CHAPTER VII._Attila: A Romance. Vol. I.

THE DEPARTURE.

It was a long and dreary pause; but at length the stern and virtuous

soldier, who, ere many more years had passed, seated himself without

crime or bloodshed in the chair of the C[ae]sars, laid his hand upon

the arm of Theodore, with a firm but kindly pressure which spoke at

once to a heart full of high feelings and of noble energies, and

roused it from the dull stupor of sudden grief.

"Oh! Marcian," exclaimed the youth, "this is an unexpected stroke! So

short a while since I saw him depart full of vigour, and life, and

happiness. So short, so common a journey--so easy--so safe! How, tell

me how this has befallen? Was it by sickness, or accident, or war with

some rebel, or in the chase of some wild beast?"

"Alas, no!" replied Marcian; "it was by none of these, my son. Nor

would I wound your young heart afresh by telling how it did take

place, were it not absolutely necessary for you to know your father's

fate, in order that you may gain an augury or a warning of your own,

and timely prevent it."

"The emperor," cried Flavia, "the emperor has destroyed his faithful

friend: Paulinus saw it before he went. Every line of his last letter

breathes the anticipation of his coming fate. He saw it in the gloomy

brow of Theodosius; he saw it in the smile of Chrysapheus; he felt

that he was going, never to return. Say, tribune, say! was it not the

emperor's deed?"

"Even so!" replied Marcian. "By the order of him whom he had served

with unequalled fidelity and truth--the friend of his schoolboy hours,

the companion of his high and noble studies--by the hands of those he

thought his friends--hands that had been plighted to him in affection,

and raised with his in battle--at his own social board, and in the

hour of confiding tranquillity--was slain Paulinus, leaving not a

nobler or a better behind."

Theodore again shed tears, but Flavia asked eagerly, "The cause,

tribune! What was the cause--or rather, what the pretext for

cause--reasonable cause there could be none for dooming to death one

of the purest, noblest, least ambitious men that the world has ever

yet seen."

"The cause was jealousy, lady," replied Marcian; "a cause that leads

men ever to wild and madlike actions. In the gardens of the C[ae]sars,

near their eastern capital, is a solitary tree, which bears fruit

rarely; but when it does, produces an apple like that which hung in

the garden of the children of Hesperus--small in size, golden in

colour, and ambrosial to the taste. Paulinus had bestowed on Eudoxia a

book, containing poems of Sappho, which no other manuscript can

produce; and the empress, in return, had sportively promised her

husband's friend the rarest thing that she could find to bestow. The

tree of which I spoke had in the past autumn produced but one apple,

and that was sent, on the entrance of the new year, by Theodosius to

Eudoxia. She, in thoughtless innocence, sent it as the rarest of all

things to Paulinus, and Chrysapheus took good heed that the fact

should reach the emperor's ears, distorted to his purpose. Fury seized

upon the heart of Theodosius; but the base eunuch had sufficient skill

and power to make him conceal his suspicions and his hatred, for

Chrysapheus well knew that an open accusation might produce a bold and

successful defence. Paulinus was sent to C[ae]sarea; and there,

unheard, without trial, and without justice, was put to death!"

"Tyrant!" muttered Theodore. "Base, ungrateful tyrant!"

"Let your indignation swallow up your grief, my Theodore!" replied

Marcian; "but let it not injure your country. Great as it is, great as

it well may be, still greater will it become when you hear that

Valens, your father's bosom friend, has been since sacrificed for no

other crime than his love for Paulinus; that several of your household

slaves have been slain by the emperor's orders; and that all the

wealth of Paulinus has been bestowed upon Chrysapheus!"

Theodore again started up, exclaiming--"I swear by all my hopes, and

by my father's spirit--"

But Marcian caught his arm. "Swear nothing against your country, my

son," he cried: "Theodore, we have need of every Roman!"

