

Oh!--"

Mago had signalled to one of his horsemen, and the soldier's lash

whistled and wound itself about the slave's neck. All the fellow's

laziness and insolence vanished, and he fell upon the pavement,

writhing and whimpering.

"Lash the hound till he does his office," said Mago, quietly; and the

short hand-thong rose again.

But before it descended a second time, the porter had rolled and

scrambled to his feet, and was rushing to open the door. He vanished

with wonderful speed, and, a moment later, there appeared a man

somewhat above middle age, with a close-curling, white beard, and clad

in a robe so heavily embroidered with gold as to leave the ground

colour a matter of conjecture. With keen eyes that shifted nervously,

he hurried down toward the rheda. Then, noting Mago, and that he was a

Carthaginian of rank, he paused, uncertain, and his salutation savoured

somewhat of over-respect.

"A lady?" he said hesitatingly;--"a lady who desires to see me?"

Marcia parted the curtains and leaned out, smiling. The newcomer

stopped short and gasped in astonishment.

Mago glanced sharply from one to the other, and his lip curled. He

signed to his attendants, and, with an obeisance that had in it

haughtiness rather than courtesy, he rode away.

Glancing cautiously up and down the street, Calavius approached the

rheda.

"And is it the lady Marcia who is to honour my house?" he began, in

words that carried more welcome than did the tone. "A dangerous

journey, in these days, and a dangerous destination. Surely you are

welcome--and who was the young man that rode with you? Did he know

anything of your name and birth? I trust you were cautious?--"

Marcia laughed.

"Do not fear, father;" Calavius frowned slightly at the venerable

title, and shook out his robe that the odours might permeate the air.

"Do not fear but that I was as cunning as your Campanians. I told him

I was a Roman--wherefore not? For the matter of that, he divined it.

He is Mago, the brother of Hannibal--"

"And he brought you here?" cried Calavius, trembling now in good

earnest. "Surely it was done to ruin me; but whose plot?--whose plot?"

"It is not necessary I should be your guest," said Marcia, with

well-feigned indifference. "Doubtless there are inns; but he guided me

here because I asked for your house, imagining that my father's friend

would have a welcome for my father's daughter."

Calavius instantly recovered his composure.

"Ah! dear lady," he began, in a voice from which all the tremor had

vanished, "and do you dream for a moment that you should taste of other

hospitality than mine? Will you not descend--nay, I will help you--and

let us enter quickly. These are indeed troublous days, and every door

creaks a warning; troublous days, with each man's hand against his

neighbour, plotting by necessity, often, rather than by preference.

What! your attendants are hurt?" Again his voice shook. "A brawl?

that is bad; but come within. It is there you shall tell me of it all."

So speaking, he assisted Marcia to descend, and, summoning his

servants, gave the rheda and its guardians into their care. Then he

led the way into his house, carefully fastening the street door behind

them, for the porter evidently had not halted in his flight, short of

the slaves' apartments upstairs.

Marcia followed, wondering at the magnificence of the decorations. She

passed through passages lighted by hanging-lamps of gold and silver and

bronze; past walls rich with frescoes in black and yellow and red;

panels and pictures such as Caius Fabius Pictor could never have

dreamed when he ornamented the Temple of Safety; frescoes that so far

surpassed the work of Damophilus and Gorgasus upon the walls of Ceres,

as these had surpassed the art of Pictor himself. Then came courts

surrounded by rows of fluted columns, set with fountains that threw

light sprays of scented water over the flowers and the garments of the

passers; then more passages, with paintings of even greater merit and

delicacy of execution, mingled, here and there, with scenes where the

delicacy was of the execution alone, and that brought hot blushes to

her cheek. Amid all, were scattered richly carved pedestals bearing

beautiful statues done in marble or bronze, or great vases, black or

terra-cotta, with intricately composed groups of figures in the

opposite tint. It came like a veritable revelation to one who had

known nothing but the crude art of the Etruscans and the cruder

handicraft of her own people, tempered, as they were, by the taste of

such Greek artists as fell so far short of their native ideals as to be

willing to waste their skill upon barbarians. She had heard of the

wealth and luxury of the Capuans, but it had never entered her mind to

imagine that the luxury of Capua could demand, or the wealth of

Campania purchase, pictures whose distance and proportions were true to

life itself, and statues that seemed veritably to live and breathe.

Her eyes were big with wonder and admiration, when her guide and host

turned sharply to the right and ushered her into a small room that

looked out through a row of slender pillars into a portico beyond, and

thence into a garden that seemed a very forest of small rose trees.

Around the walls ran a shelf upon which were set a number of circular

boxes, while lying upon the table were several bulky rolls of papyrus,

in parchment wrappers stained yellow or purple.

"My library," said Calavius, in a careless tone, but with a wave of his

arm that showed his pride in its possession. "Three hundred and

eighty-nine works--the best, and of the most excellent authors:--poets,

philosophers, historians, rhetoricians--all that is worth reading. No

man in Capua has a better show of literature--unless, perhaps, it be

Decius Magius," and his voice sank, as if the name had brought him back

to a realization of circumstances. "Here I can read without

disturbance, and here we can talk without fear of interruption or

listening ears. There are slaves always stationed at both ends of the

portico, to insure quiet."

"And you are the man who has dared to turn Capua over to the enemies of

Rome! Truly, I cannot understand."

Marcia could not restrain the words, and Calavius flushed.

"Do not condemn me for timidity," he said quickly. "These are

dangerous seas for a man of mark to steer his craft upon.

Carthaginians and other barbarians are not citizens of Capua--no

refinement--no civilization. Much has happened to disturb me--to

unsettle my nerves. Decius Magius has been parading in the Forum,

defying our friends,--and who with him but my own son, Perolla, casting

discredit on my plans, and danger on himself! It was with the utmost

difficulty I could drag him away--and then, what does the Carthaginian

do but fly into a rage, and demand an audience of the senate, with a

view to punishing Decius. Nothing but my influence and that of Virrius

and the Ninii have persuaded him to forego his purpose for the time;

and that, only, by pleading the joy of this day, and that it should be

given to nothing save festivity and feasting. Truly, my mind misgives

me. Still, they have sworn that no Carthaginian shall have any power

over a Campanian, and--was not that a noise in the portico?"

He rose and, gliding out to the row of pillars, looked up and down.

Marcia regarded him with contempt and pity.

"And yet," she said, "it is for this terror and distrust that you have

betrayed Rome. Were there none of our soldiers and citizens in the

town?"

"Do not speak of it," whispered Calavius, growing even paler;--"a most

frightful misfortune! They were taken in arms, or at their

business--what matters it which?--and confined in the baths for

safe-keeping."

"And then?" said Marcia, for he paused.

"And then some evil-disposed persons turned on the vapour."

"They were killed?" she cried.

"Not so loud!--not so loud! for the love of all the gods! It was a

mistake, a terrible mistake!"

"Ah! guest-friend of my father," said Marcia, sadly; "I fear it is a

mistake that Rome will exact a heavy price for. You say truly that it

matters not how they were taken."

"But I swear it was no will of mine!" he cried, and then, fearing lest

he had committed himself too deeply, he went on. "In fact, lady, they

say too much, who set this revolution at my door; who say that I was

the mover of all. Was it not Vibius Virrius who first suggested it?

