CONSULTATION.
The next morning the Count invited the Imperial messenger to a private
conference. His daughter and Carna were present, as was also Claudian.
“You have the latest news,” the Count began. “Pray let us have them. Here
we know nothing. But tell us first how you got here. It was noticed that
you did not hoist the standard till you were within the Haven. You did
not, I suppose, think it a safe flag to sail under.”
“Well,” replied the messenger, “I thought it better to have no flag at
all. But, to tell the truth, the Labarum is not just now exactly the best
passport in the world.”
“You crossed from Gaul, I suppose?” the Count went on. “How are matters
there?”
“Constantine, with the legions he brought from here, and those that have
joined him since, is pretty well master of the country, and of Spain too.”
“And what is the Emperor doing? Did he let these provinces go without a
struggle? Spain was the first province that Rome ever had, and Gaul was
the second. None, I take it, have been so steadily profitable, and now we
are to lose them.”
He rose from his seat, and walked up and down the room in an agitation
which he could not conceal.
“And the only man who could keep the Empire together is gone; butchered,
as if he were a criminal!”
The messenger said nothing to this outburst. He went on, “I believe his
Majesty proposes to admit Constantine to a share of the Imperial honours,
to make him Cæsar of Gaul and Spain.”
“What!” said the Count. “Do not my ears deceive me? This fellow, whom I
have seen wearing the collar for the neglect of duty, recognized as his
colleague by Augustus!”(59)
“I do not pretend to know his Majesty’s purposes, I can only say what is
reported at head-quarters, and, it would seem, on good authority. But,”
continued the speaker, in a voice from which he had studiously banished
all kind of emphasis, and looking as he spoke at the ceiling of the room,
“your lordship is aware that the honours thus unexpectedly bestowed do not
always turn out to the advantage of those who receive them.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Count.
“I mean that what is given may be taken away—and taken away with very
handsome interest for the loan—when the proper time comes. Your lordship
has not forgotten the name of Carausius.”(60)
“Well,” said the Count, “this is not the old way Rome had of dealing with
her enemies. But, ‘other times, other manners.’ Tell me now, if the
Augustus has arranged or is going to arrange with Constantine, what about
Alaric?”
“Oh! he will be quiet for a time, or should be, if there is any truth in a
barbarian’s oath. You have heard how he marched on Rome?”
“No, indeed,” replied the Count. “I have heard nothing here, except, quite
early in the year, a vague rumour that he was on the move again. But tell
me—has Augustus given _him_, too, a share in the Empire?”
“Not exactly; but I will tell what has taken place. He marched on Rome.”
“Yes,” interjected the Count, “and there was no Stilicho to save it!”
“The city was almost helpless. Even the walls had not been kept in repair,
and if they had, there was no proper force to man them. The only thing
possible was to make peace on the best terms that they could. I happened
to be in Alaric’s camp with a letter, under a flag of truce, the very day
that the ambassadors came out to treat with the king, and I saw the whole
affair. I don’t mind saying that it was not one to make a man feel proud
of being a Roman. The barbarians, it seemed to me, had not only all the
strength on their side, but the dignity also. Alaric himself is a splendid
specimen of humanity, every inch a king, the tallest and handsomest man in
his army, and that, too, an army of giants. It was a contrast, I can tell
you, between him and the two miserable, pettifogging creatures that
represented the Senate. At first they tried what a little brag could do.
‘Give us an honourable peace,’ said their spokesman, ‘or you will repent
of having driven to despair a nation of warriors, a nation that has
conquered the world.’ The king laughed; he knew what the Romans have come
to. ‘The thicker the hay,’ he said, ‘the easier to mow.’ And then he fixed
the ransom that he would take for retiring from before the walls. Brennus
throwing his sword into the scales was moderation in comparison to him.
‘Give me,’ he said, ‘all the gold and silver, coined or uncoined, private
property or public that you have, and all the other property that the
envoys whom I shall send think worth taking; and hand over to me all the
slaves that you have of the nations of the North, Goths, or Huns, or
Vandals. You are pleased to call them barbarians, but they are more fit to
be masters than you; and I will not suffer them to be in a bondage so
unworthy. Your Greeks, and Africans, and Asiatics, and such like cattle
you may keep.’ The ambassadors were pale with dismay. If they had taken
back such an answer, the Romans had at least enough spirit left to tear
them in pieces. ‘What do you leave us, then?’ they said. ‘Your lives!’ he
thundered out. In the end, however, he softened somewhat. Five thousand
pounds of gold and thirty thousand pounds of silver, and I don’t know how
much silk, and cloth, and spices, were what he finally asked. I know the
city was stripped pretty bare before the Senate could make up the sum. I
am told that the treasuries of the churches had to be emptied. Well, as I
said, Alaric, if he keeps his bargain, ought to be quiet for a time, but
you will see that the Emperor has need of all his friends round him, and
all the strength which he can bring together. That is what I have to say
by way of explanation of the despatch that I brought.”
“May I ask you to leave us for a while?” said the Count to the young
Italian.