"Hear me! hear me!" cried Theodore. "Naught against my country. No,

never, let the temptation be what it may, will I draw the sword

against Rome. So help me the God in whom I trust! But should ever the

time come when this hand can reach a tyrant, or a tyrant's minister,

it shall doom him to death as remorselessly as he has doomed my noble

father;" and having spoken, he cast himself down, and again covered

his face in his mantle.

Never, perhaps, through all the long tragic record of human woes and

suffering which the past, the sad and solemn past, holds in its

melancholy treasury--never was there yet a scene in which the dark

feeling of desolation penetrated more deeply into every bosom, than in

the one which surrounded the tribune Marcian. The horrors, the

fatigues, the destruction of the preceding night, had laid every heart

prostrate in the general calamity; and when the blow of individual

grief fell heavy upon all alike, it seemed to crush and trample out in

every breast the last warm kindly hopes--the last bright delusions of

our phantasm-like existence.

Flavia gazed on her children and on the orphans in deep melancholy;

while Theodore, with his face buried in his robe, sat apart, and

Eudochia hid her streaming eyes upon her adoptive mother's lap.

Ildica, with clasped hands, and cheeks down which the large bright

tears rolled slow, now gazed upon her young and mourning lover; now

turned an inquiring, anxious, longing glance towards Marcian; who, on

his part, again, with knitted brow and downcast eyes, sat in the

midst, stifling emotions which struggled hard against control. Even

the slaves of Flavia and Paulinus, among whom the news had spread,

gathered round the open tent, and, standing wrapped up in their dark

penul[ae], gazed with mournful and sympathizing looks upon the sad

group beneath its shade; while, mingled among them, here and there,

were seen some of the stout soldiers who had accompanied the tribune,

evidently sharing, notwithstanding all their own habits of danger and

suffering, and their frequent familiarity with death itself, in the

grief of the young and hapless beings before them.

One only of the party seemed occupied with other thoughts, and yet the

seeming belied him. Ammian, reclining by the side of the little sandy

path which crossed the meadow where they sat, seemed busy, in his

usual abstracted manner, in tracing figures on the dust. One of the

soldiers moved across to see what he was employed in, and by that

action drew the attention of Marcian, whose eyes turned thither too;

when, to his surprise, he beheld written in the Greek character upon

the sand--

"Death to all tyrants! The blood of the guilty for the blood of the

innocent! Vengeance for Paulinus!"

Rising at once, he set his foot upon the writing ere the slower

soldier could decipher what it meant; and then, raising his finger to

Ammian, he said, with emphasis, "Beware!"

The boy looked up in his face, and answered calmly, "I will beware,

most noble Marcian!" But there was meaning in his eyes, and Marcian

chose not to urge his wild and daring spirit further.

Seating himself again by Flavia's side, the tribune, with the calm

gentleness of a compassionate heart, endeavoured to sooth the pain

which it had been his bitter task to inflict; and when he had, in a

degree, succeeded in gaining attention, he gave some orders to the

soldiers, and spoke some words to the slaves, which caused them to

retire from the vicinity of the tent.

"Listen to me, Theodore," he said; "listen to me, noble lady! Grief

has had its part; other duties call for your consideration. I would

fain ask you, sweet Flavia, whither you now propose to turn your

steps; what plan you now propose to follow?"

"We proposed," replied Flavia, after a moment's hesitation, "to go

forward to Salona; there to wait, if we could find a refuge, till the

palace was again rendered habitable, or till we could send those

things which may be necessary to our own villa upon the mountains. I

have not dwelt in it since my husband's death, but if it be necessary

I can conquer memory."

"To Salona!" replied Marcian, musing; "to Salona! It is true, you

could easily fly thence in case of necessity to Ravenna; but

Valentinian, if report has informed me rightly, loves you not, and

might avenge himself by giving you up to Theodosius!"