Was it not Marius Blossius, the praetor, who led out the people to meet

the Carthaginians?--and see how my son is still with Rome! No, by

Bacchus! there are many here a thousand times more guilty--if it be

guilt, and on whom the rods and axes must fall first if there be

justice under the gods. You can bear witness at Rome to that."

"There will be rods and axes enough for all," said Marcia, grimly,

filled with horror and disgust for the deeds told of, and with contempt

for this garrulous, timid plotter of treachery and murder. Then,

suddenly, she noted a sinister glitter in his eye, and, at the same

time, remembering her mission, she checked her words and went on, "Rods

and axes enough for all who are so feeble as not to take the

sovereignty of Italy when it lies within their grasp."

"What--what is that you say?" he said eagerly, and the threat fled from

his face. "The sovereignty of Italy? Ah! it is a great prize! Who

shall deny it to us? Are we not the second city? Have we not allies

the strongest in the world?--a general the greatest? and when all is

over, who so fitting to rule as the first man of the first city?--for

Rome will be no more. Ah! I will deal with them gently, though; I

will conciliate--unless I be opposed too obstinately. You shall tell

them that. Are they meditating surrender? Do they not see that we

must prevail?--but," and his tone changed again to distrust, "I have

forgotten to ask, amid my anxiety about matters of state, why you have

come to Capua--a Roman--at such times?"

Marcia laughed. She was ready for her part now, and this adversary, at

least, she despised,--perhaps too much, for he was a cunning man, in

his way, and when the matter demanded only chicanery against other

cowards.

"Ah! my Pacuvius, a politician like _you_ asks me that?" she exclaimed

gayly. "Is it for a woman to remain in a ship buffeted and rocking in

the storm? a ship that must founder soon, if it be but left to itself?"

"Is that truth?" he asked eagerly, but with a tinge of suspicion in his

voice.

"Surely, it is truth: as it is truth that I, with many other women,

have gone out to such cities where there are friends of our

houses--cities friendly to the new powers, friends strong enough to

give us shelter and protection. It is my happy fortune to have found a

city and a friend the strongest of all."

Calavius smiled complacently and stroked his beard.

"Yes, you have done well," he said slowly. "I am not without interest

with the captain-general of Carthage, and there may be yet greater

things in store for me. I will go now and send female attendants to

you, that you may seek the bath and your room, and have such

refreshment as you desire. I will talk with you again later, but

to-night there is the banquet at the house of the Ninii. Ah! it will

be the greatest feast that Capua has seen--a banquet to Hannibal and

the Carthaginian leaders. Farewell."

He turned to go, but she rose quickly and laid her hand upon his robe.

"You have not heard all, yet," she said, casting down her eyes and

speaking in halting phrases. "Do you truly believe that it is _only_ a

woman's fears that have brought me to Capua? You have not questioned

me closely. That is not worthy of your wisdom. It is hard for a woman

to tell all things unless they be drawn from her."

He stared with eyes full of wonder.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Then, throwing her head to one side, she laughed, so that Sergius

himself would scarcely have known it from the laugh of the

free-hearted, jesting Marcia of other days.

"Oh, my father, you a Capuan and a man learned in the ways of women!

It is pitiful--this littleness of your knowledge. Come, tell me now,

as to a pedagogue, what is it that leads a woman to all places, through

all dangers?"

"Surely, my child, it is love," said Calavius, vacantly. Then his face

took on an expression, first of furrowed surprise and then of gratified

vanity, an expression that brought the hot blush to Marcia's cheek,

even while she struggled to restrain her contemptuous mirth. His

manner changed at once to one of insinuating gallantry, which she

hastened to check before he should commit himself.

"What is it," she went on again, glancing down that he might not see

and read her eyes; "what is it that makes women love men? What, if not

strength and courage? I am a Roman, my father; but Roman men are no

longer fit mates for Roman women. Where but in the camp of Carthage

shall I find one worthy of my beauty? It is there I seek my lover."

Disappointment lowered on the face of Calavius. He had noted her

beauty, long before she had referred to it; but now he noted it with a

more distinct desire, and the words, "my father," which she had used,

though but a customary term of respect, grated the more harshly upon

his ears. Still, controlling himself, he asked:--

"And which man of our allies has the lady Marcia chosen to bless with

the love that is too high for an humble Italian?"

She looked the siren herself, as she answered:--

"Surely, my father would not learn the secret of his daughter!"

Calavius winced. "Believe, only, that he who has been loved at a

distance is noble and powerful. However, if so be that my lord would

learn the truth, let him take her to this banquet. I have heard often

that much liberty is allowed to the women of Capua; why not, then, to

the guest of the noblest of the Capuans?"

The mind of Calavius had been divided. With the first rebuff to his

rising passion had come the impulse to avail himself of his power and

of the helpless position of his guest to gratify his spite or his

pleasure as she might choose to make it. Then, at the suggestion that

she loved and had come to seek a Carthaginian of rank, he thought of

the disfavour--even peril he might incur by such a course should an

enemy or a slave learn the facts and expose him; and, finally, he fell

into a cunning casting up of the influence he might gain over the

lover, whoever he was, to whom he should be instrumental in

surrendering such perfect beauty. Again he winced at the thought, but

then, what more likely than that her silly, woman's vanity aspired to

the captain-general himself? and he, Pacuvius Calavius, might hope to

be the confidential go-between. What profit and influence might not be

found in such a relation!--so personal, so beneficent! After all,

there were many beautiful women--even among his slaves, and what was

the difference between woman and woman compared to the dream of Italian

sovereignty that hovered before his eyes! He knew well that no wife or

daughter of a Capuan would be present at that banquet--only the most

beautiful of the city's hetairai--but what of that? This girl was a

Roman--an enemy; the claims of hospitality between his people and hers

would be shivered in the coming crash of arms. What mattered it if to

gain a point--a great point--he wrenched loose his personal obligations

a few days sooner? Yes, Marcia should go to the banquet, and, if

Hannibal desired her, then he, Pacuvius Calavius, would surrender her

into his arms. He knit his brows and spoke:--

"What you ask, my daughter, is truly difficult to compass, nor do I

know that any women or of what class will be present. Trust, however,

that all my power shall be at your service to gain any wish of your

heart,--and, as you know, I am not powerless,--only remember that it is

your will that I am doing. I will send a servant who shall lead you to

your chamber. Rest, prepare, and expect my return before the third

hour. Farewell."

Marcia did not detain him. She noticed the wealth of odours that his

fluttering gown had left behind, and her contempt and disgust deepened.

IV.

THE HOUSE OF THE NINII CELERES.

The rustle of garments aroused Marcia from a sleep wherein had been

more of bitter revery than of rest; and, glancing up, she saw, at the

entrance of her apartment, two girls, evidently slaves. They had

knelt, with arms crossed upon their breasts and downcast eyes.

"Will my mistress be pleased to place herself in the hands of her

servants, that she may receive refreshment and whatsoever she desires?"