When he had left the room the Count turned to his daughter, and said—
“And this is our country! This is Rome! The Emperor, forsooth, has need of
all his friends. His friends indeed! I little thought that the day would
come when I should feel ashamed of the title. But tell me, daughter; what
shall we do? Shall we go?”
“What else can we do?” asked the girl.
“I have thought much about the matter since I heard the dreadful news of
Stilicho’s death, and have had all kinds of wild schemes in my head. I
have felt that I could not go back and touch in friendship the hands that
murdered him. Sometimes I thought, while Cedric was here, that we would
take him with us, and sail eastward. I have had many a hard fight with
these Saxons, but at least they are men, and brave men, too, who are true
to their friends, if they hate their enemies. But that is now at an end.
But is there no other way to go? What say you, Claudian—have you any
counsel to give us?”
“I would not advise you to sail eastward,” said the poet. “We know pretty
well what lies that way; tribes of barbarians, of whom the less we see the
better, with all respect to your friend Cedric, who seems to have been a
fine fellow. But why not westward? You will laugh at me for believing in
the Islands of the Blest. Well, I do not mean to say that there is a
country where Achilles and the rest of the heroes are living in immortal
joy and peace. If there is, it is not one which any ship, built by the art
of man, can reach. But I do believe that there is a country. These old
tales, depend upon it, have something more in them than mere fancy. Why,
my lord, should not you be the one to find it?”
“Yes, let us go, dear father,” said Ælia, “and leave this dreadful world
with all its troubles and quarrels behind us. Don’t you think so, Carna?”
Carna only smiled sadly.
“Or,” continued the poet, “there is the land beyond the north, the country
of the blessed Hyperboreans, that old Herodotus talks about. Why should we
not go there? Or, if that sounds too wild, there is Africa, with regions
rich and fertile beyond all doubt that are waiting to be explored. These
at least are no matter of legend. We know where they are. Let us search
for them. Whatever world we may find, it can hardly be worse than that
which we are leaving behind.”
“And what says Carna?” said the Count, turning, with an affectionate look,
to his adopted daughter.
The girl thus appealed to flushed painfully. For a moment she seemed about
to speak, but not a syllable passed her lips.
“Speak,” cried the Count; “you always see clearer and farther than the
rest of us.”
“My father,” the girl went on, “I will speak from my heart, as I know you
always wish me to do. Forgive me if I seem to teach when it is my part to
learn and to obey. But, if you ask what I think you should do, I say, ‘Go
home to Rome or Ravenna, or wherever else the Emperor bids you.’ After
all, it is your country, and it never needed the help of good and brave
men more than it does now.”
“By heaven! Claudian,” cried the Count, after a brief silence, “the girl
is right, as she always is. These are not the times for an honest man to
turn his back upon his country. If I could reach the Islands of the Blest,
or the happy people who live beyond the north, as easily as I can walk
across this room, I would not do it; and after all, what is the world
without Rome to a Roman? What say you, Claudian?”
“I am but a poor singer, who has lost all that made him sing. I could do
little in any case, and I doubt whether those who killed Stilicho will
have anything but the axe for Stilicho’s friend. Still, I go with you. It
is not for a Roman to say that Rome is unworthy.”
“So that is settled,” exclaimed the Count.
“Oh, Carna,” cried Ælia, throwing her arms round her sister, “shall we
ever be as happy again as we have been in this dear place?”
Carna clung to her, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
“Does it trouble you so much to go?” asked the Count. “Surely the place is
not so much to you. You can be happy, wherever you may be, with those you
love.”
The girl lifted up a tear-stained face to him.
“Father,” she said—“more than father, for you have loved me without any
tie of kindred—I cannot go, my home is here.”
“Nay, child, what are you saying? Your home has been with us ever since
you were a babe in arms, and it is so still; or,” he added, with a smile,
“are you going to leave us for a husband?”
The girl blushed crimson as she shook her head. When she could recover her
speech, choked, as it was, with sobs, she said—
“You asked me just now what you should do, and I said ‘Go home to your
country.’ Can I do less myself? Rome is your country, and Britain is mine.
And oh, if Rome wants all her sons and daughters, how much more does this
poor Britain!”
“But where will you live?” broke in the Count’s daughter; “Where will you
be safe? Think of the dreadful things you have gone through within the
last few months! How can you bear to face them with your friends gone?
And, dearest Carna,” she went on, as she clasped her still closer, “how
can I live without you?”
“My dearest sister,” sobbed the girl, “don’t make it harder than it is. It
breaks my heart to part from you, but I cannot doubt what my duty is. And
I am not without hope. There are brave men here, and men who love their
country, and I cannot but trust that they will be able to do something. Of
course, we shall stumble, for we have not been used to go alone, but I do
hope that we shall not fall altogether.”
“But, Carna, what can you do?” said Ælia. “You seem to be sacrificing
yourself for nothing.”
“Not for nothing; it is something if I can only sit at home and pray. But
it must be at home that I must pray. God would not hear me if I were to
put myself in some safe, comfortable place, and then pretend to care for
the poor people whom I had left behind.”
She hurried from the room when she had said this, as if she could not
trust herself against persuasions that touched her heart so nearly.
“Carna is right,” said the Count, when she had gone, “but I feel as if she
were going to her death.”