Flavia gazed earnestly in the tribune's countenance, as the new and

painful conviction of fresh dangers broke upon her. "More sorrows!"

she said, "more, more, to be endured! Think you, then, noble Marcian,

that we are in danger at Salona? Think you, then, that Theodosius will

extend his persecution even to us, innocent as we are?"

"He has already slain one as innocent as any of us, lady," replied the

tribune, "and he has given up to the sword one friend and many of the

slaves of him who is gone. Do you believe, then, that he will spare

the cousin of one whom he hated--a cousin who was loved as a sister?

Can you trust to his stopping short with the father, and not carrying

on his vengeance to the son?"

"Oh that I were in his palace!" cried Theodore: "oh that I were in his

hall, and before his throne!"

But Flavia answered more calmly: "Tell us all our danger, tribune.

Give your kind and generous advice. You are known as wise and good, as

well as brave and skilful. We will give our actions into your hands

for guidance. You shall shape our course as you think fit."

"Lady," replied Marcian in a tone which, notwithstanding all his

command over himself, showed how much his heart was moved,--"lady, I

loved Paulinus as a brother. He was wise and eloquent, learned and

brave, and I am but the son of a common soldier, nurtured in camps,

and educated in the rude field. Yet between my heart and his there

were common feelings; and in the course of our various lives we

chained our souls together by mutual benefits: may his shade find

Elysium! When I heard of what had befallen, my first thought was of my

friend's children. My cohort was in Dalmatia, my time of command

approaching; and though I had been called to the capital by the

imperial mandate, I prepared to come hither with all speed. While I so

prepared, I heard of the death of Valens and his slaves, and doubted

not that the cup might next pass to me. I presented myself before the

emperor to know at once my doom; but he contented himself with

commanding me to come hither, and lead the troops instantly into

Thrace. Another cohort under the command of Strator, the bitter enemy

of Paulinus, is ordered hither instantly to regulate--such is the

pretext--the line of frontier with the messengers of Valentinian.

Lady, I fear me there may be other purposes to execute; and I have

hastened, without pause or rest, to bring you tidings which, sad as

they are, might have been crowned with bitterer still if I had not

been the messenger--to bring you such tidings, and to take counsel

with you for your safety. My opinion, indeed, my advice, is little

worthy of your having; but still, let us consult together, and--as far

as my duty as a soldier and a Roman will permit--let me be a brother

to the Lady Flavia, a father to my dead friend's orphans."

"Your advice will be as wise as your heart is kind," replied Flavia.

"Oh give it us, my friend! give it to us fully and openly. We will be

guided by it, unless there be reasons against it, which even you

yourself shall approve. If safety be not to be found in Illyricum,

whither would you have us go?

"To the extreme limits of the empire!" replied Marcian. "What matters

it to you what the land be called which you inhabit for a few short

years? what matters it if the north wind blow somewhat more coldly

than in this golden land? if winter wear a ruder aspect, and the

flowers and fruits linger for the summer sun ere they bloom and

ripen?"

"What matters it, indeed!" said Flavia. "We love this scene,

tribune--well and dearly do we love this glorious scene--but we love

it more from the tender memories that have been attached to it, than

even for its sunny splendour and its face of beauty. But now the

thunder which has stricken us has turned the sweet and fruity wine

which filled our cup to sour and hateful dregs. Another land will be

brighter in our sight. Freedom from a tyrant's neighbourhood shall

supply the place of beauties that we leave behind; the absence of

objects that recall our griefs shall compensate for those that once

awoke our joys; peace shall be our atmosphere of balm, security our

sunshine. What say you, Theodore?

"Let us go, my mother," replied the youth: "where you and Ildica,

Ammian and Eudochia, are with me, shall be my country. The tyrant has

smitten down one object of my love, but he is powerless over my

capability of loving: that which was parted is now all concentrated.

You will go with me, my Ildica, is it not so? and my father's

blessing--the blessing of the dead--shall follow, and comfort us in

exile. But whither would you direct our course, noble Marcian?"