The girl's voice was soft and musical. Marcia rose, and, with a slight

inclination of the head, indicated her acquiescence; then she followed

her new guides through new halls and rooms, around and through the

colonnade, to a part of the house beyond the garden. Here were the

apartments of the bath, and, under the skilful hands of her attendants,

she felt the fatigue and blights of the journey passing from her. No

such artists of luxury were known at Rome as were these slave women of

Capua; new refinements were revealed at every step--refinements that

seemed to culminate when the hair-dresser began her work. First came

the anointing with the richest odours deftly combined from a dozen

vials of ivory or fine glass; then the crimping and curling with hot

irons, the touch of which served also, as the attendant explained, to

consume whatever coarseness clung to the perfumes and to bring out

their finest and most delicate effects. Meanwhile the Roman simplicity

of Marcia's wardrobe and jewel-case had been thoroughly explored, not

without some scornful side glances on the part of the Capuan women, and

she who was in charge of the tiring announced their contents to be

quite inadequate to dress a lady for a banquet of state--an

announcement which brought more smiles than blushes to Marcia's face.

Still, despite her half-veiled contempt, there was nothing to do but

resign herself absolutely into the hands of such competent authorities,

and, besides, she could not say that she found the process altogether

displeasing.

The elaborate structure of curls and frizzes had now been confined in

place by a net of fine gold thread, in which were set, at regular

intervals, pearls remarkable for their colour and perfect spherical

form; then a dozen long pins with carved gold heads were passed through

the net, and above and around all was bound a diadem of thin-beaten

gold ornamented with intricate open-work tracery. Finally, the

hairdresser, having bade Marcia behold herself in the polished silver

mirror which she held up, retired with an expression of serene

self-approbation upon her face, and gave way to other attendants.

One of these bound the smallest of jewelled sandals upon feet that were

too small, even for them; another produced a long palla or sleeveless

tunic of apple tint ornamented with feather patterns, and fastened it

with amethyst brooches at the shoulders. Last, the head tirewoman

herself came to perform what was, after the hair-dressing, the most

delicate of all these operations--the adjustment of the cyclas or

over-robe, a garment of the finest texture and of a shade known as

wax-colour, through which the tint and ornamentation of the palla

produced an effect of inimitable beauty. A slender, vine-work design,

embroidered in gold, bordered the cyclas, and it was in arranging so

that the course of this would form harmonious lines, wherein the skill

and difficulty of the task mainly lay.

A final appeal to the mirror followed, and then, with Marcia's

approval, the work was over. She was robed, indeed, for a Capuan

banquet, and in a manner her simple Roman taste had never dreamed of.

As yet Calavius had not returned. She sat in the portico of the

garden, awaiting him, and time was now afforded her to think of her

plans, the risk she ran, and the objects to be gained. Not since the

resolve had first found place in her mind had she wavered and feared as

now, and an intolerable repugnance began to possess her.

Darkness had veiled the city for several hours, but it was the darkness

of a southern night and of a city in festal mood. The stars seemed to

stand out from the blue-gray vault above, as if reaching down to the

earth--whether in pity or anger, she could not tell. Around the city

itself hung the luminous aura of its lights; the cries of revellers

sounded from the neighbouring streets,--even the rush of feet,--while,

to the eastward, the glow of the Carthaginian watch-fires seemed to

reach upward to meet the rays of the stars. Yes, these were hostile to

the invaders! She knew it now. They were the glittering points of

Roman pila descending upon the foe--pila driven by the hands that

mouldered amid the red mire of Cannae. Surely those men approved of

what she was about to do! Was not Sergius among them, and would he not

will her to make good, by her beauty, what the sacrifice of his own

strength had failed to accomplish? What interest had he, now, in her

as a woman, as a mistress, as a wife? Greater thoughts must inspire

the shade that was once her lover: their common city, its life and

power, the destiny of the world that depended upon the preservation of

both of these; and still she could not banish the feeling of doubt, of

disapproval. Perhaps Calavius would not return, or perhaps he might

not be able to gain for her permission to attend the banquet?

A commotion at the street entrance, the sound of approaching footsteps,

and the rustle of a gown seemed about to answer her question. The next

moment, her host stood before her and surveyed with astonished approval

the appearance she presented.

"You are very beautiful," he said slowly and as if thinking with regret

that he was surrendering such perfection for mere influence and power.

"I have spoken of you and your wish, and Stenius and Pacuvius--the

Ninii Celeres--consent to your presence. The litters await us in the

vestibule, and it is time that we set out."

Marcia rose, and he led her back through the halls and courts.

"Who will be there?" she asked, as they approached the street door.

"All of especial note, except Vibius Virrius and Marius Blossius. They

are away, busied about matters of state. Mago also has just departed

on a mission to Carthage. There will be no Campanians save our hosts,

myself, my son, Perolla, and Jubellius Taurea, the bravest of our

horsemen. Of our good allies, you shall see Hasdrubal, Maharbal,

Hannibal-the-Fighter, Silenus the Sicilian, who is to write the history

of the wars, Iddilcar the priest of Melkarth, and the great

captain-general himself--"

"Come, let us hasten," said Marcia, quickly, as if fearful lest her

resolution might forsake her while there was yet chance to withdraw.

A moment later and Calavius had assisted her into a gorgeously

caparisoned litter. She hardly noticed the rabble that thronged round

the door as she passed out, and whom the slaves of her host seemed to

keep back with difficulty. Still, she was conscious of nudgings,

looks, and gestures that made her blush, though the words that

accompanied them were unintelligible. Calavius was furious and paused,

as if to give orders for harsher repression. Then a voice called out

in coarse jargon--half Latin, half Campanian:--

"She is pretty, my Pacuvius! Venus grant her to restore your youth!"

With an effort, he twisted his features into a smile.

"May the gods favour your wish, my friend!" he said. Then, plunging

into his litter, he clapped his hands, for the bearers to proceed, and,

lying back among the cushions, ground his teeth in rage.

"Ah! I must play to them--now. Later I shall remember and know how to

avenge. The lump of filth! Who knows, though, but that he spoke

wisdom? Perhaps I am truly giving up the hope of my youth to others."

Meanwhile the bearers were running swiftly through the streets; that

is, as swiftly as the crowds and their condition and humour permitted.

Torches gleamed everywhere, and, from time to time as the curtains

parted slightly, Marcia caught glimpses of the scene. The city had

abandoned itself to the wildest debauchery--a debauchery that had about

it more of the desire to drown unpleasant thoughts and haunting fears

than of spontaneous exultation or mirth; and their drunkenness seemed

but a garment, thrown over the head to shut out the approaching spectre

of Roman retribution. All Capua presented to her the spectacular

results of a turbulent democracy exalted to power; for the vagaries of

the Roman plebeians seemed as nothing beside the unbridled insolence of

this populace. Here was Pacuvius Calavius, who had triumphed by their

aid over a senate more than half in sympathy with Rome; and now,

recognizing his litter, they thronged around it, calling out familiar

greetings, or even sheer vulgarities, pulling the curtains aside,

kissing their hands to him, and, from time to time, compelling his

bearers to pause while they slobbered drunken kisses upon his garments

and person. No sign of true respect greeted their leader; it seemed as

if the mob recognized him only as the creature of its whim, to be

upheld as a facile puppet or cast down by the first savage gust of

discontent.

As for Calavius himself, he, too, fell readily into the part assigned

him. His face was wreathed in a constant smile, his lips spoke only

compliments, his hands waved greetings, until, at last, Marcia lay

back, and, closing her eyes, refused to see more of her host's

degradation.

Suddenly the litter-bearers paused and set down their burdens. In

distance the journey had been short, but the many enforced halts had

made it seem as if the whole city had been traversed. They were now

before the porch of a house that was, if possible, even more

magnificent than that of Calavius. Every column was twined with

garlands, flowers hung in festoons from the architrave, incense steamed

up from brazen tripods set on either side of the entrance. In front

and around the entire insula, the streets were packed dense with a

seething crowd, save only for a small space before the vestibule, where

was stationed a guard of Africans equipped in the manner of Roman

legionaries. These were rude, wiry soldiers, scornful of civilians and

their fancied rights, but, above all, contemptuous of the soft

Campanian mob that arrogated so much and could command so little. At

first the populace had tried to browbeat and play with them, and the

soldiers had sallied out into the street and killed a couple of the

most talkative, wounding half a dozen more. Now the cowardly Capuans

stood back in awe, giving passage whenever the strangers called for it,

and hardly daring to whisper among themselves as to what manner of rule

they had invited to destroy them. Were it not for this summary

treatment it is doubtful whether any of the guests would have been able

to gain the entrance--least of all Calavius, who was looked upon as

their peculiar creation and mouthpiece, and at whom a hundred

complaints were volleyed (in low voices, be it said) as he made his

slow way through the press.

Glad to escape at last from a position at once embarrassing and

dangerous, he now made haste to escort Marcia between the files of

foreign guards, into the atrium, where the Ninii Celeres--smiling

hosts--had stationed themselves to receive the guests that had been

bidden to so important a festivity. Thence he led her, muffled as she

was, to a vestiarium opening to the left side, where were already some

half-dozen women, whose attendants were adding the finishing graces to

toilets disarranged in the litters. One of these latter was assigned

to Marcia's aid, but a few touches to her hair and a slight

readjustment of the cyclas were all that was needed.

Meanwhile, the Roman was watching, with deep interest, the group in the

court of the atrium. She had taken a position from which she could

have an unobstructed view through the doorway, and her attendant had

evidently informed herself as to the identity of the strangers, and was

anxious to win approval by communicating her knowledge.

"That is he, most beautiful lady; the one with the long, white tunic,

at the right of my masters. Is he not poorly dressed for so great a

man? Who would imagine him of any consequence at all?"

While the girl spoke, Marcia was regarding earnestly, and for the first

time, the chief of Carthage, the conqueror of Trebia and Trasimenus and

Cannae--of Sempronius and Flaminius and Varro. She saw a man slightly

above the middle height, well built, with strong, aquiline features and

thick, black, curling beard and hair, though the latter was worn away

at the temples by constant pressure of the helmet. It was a face that

combined deep thought, immeasurable pride, and absolute self-poise and

inscrutability--a face that would have been handsome but for the

disfiguring effect of the eye lost in the marshes of the Arnus.

Perhaps it was this that lent it something of its prevailing expression

of sadness; perhaps it was a realization of responsibilities met and to

be met and a premonition of the inevitable end. His dress was, as the

maid had so scornfully commented, plain in the extreme--a striking

contrast to the celebrated magnificence of his armour and military

equipment. Now, a simple, white, tunic-like garment, relieved by a

narrow border of gold, descended to his feet, while a slender gold

fillet was his sole ornament in addition to the seal finger-ring and

heavy earrings, which he wore in common with his companions.

The latter formed a group hardly less interesting than their leader,

and the girl pointed them out, one by one, and made her approving or

slurring comments. There was Hasdrubal, coarse-featured, middle-sized,

and corpulent, whose garments gleamed with purple and gold, and whose

ears, fingers, and neck glittered with a profusion of jewels. Him

Marcia's informant evidently regarded with admiration approaching to

awe, although his skill as manager of the commissariat, and his

exploits as a soldier when occasion demanded, were probably unknown to

her.

Maharbal, slight and agile, with plain, dark robe and few jewels, with

hair dressed high, diadem of plumes, and beard worn forked in the

Numidian fashion, attracted but passing comment. He was doubtless a

savage from the desert and of little wealth. Another of the generals,

however, seemed to arouse more positive sentiments: a giant in size,

with scarlet tunic, and loaded with gold chains and rings and gems, his

dark, ferocious face towered above the heads of his companions. The

woman's voice sank to a whisper as she said:--

"That is the one they call Hannibal-the-Fighter. They say he never

spares an enemy, and that he eats the flesh of those he kills. May the

gods grant that my masters shall wean him to-night from the love of

such hideous, barbaric fare!"--and yet, with all her horror, Marcia

almost smiled to note how the girl looked upon this brute with more of

woman's feeling for man than she bestowed upon any of his better

favoured and more famous compatriots.

From these four the Roman's eyes wandered to a fifth Carthaginian, who

seemed to complete the tale of guests of that nationality. Her

informant had passed him by in silence, and had gone on to point out

Jubellius Taurea, Pacuvius Calavius, and his son, Perolla--the only

Campanians present besides the hosts of the occasion. When the

category was completed, however, she called the maid's attention to the

omission.

"He?" said the latter, lightly; "the man in the violet tunic? He is

nothing--a priest of one of their gods whom they call Melkarth."

He was a tall, gaunt man, and he stood directly behind Hannibal, and

kept his eyes fixed upon the pavement, as if studying the intricacies

of its mosaic pattern.

Silenus, the Greek rhetor, made the last of the group.

And now, at a signal from the hosts, the company turned and followed

them in single file toward the rear of the house.

"They will send for you when they have reclined," said the attendant,

in answer to a glance of inquiry from Marcia; and, a moment later, the

summons came.

Walls, floors, ceilings, every part of the house through which they

passed, seemed covered with roses clustered, festooned, and superlaid.

Suddenly they found themselves at the entrance of the great banquet

hall, where two triclinia were set facing each other, with room for the

servants to pass between and minister to the wants of the feasters.

At the table to the east--that of honour--reclined Stenius Ninius, in

the middle place of the middle couch, with Hannibal himself at his

right, the place of honour above all. Marcia was led to the head of

the lowest couch, next to the Carthaginian leader, where she found

Pacuvius Calavius reclining below her, as the phrase went; while on the

couch directly opposite lay the priest of Melkarth in the lowest place,

and Perolla in the highest. The other places, below Pacuvius, between

Stenius and the priest, and between the priest and Perolla, were

assigned to the women, while the other table, over which Pacuvius

Ninius presided, was arranged in similar fashion.

V.

THE BANQUET.

Marcia had felt an instinctive shrinking when she saw that the women,

also, were to recline, after the manner of the dissolute Greeks,

instead of sitting, as she had been taught to consider the only decent

posture for a Roman maid or matron. Then the thought of her mission

brought the blush surging to her cheeks, whence it receded, leaving

them pale with a sterner resolve. Was not love of country the greatest

virtue? It was time to school herself, to shrink at nothing in that

cause. As she took her place, she noticed that the priest of Melkarth,

who lay directly opposite, had been regarding her fixedly.