"Towards the banks of the Danube," he replied. "There, at the extreme

verge of the imperial territory, the power of Theodosius waxes weak,

and is exercised with difficulty. There, too, if mad and persevering

jealousy drive him still to seek your hurt, ten steps place you beyond

his reach, where the feeble and degenerate C[ae]sar dare not stretch a

hand to grasp you: your father's brother dwells at Margus, bishop of

the place."

Theodore's countenance fell. "He was indeed the brother of my father's

blood," he answered, "but was never the brother of his love. Grasping,

avaricious, crafty, I have heard my father say that Eugenius has the

talents, but not the virtues, of a Roman."

"Yet with him," replied Marcian, "are you sure of a safer asylum than

with any one else. Even at this moment he is at enmity with the court

of Theodosius, and bears a mortal hatred to Chrysapheus, who had

wronged him, abandoned him, and, notwithstanding the pleading of your

father in his behalf, would have willingly given him up to the

barbarians. With him you will find safety, I must not say you will

find vengeance--but it may be so."

"Let us go!" cried Theodore; "let us go, my mother! The gold and

jewels which, unwitting of all this, I made the Numidians carry forth

last night, will render the journey lighter to you, dear mother; and

if my uncle, careful of his wealth, refuse to give me support, I will

find means to win it for myself."

"Fear not for that," replied Marcian; "your father's wealth, Theodore,

is gone, but his estates are yours; and even Theodosius dares not

openly take from you that which no law has sentenced you to lose.

Strange that he who unquestioned takes a life unjustly should not have

power to seize your land, and yet it is so. Now, lady, let me send

once more to the palace, and bid them bring forth all that your

treasury contains. Take with you all your moveable wealth; for if you

do not so guard yourself, it will fall into hands which render no

account. I will bid them, too, bring forth whatever litters and

carriages they find, to bear you less weary on the way; and ere two

days be over, I will follow, and rejoining you, protect you from harm,

till, on the frontiers of M[oe]sia, I must leave you and march on. At

all events, my presence and my troops will ensure your safety so far;

and even after that, I shall be interposed between you and your

enemies, so that no messenger of evil can pass without my learning his

purpose, delaying his journey, and giving you timely tidings. Speed,

however, matters much, and now I would have you set forth without a

day's delay."

Flavia sought not to procrastinate; for though many a clinging memory

attached her to those scenes by the fine filmy ties of associations,

which even the sharp edge of grief could not cut, yet the safety of

Theodore, the happiness of her own child, the enfranchisement from a

state of society, where virtue was no safeguard and justice afforded

no shield, were objects too dear and high to be risked by delay. Few

and melancholy were the words that now passed, but the orders of

Marcian were promptly obeyed; and though he would suffer neither

Flavia nor Theodore to return, even for an hour, to the palace,

knowing far more of the cruel orders which Theodosius had already

given against them than he chose to communicate, yet a number of their

domestics were sent thither with his soldiers to remove all that

belonged to either family in the building.

Ere the sun had passed the meridian more than an hour, all who had

been sent had returned, and many and curious were the objects which

now surrounded that sad group by the side of the cemetery. A number of

mules and horses were there; the black charger which had carried

Paulinus in his last victory over the Alani, and which had never been

ridden since by any one but himself; the white horses which drew the

low carriage called _pilentum_, wherein Flavia was accustomed to drive

along the margin of the sea; litters with their silver feet, and

covered chairs of gold and ivory; rich caskets; leathern bags of gold

and silver coin; and large quantities of silks and fine linens (then

become general, but still considered costly,) made up into packages of

convenient sizes for carrying on the shoulders of the slaves, or

placing on the beasts of burden, together with cups and vases of gold,

silver, and precious stones; and slaves of all complexions and of

every different feature. Everything, in short, which was usually

collected in a wealthy and powerful Roman house, at that luxurious and

extravagant period, was there scattered round in glittering profusion,

giving that group the appearance of some caravan from Ophir or from

Tyre reposing on its journey. Some confusion and some delay took

place, though everything was arranged as quickly as possible, while

Flavia looked on in calm sadness, and Theodore gazed upon the scene

with burning indignation unquenched by grief, making his lip still

quiver and his bright eye flash.