She could see his face now, and it was not a pleasing one. The Semitic

features, fine and noble in their best form, but capable of greater

depths of degeneration than those of any other type, were in his case

exaggerated to an extreme degree of coarseness. The mouth was large

and badly formed, the forehead low, the small eyes peered out snakelike

from under heavy, puffy lids. The nose alone was cut with any measure

of fineness, and that projected, wide-nostrilled, and aquiline as the

beak of a bird of prey. It would have been difficult to imagine a face

more gross and sensual in its lines, and the look of low admiration and

eagerness which it now wore, was well calculated to bring out the

sensuality in its most repulsive form. Marcia felt her cheeks burning

under the fixedness of the man's gaze, and, looking down, she struggled

to compose herself by a close study of the gorgeous coverlid of the

couch,--a fine Campanian texture, dyed scarlet, and heavily embroidered

with figures of birds and beasts and flowers, worked into an elaborate

design.

Even then, his eyes seemed to burn through her hair, through her brain,

down into her heart, and she found her will revolting more violently

than ever against the possibilities involved in her mission.

The voice of Hannibal, addressing some conventional compliment to

Stenius upon the perfection of the arrangements, came as an intense

relief, for the others all turned toward the speaker, and, a moment

later, the slaves passed around with silver basins and ewers, pouring

scented water upon the hands of the guests and drying them with dainty

flickings of filmy napkins. Vessels of gold and silver and fine

earthenware burdened the tables, while at each end of the garden stood

a butler in charge of several large amphorae. Those at the north end

were half buried amid imitation mountains, peaked with real snow

wherewith the wine was to be cooled, while those at the south were

surrounded by more than tropical verdure, with the braziers and vessels

of hot water beside them, ready for mixing the warm draughts.

And now the slaves hurried hither and thither, bearing costly dishes

with elaborately dressed viands: dormice strewed with honey and poppy

seeds; beccaficoes surrounded by yolks of eggs, seasoned with pepper

and made to resemble peafowls' eggs in a nest whereon the stuffed bird

was sitting; fish floating in rich gravies that spouted from the mouths

of four tritons at the corners of the dish; crammed fowls, hares fitted

with wings to resemble Pegasus, thrushes in pastry stuffed with raisins

and nuts, oysters, scallops, snails on silver gridirons, boar stuffed

with fieldfares, with baskets of figs and dates hanging from his tusks,

sweetmeats, cold tarts with Spanish honey--these and a hundred other

dishes, strange or costly, followed each other in quick succession,

and, all the while, the carvers flourished their knives in time with

music, now of instruments, again of choruses of boys and girls. The

butlers, too, had not been idle, and the cups were constantly

replenished, first with the warm and, later, with the cold mixtures.

Yet, though both men and women ate greedily and drank deeply, a gloom

seemed to hang over the feast. The Carthaginians, whether influenced

by native dignity or by a real or simulated contempt for their hosts,

were reserved and silent, while the Capuans seemed, at one moment,

forcing themselves into strained merriment, and, at another, cowering

before the cold eyes that watched their efforts with scarcely veiled

indifference. With fear on the one side and distrust upon the other,

the chances for hilarity and good fellowship looked scanty enough, and

yet Stenius Ninius was too much a man of the world to yield readily to

untoward social conditions.

Clapping his hands, he cried out, as the head butler bowed before him:--

"Now, my good Cappadox, let us have no more of these native vintages.

Good though they were, they but serve to cultivate the taste for the

wines that cement friendships such as ours. Henceforth pour for us

only the Coan, Leucadian, and Thasian, and see that you select those

amphorae whose contents are toothless with age."

A rough laugh rolled up from the other table, and the voice of

Hannibal-the-Fighter broke out with:--

"It is well said, host. Truly I was wondering if we had been drinking

from the famous cellars of Capua. We washed our horses with better

wine in the north."

Stenius flushed. Then he smiled.

"And, Cappadox," he went on, in an unruffled voice, "do you send what

remains in my cellar of the vintages we have been drinking, to the

horse of my worthy guest."

At the giant's discourteous words, Hannibal himself had started from

the mood of thought in which he had seemed well-nigh buried. A quick

glance shot from his eye, and his brow furrowed. Then the courtly

answer of Stenius relieved the situation, and he turned to his host.

"You must pardon rough words to rough soldiers, my friend. We of

Carthage have had but slender chances to avail ourselves of Greek

culture and urbanity. We are mere merchants and warriors--not men of

letters or of social manners."

The hulking savage grew purple and trembled under the rebuke of his

chief. Twice he essayed to speak and then discreetly gulped down the

words, for Hannibal's face, though calm and courtly, showed a hardening

of its lines which meant much to those who knew him.

As for the Campanian, he raised his hands in voluble deprecation of the

apology.

Did _he_ not realize that but for soldiers and merchants, letters and

social manners would never have come into being? It was the privilege

of so brave a warrior as Hannibal-the-Fighter to say what he pleased,

and when and where. Ordinary rules were only for little men. Besides,

the best of Campanian wines were truly all too poor for heroes whose

souls were already attasted to the nectar of the gods.

The suppressed fury and shame of the offender melted away under the

balm of these honeyed words, and, laughing loudly but with some

constraint, he tossed off to his host a cup of the wine last brought.

And now Hannibal seemed to shake himself loose from the bonds of

silence and thought, though his conversation still showed the trend of

his mind. He turned to Calavius.

"Thirty thousand foot and four thousand horse form an excellent array,

and yet I should imagine that the second city in Italy could do even

better--in case of need."

The attention of hosts and guests became tense at once, though Marcia

could note that the motives were diverse.

Calavius seemed nervous and flustered.

"There was a time when that was undoubtedly so, my Lord," he said

hastily; "but, now, many of our young men have fallen in the wars, and

many are serving with the enemy, unable to escape and doubtless in

serious danger--"

"Three hundred horsemen," interrupted Hannibal, dryly, "and my spies

inform me that they are likely to continue serving Rome--by choice, as

would doubtless many of your well-born at home--like this fellow,

Magius," and his brow darkened ominously.

The Campanians moved uneasily on the couches.

"Magius is a traitor and will be dealt with in due season," said

Stenius. "It is friends and festivities first with us, and enemies and

punishments later."

"Yes, Magius shall be dealt with," echoed Hannibal; but the

acquiescence brought no relief to his hearers. Why should he feel it

necessary to supplement their assurance so significantly? Did not the

treaty between Carthage and Capua provide that Capuan laws and

magistrates should still govern all Capuans? Why should he speak so

markedly of their military power? Did not the treaty expressly state

that no Capuan was to be called upon for military duty except by his

own rulers?

Calavius had been signalling vigorously to his son, Perolla, who had

reclined silent and gloomy, but who now seemed about to speak.

Disregarding his father's warning, the young man broke in:--

"It is idle to deny that the Campanian horse serve willingly with Rome

and will continue so to serve. As for Decius Magius, there are many

good men here who hold with him, but who lack his boldness."

For an instant every one held his breath in terror of the coming

outburst, but those whose angry or frightened eyes first ventured to

glance toward the captain-general saw his face wreathed in smiles, and

his wine cup raised toward the daring speaker.

"Happiness to you, flower of Campanian youth! and know that there are

two things that Hannibal prizes most among men: a friend who was once

an enemy, and a friend who dares to speak the truth."

Calavius had recovered his composure during this speech.

"I would not have you imagine, my Lord," he began, "but that my son

speaks as he believes and in order that you may have full information;

yet, he is ill to-day in body and mind, and, even were it not so, I am

older than he and know more of men. That Decius Magius has

sympathizers, it is vain to deny; but that they are many or

influential, I, who know the Capuans, aver is not the case. As for our

horsemen, it is easy to see that their safety demands an apparent

friendship for Rome. It is not wise for three hundred to revile thirty

thousand."

Hannibal had continued to keep his gaze upon Perolla, scarcely

listening to his father's words. In the young man's face something of

surprise had mingled with his half-defiant, half-moody expression.

"I do not ask of you, my son," pursued the general, "that you whose

heart was but lately with our enemies, should love and trust us at

once. That were the part of a hypocrite, and I honour you, both for

the filial piety that threw down your preference before your father's

will, and for the slowness with which your heart follows your act.

Grant me but this: that you judge us fairly by our deeds, and if we

prove not better friends than Rome, return to them in peace and safety.

Meanwhile there is a horse with crimson mane and feet that shall be led

from my stable to yours in the morning. Ride him, and remember that

Hannibal honours courage, filial obedience, and truth--all in like

measure."

Subdued applause from both tables followed these words, but the face of

Perolla lost but little of its stubborn hostility. Hannibal turned

away, and Calavius and Ninius sought to cover by eager talking the

young man's ungracious reception of such signal favour. The faces of

the Carthaginians remained for the most part impassive; only their dark

eyes seemed to sparkle, either with wine or suppressed passion. Marcia

still felt that one pair was trying to look through her, and she was

conscious that Silenus, the Sicilian Greek, was making eager and

indecorous love to one of the women at the other table. Another of the

latter had just ventured on some light badinage with the chief guest,

in whose face smiles had chased away all the abstraction of the earlier

hours. He answered her as lightly, but with indifference, and turned

to Marcia.

"And what says our Roman beauty?" he asked. "She has come boldly and

far to see her enemies. Who knows but she has a boon to beg."

Again Marcia noted disturbance under Calavius' smile. He was wondering

at the general's knowledge. Then he realized that Mago's report must

be its basis, and his face cleared.

"Yes, truly, I _have_ a boon to ask," replied Marcia, fixing her great

eyes upon the bearded front, stern through its smiles. "It is that you

will spare one house in Italy from ravage and destruction."

"And where may this house be?" he asked in bantering tones. "We shall

leave many standing, but this one most surely of all."

"It is upon the brow of the Palatine Hill--" she began, and then a

burst of applause gave notice that the compliment had struck home. "It

is my father's," she concluded, blushing.

Calavius was in ecstasy over the graceful tact of his protégé. No

Capuan or Greek could have done better. Hannibal eyed her with a

curious expression, half admiring, half doubtful.

"I grant the boon--freely," he said. Then, fixing her with his gaze,

he went on, "And when will you claim it?"

"The son of Hamilcar knows best," replied Marcia, casting down her

eyes, and again she felt the approval of her host and his friends.

That Hannibal was pleased and flattered was evident, and yet there was

a certain reserve in his manner. Possibly he suspected that she wished

to provoke an announcement of his plans; perhaps an even deeper insight

led him near to a fuller conception of her purpose.

"Yes, it is truly for us to say," he said loudly, glancing around the

board; then, turning quickly to Marcia: "I understand that you

counselled delay until spring to my brother, Mago. Why?"

So frank a question, so different from all that had been told of the

more than Oriental craft of the Carthaginians, and one that went so

straight to the motive of her presence, threw Marcia into some

confusion. Calavius noticed it, and, fearing lest she might say

something to do away with the impression of her former tact, he came to

the rescue.

"Surely we shall not insult my Lord Bacchus by a council of war in his

presence?" but Hannibal waved his hand toward him and looked fixedly at

Marcia.

"Goddesses may speak on all subjects, at all times; and the gods smile."

"That my words," she began, with eyes still cast down, "were deemed

worthy to be borne to my Lord, is too much honour. That he should deem

them worthy of thought, is beyond the dream of mere woman." Then,

glancing up and smiling wistfully into his face, she went on: "Know,

that whatever of judgment born of knowledge of the place and the men

has come to me, a girl,--that and more is for the service of the great

general of Carthage,--the benignant liberator of Italy."

"Why do you advise delay?" asked Hannibal again, and the eyes of

Maharbal glittered, as he leaned over from the other table. "There are

those who say I have delayed too long already."

"For this," replied Marcia, boldly; "that you may save your soldiers

and your allies; that they may lie in rest and luxury, and that, ere

springtime, the cities of the Latin Name, yes, truly, and the very

rabble of Rome, shall come to you on their knees for leave to bear the

horseheads along the Sacred Way, up the Capitoline slope--"

"If in the spring, why not now?"

Maharbal and Hannibal-the-Fighter made a clucking sound of assent;

Hasdrubal and the other guests seemed indifferent, but the Capuans were

hanging on Marcia's words.

"Because the time is not ripe--" she began.

"Words!" cried her questioner, cutting off her speech; "I asked, _why_?"

Frightened at his vehemence, but put to it of necessity, she answered:--

"Because there are strifes and bickerings--at Rome--throughout the

Latin Name--that must soon bear fruit of civil strife. The nobles

grind and hold to their privileges; the commons serve and starve and

look to Carthage for aid. How shall these things grow better, while

you hold the garden of Italy--while the Greeks of the south and the

Samnites and the men of the soil gather behind you on one side, and the

Gauls and Etruscans muster in the north? The water is eating at the

mole; soon the waves will lash up and sweep it from its foundations."

Hannibal eyed her closely for a moment. Then he said: "There are those

at Rome and among the Latin Name who tell me otherwise. They are good

men, and they know. Perhaps I have been even too cautious. You are

young and beautiful. Hold fast to matters suited to youth and beauty,

and leave the conduct of wars and statecraft to men." Turning to

Stenius, he went on, "If this Leucadian wine of yours, my Stenius, were

let into the veins of those who lie dead at Cannae, they would be fit

to rise and do battle again."

Stenius bowed and smiled; Marcia grew red and then pale with shame and

vexation, seeing how her plots were like to fall and crush her; but, at

this moment, the voice of Hannibal-the-Fighter rose from the other

table. Flushed with wine, he was boasting of his slain. "Four at

Trebia," he cried out, "seven at Trasimenus, eighteen at Cannae--but

all men. It is better to slay the wolves' whelps, if only to teach

women that it is no longer wise to bring forth Romans. I--I who speak

have already killed eleven boys--ah! but you must wait till we enter

Rome. Then will be the day when they shall build new cities in Hades!"

The Carthaginians heard him with indifference; the Capuans, all save

Perolla, applauded nervously; and Marcia grew sick at heart and mad

with a rage that could almost have strangled the giant as he reclined.

"And now," began Ninius, mildly, when there was a moment's silence,

"that we may the better enjoy what is to come, there are baths and

attendants; and the red feather will make way for new feastings at the

end of two hours."

Slaves had run in to assist the diners from their couches; the Capuans,

with dreams of relief, refreshment, and re-repletion; the

Carthaginians, bored, but striving to be polite and to follow the

customs of their entertainers. Even Hannibal, while his smile was half

a frown, permitted himself to be led away.