At length all was prepared, and, with a few words of heartfelt thanks

to Marcian, the lady placed herself with Ildica in one of the

_lectul[ae]_ or litters, Eudochia and her chief attendant reclined in

another. Ammian sprang upon a small Thracian horse, and Theodore

mounted his father's charger. The noble beast, wild with unwearied

strength, reared high and snorted fiercely, as he felt the light

weight of the young Roman; but Theodore with skill and power soon

curbed him to his will, and patted his proud neck, while a tear, given

to the memory of him who was gone, wetted his eyelids. The whole party

then moved on, winding back again along the path which they had

trodden that very morning.

Their way lay over the hills, and for an hour they moved on, ascending

gently, but without stopping, till at length, on the highest spot of

the inferior acclivity, which lies at the foot of the higher

mountains, Flavia bade the bearers stop, and gazed out of the litter

upon the scene which she was quitting perhaps for ever. There it lay,

robed in the same splendid sunshine which had adorned it on the

preceding day. To the eyes which looked upon it not a change was to be

seen. The palace, the village, the distant town of Salona, the

beautiful bay, the golden islands which are scattered along the coast,

the liquid sapphire in which they seemed to float, were all sleeping

beneath the wanderers' glance in the drowsy heat of midday, looking

calm and tranquil, as if nature herself imitated the hypocrisy of man,

and covered with deceitful smiles the desolation which reigned within

her bosom. The measured round of the sun had scarcely been

accomplished, since those who now stood upon the hill-top, fugitives

from their dear domestic hearths, had met together after separation,

and had gazed over that same lovely prospect from the clump of

cypresses which now lay beneath their eyes. Scarcely had one round of

the sun been accomplished since, standing there, they had gazed upon

that pageant-like scene of beauty, and had felt all its fair features

reflected from the clear bright mirror of the happy heart. Scarcely

had one round been accomplished since every splendid object that the

eye could find, and every sweet sound that the ear could catch, in a

spot, and a moment when all was music and brightness, had seemed but

an image, a type, a prophecy of joys, and happiness, and successes yet

to come; and yet in that brief space an earthquake had rent and torn

that enchanted land, and had scattered ruin, desolation, and death

over its fair calm face: in that brief space, from the bosoms of those

who gazed upon it had been torn the bright joys of youth and

inexperience; had been scattered the dear hopes and warm imaginings of

innocent expectation; had been riven one of the dearest ties of human

existence, the great band of the loving and the loved; for not one in

that sad family but felt that the unjust fate of Paulinus had given a

chilly coldness to their hearts--no, not one from the youngest to the

oldest. The young felt that the fresh bloom was gone for ever from the

Hesperian fruit; the elder that the cropped flower of hope, which had

again been beginning to blossom, had been once more crushed down, and

never could bloom again.

Between their fate and the scene they gazed upon there seemed some

fanciful affinity; each felt it, each lingered with fond regret to

gather into one glance all the thousand lovely and beloved sights;

each sighed as they gazed and thought of the "_For ever!_" and at

length, even from Flavia's eyes, broke forth the long-repressed tears.

The slaves stood round and sympathized with those who mourned. Many a

dark eye and many a rough cheek was moistened with the drops of kindly

feeling, till at length the lady wiped her tears away, and, waving her

hand towards the valleys on the other side, said, "Let us go on!"

Again they began to move, when the voices of two slaves broke forth in

a mournful song, which they had probably often sung in their own

remote land.

SLAVE'S SONG.

"We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth;

Our life's but a race to the death from the birth;

We pause not to gather the flowers as they grow,

The goal is before us, and on we must go!