Filled with disgust and despair, Marcia felt herself all unfit to begin

a new revel--one that was to be made possible by loathsome practices,

as yet unknown at Rome, and which bade fair to end in aimless and

hideous debauchery. The women were but warming to their part, when the

summons of Stenius Ninius had proclaimed a truce with Bacchus and

Venus--a truce with promise of more deadly battle to be joined. She

had seen glances hot with wine and lust, claspings of hands, loosened

cyclas, and more lascivious reclinings. The gloomy Perolla had yielded

a little to the soft influences, and even Hannibal seemed to force

himself to toying, if only in the name of courtesy; while, through it

all, and more and more as the light of day advanced, Marcia felt the

eyes of Iddilcar, priest of Melkarth, burning into her soul. He at

least gave no heed to nearer blandishments, and terror and loathing

filled her in equal measure.

A faintness--a sudden weakness born of her recent journey--served for

excuse, which Calavius seemed not unwilling to voice, and, surrounded

by a guard of slaves, her litter bore her back to his house, through

streets littered with drunken men and fluctuant with the figured robes

of courtesans.

VI.

ALLIES.

Night had come again, before Marcia could arouse herself from the deep

sleep with which exhaustion of mind and body had overwhelmed her. She

remembered the scenes of the banquet as the phantasms of a

dream--strange and terrible; for her thoughts were slow to gather the

threads and weave the woof. Only a feeling of failure, of fruitless

abasement, was ever present. Hannibal had admired her, but, proof

against any controlling attraction, he had put her words aside with

little short of contempt. A dread, even, lest the strange acumen of

this wonderful man had pierced her mask, and that her very motive and

mission were already suspected, was not lacking to add dismay to

discouragement. Such thoughts were but wretched company, and they

brought with them a vague conception of her own vain egotism in

imagining the possibility of other outcome. She tried to sleep again,

but could not. What mattered it though, by some shifting of hours, her

day had become night and her night day! She must arise and talk with

some one, if it were only the host whom she so heartily despised.

Attendants entered at her summons, and the refreshment of the bath and

the labour of the toilet were once more passed through. Then,

dismissing the slaves, she walked out alone into the garden and sat

down on a softly cushioned seat of carved marble. A fountain plashed

soothingly in the foliage near by, the stars were shining again, while,

from without, the jarring sounds of the city came to her ears.

How long she sat, awake yet thinking of nothing, dull and dazed, she

could not tell. Then she was aroused by a sandalled step upon the

pavement. A man was standing before her, whose face, despite its

youthful contours, was deep-lined and melancholy. He was short of

stature and slenderly though gracefully built, and his black curls

clustered over brow and eyes that seemed rather those of a poet or a

dreamer than of a man of action. In the sombre, dark blue garments of

mourning, without ornaments or jewels, so different from the gay

banqueting robes in which she had last seen him, Marcia gazed a moment,

before she recognized Perolla, the son of Pacuvius.

"You are not pretty to-night, Scylla," he said tauntingly, "though you

left us early. There are dark circles under the eyes that looked

kindly at the enemy of your country."

Marcia flushed crimson, and he went on: "Yes; I watched you smiling and

ogling, but it will take greater traitors than you to snare him. He is

like Minos, in that he did not reach out to take from your hands the

purple lock shorn from your father's head: he is not like him

otherwise: he is not just, and he will not give honourable terms."

"You, at least, are faithful to Rome?" said Marcia, slowly, and

ignoring his insults.

"Can you ask?" he answered; "is it that you wish to betray me? Well,

then, know truly that I have betrayed myself to your heart's content.

Do you not see the mourning garments I wear for my city's faithlessness

and for her coming ruin? Have you not heard how my father dragged me

from the side of Decius Magius in the market place that I might attend

the banquet?--ah! but you have not heard how I had planned to startle

them all."

Marcia began to wonder whether she was talking with a madman.

"Shall I tell?"

She made a sign of assent.

"It was toward evening--they have but just risen from the tables now.

Then, it was to seek the red feathers for the third time; but I led my

father back among the rose bushes and showed him a sword which I had

girt to my side, beneath my tunic. 'This,' said I, 'shall win us

pardon from Rome. Look you, when we return, I will plunge it into the

Carthaginian's breast.'"

Marcia bent forward eagerly.

"And then," he went on, "my father bound my arms to my sides, with his

own around me, and wept and talked of our recent pledges to these

foreigners. 'Can they outweigh our ancient pledges to Rome?' I

answered. So he pleaded how the attendants would surely cut me down,

and mentioned Hannibal's look, which he affirmed I would not be able to

confront; but I laughed and made little of these things. Then he spoke

of the hospitable board, which I admitted had something of reason; and,

finally, when he had declared that the sword must reach Hannibal only

through his own breast, then, at last, from filial duty, mark you, I

threw the weapon from me, telling him that he had betrayed his country

thrice: in revolting from Rome, in allying with foreigners, and, now,

in turning aside the instrument of escape. Then we returned to the

banquet, but my father trembled, and ate and drank no more. There,

now, is a story to tell your city's destroyer. If you betray me,

perhaps he may yet love you."

Marcia viewed him sternly.

"Truly your father was right, when he said you were ill in mind."

"Yes, ill in mind and in heart."

"How, then, do you not recognize one whose heart is sicker than your

own?"

Perolla looked at her inquiringly, and she went on:--

"You have a city that has been false to itself, and is in danger of

punishment--a father, too, if you will. _My_ city has already suffered

every evil but destruction: my brother and he to whom Juno was about to

lead me have been killed by these pulse-eaters. Are such things the

benefits that go to make friendship and love for the slayers? Say,

rather, hate and the craving for revenge."

"Yes," said Perolla, moodily; "they are indeed evils, but less than

mine, in that they are passed--"

"And is Rome safe, do you think?" she asked quickly.

"Rome will conquer," he said doggedly, "unless there be many more

traitors like you."

"Fool!" she cried, grasping his wrist. "Can you not see--you who claim

to be a philosopher and to have Greek blood?--you, at least, should

have understood my words."

He gazed at her vacantly, and she began to regret her vehemence. It

came to her mind that this was not altogether a safe man to trust with

her secret. Faithful he was, no doubt; but a fool might be even more

dangerous than a traitor. Still, she had said too much to be silent,

and she felt the need of some ally to whom she could talk--upon whom

she could at least pretend to lean when the weight of her burden was

heaviest.

"I have told you what I have lost--what I dread to lose. Now learn

what I am here to gain. For many days after the black news of Cannae,

I heard them talking in my father's house--talking of the advance of

the insolent victors and of the paltry defence we could oppose, the

certain destruction that awaited us. Still they were brave--old men

and boys. The soldiers were dead, but we set to work training

new--shaping them alike out of youth and age and bondmen; and the

slayers of our citizens delayed, and we gained strength and courage.

In every temple of the twelve gods it was the same prayer by day and

night: 'Grant us delay. Grant us that the winter may find him in the

south!' At last came the news that he was advancing to Capua, and

rumours of a Carthaginian party in the city. From Capua, seized with

all its engines of war, was but a few days to Rome. Then I took a

resolve and made a vow: tell me, am I beautiful?"

"Beautiful as Venus."

"Know, then, that I have dedicated this beauty to her, that she may

guard Rome and avenge me upon Rome's enemies."

He shook his head stupidly.

"Minerva does not favour me, lady," he replied; "for I do not

understand your words."

"Listen!" she went on, with the earnestness of desperation, "He shall

_love_ me--he or one who can sway him--and they shall play the laggards

here, until the winter gives us time--and time brings safety."

He understood her now, but still he shook his head.

"If you speak truth," he said slowly, "you speak foolishness as well.

Hannibal will love no mistress but Carthage, and there is no man living

who shall sway him by a hair's breadth. _Now_ I see why you spoke to

him of plots at Rome and of the wisdom of delay. Ah! a woman to make

game of _him_!" and he threw back his head and laughed. "Do you

imagine he has not divined your plot? Give him your beauty if you

will. He will take it, doubtless, if he have time, and march north

forthwith, after you have confessed your little plottings beneath the

hot tweezers. Only one thing shall stay him--steel,--and in the hands

of man--not blandishments in the mouth of a girl."

Marcia was in despair.

"And is there no help," she cried, "for me, a Roman woman, from you, a

friend of Rome? Surely we shall be stronger together, even if our

plots are different. Two plans are better than one."

Before he could frame his answer they heard footsteps coming toward

them, and then a man, enveloped in the brown cloak of a slave, pushed

aside the foliage and glided out into the moonlight. Perolla, wheeling

about, had half drawn his sword, while Marcia shrunk back into the

shadow.

"Put up your sword, my Perolla," said the newcomer, speaking in low

tones and throwing aside his mantle.

"Decius Magius, by all the gods!" cried the young man; "but why are you

disguised?"

"Because, my friend," said Magius, slowly "Capua is no longer free;

because spies of the Carthaginian and of our senate are watching my

house, making ready to seize me. Decius Magius can no longer walk in

his own city, clad in his own gown, and to-morrow, doubtless, he cannot

walk at all. Therefore I wish to speak with you, and I have put on

this disguise in order that I might gain your house unobserved, and

that your father might not die of fright, learning me to be here."

"But how did you enter? how find me?"

"I entered, my Perolla, because your porter, like every slave in Capua,

is drunk to-night, and because the boy whom he left to keep the gate

was only enough awake to mumble that you were in the garden."

Perolla frowned. Then, suddenly, he remembered Marcia, concerning whom

his suspicions were not yet entirely removed, and he raised his hand in

warning.

"There is a woman here--a Roman woman, who tells a strange story," he

whispered. "It is better to be discreet."

"The time for discretion is past for Decius Magius," said the other,

wearily. "Let him at least speak freely upon his last night of

freedom."

Marcia came forward.

"Is it permitted a Roman maid to honour a Campanian who is true to his

city's faith?"

"Assuredly, daughter," replied Magius, quietly. She could not see his

face except that it was stern and gray-bearded; but, kneeling down

beside him, she took his hand and poured out the story of her life, her

sorrow, her resolve, and its prosecution. Here, at least, was a man

upon whose faith and judgment she could rely, and his manner grew more

gentle as she made an end of speaking.

"So you doubted her truth, my Perolla," he said softly. "That is

because you have not felt her hand tremble, and because you are too

young and too much of a philosopher to judge of the honesty of a

woman's face. The same instinct that tells me, doubtless warned

Hannibal also that this was not a courtesan, much less an immodest

woman well born, and, least of all, a coward who would flee her city,

or a traitress who would betray it. You will know more of such things,

my Perolla, when you learn to study them less." Then, turning to

Marcia, he went on: "What you have designed, my daughter, is noble and

worthy of your race--and yet, while I commend, I am slow to encourage.

Are you strong to carry your sacrifice to the uttermost?"

Marcia shuddered.

"Yes, if there be need," she said, in a low voice; "I look to no

marriage now. Is not the Republic worthy of our best?"

"It is a hard thing," he said, doubtfully, "for a woman well born and

modest to belong to a man she hates."

"But it is easy to die, my father, as died Lucretia."

Decius Magius looked at her. Several times his lips moved as if about

to speak, and, once, he turned away sharply for a moment, as if to gaze

up into the night.

"Tell me, my father," she said earnestly, "do you give me no hope? Is

not my beauty worth the purchase of a few paltry months? And then

comes the winter, bringing safety."

Still Magius said nothing for several minutes, and when he spoke, it

was in harsh, quick tones.

"Yes, it is all possible, as you say it."

"Hannibal to surrender his plans for a woman?" cried Perolla,

scornfully. "Surely, my Decius, you jest. Do you not know him--that

only the gods can turn him from his purpose?"

Marcia had wheeled about with flashing eyes and faced the last speaker.

"You have shown me the way," she cried. "It is the gods who _shall_

delay him."

Perolla gazed at her in astonishment, as at one gone mad, but Magius

nodded and frowned.

"It is the best chance," he said slowly, "the only one."

"Still Minerva does not favour me," said Perolla, shaking his head; but

Marcia went on in a high, nervous voice and with a gayety that made the

older man draw his cloak up to his face in pity:--

"Come, my philosopher, you are indeed stupid to-night. If you did not

observe it at the house of the Ninii, you should have heard me just now

when I told the story of the banquet to my lord Decius. It is

Iddilcar, the priest of Melkarth, who shall bring his god to be my

ally--Rome's ally: Iddilcar, who could not so much as take his eyes

from me, through all their feasting. There is the man who will prefer

my beauty, even to his god's favour; and surely your Hannibal will not

wage war against the auspices."

The face of Magius was still shaded by his cloak, and he said nothing;

but over the features of the younger man came strange expressions:

first amazement, then horror, then a look which had something of horror

but more of yearning. He held out his hands in supplication.

"No--no," he cried. "You shall not do it. You are too beautiful.

First I hated you, when I dreamed you to be but a courtesan traitress.

Now--now--O gods favour me! Listen! you shall not do it. It is I who

will kill him--yes, and you also first," and, turning suddenly away, he

staggered. Then, as Magius raised his hand to support him, he shook

himself free and ran furiously into the house.

Marcia turned to Magius in astonishment, and he smiled sadly.

"Even philosophers are not proof," he said; "and you are very

beautiful--and he is young--and half a Greek." She blushed, and the

grim senator took her hand. "May the gods grant, my daughter, that

your sacrifice be not for nothing. You have spoken wisdom; but he--he

is a madman. As for me, I am as one who is dead. Farewell."

He dropped her hand, and she felt, rather than heard or saw him go;

only her voice would not obey her when she strove to detain him, if but

for a moment: the only man in Capua whom she could honour--upon whom

she could rely. Surely he would not desert her thus?--yes, truly, he

was _gone_.

Then she ran several steps in the direction he had taken, and called,

though she dared not call his name, until a female attendant came

hurrying to answer her.

"My lord, Perolla," said the girl, "had but just rushed out into the

street, as if possessed of a daimon. As for a strange slave, she had

observed no one; but if such there was, doubtless he had slipped by the

porter's boy--who was worthless."

Marcia groped her way to her sleeping apartment, harshly brushing aside

an offer of aid. Once alone, she threw herself down upon the couch and

burst into a torrent of moans and sobs.

The girl, who had followed hesitatingly, listened in the hallway,

nodding her head with conscious satisfaction. "And so the Roman women

loved, for all they were said to be so grand and stern. What a fool

this one was, though, to prefer the son to the father, who was much

richer, and who, being old, would doubtless realize the necessity of

being more generous."

And she went back to the slaves' apartments, laughing softly to herself.

VII.

"FREEDOM."