After the removal of the three dukes, Amalaswintha had maintained an
expectant attitude. Although by the fall of the heads of the
aristocratic opposition she had obtained some freedom of action, yet
the National Assembly at Regeta, near Rome, was soon to be held, when
she must either completely exculpate herself from all suspicion of
murder, or lose her crown, and perhaps her life. Only until the
assembly had taken place did Witichis and his adherents promise her
their protection. She therefore made every effort to strengthen her
position before the decisive moment arrived. She hoped nothing more
from Cethegus; she had seen through his selfish motives.
But she hoped that the Italians and the conspirators of the Catacombs,
at the head of whose members her own name figured, would prefer her
rule, so friendly to the Romans, to that of a king who belonged to the
Gothic national party. She ardently longed for the arrival of the
body-guard from the Emperor, which would protect her in the first
moment of danger; and she was zealously employed in increasing the
number of her friends amongst the Goths themselves. She invited many of
her father's old followers--zealous adherents of the Amelungs, grey old
warriors of great influence with the people, brothers-at-arms and
almost play-fellows of old Hildebrand--to return to Ravenna;
particularly the white-bearded Grippa, Theodoric's cupbearer, whose
fame was scarcely less influential than that of the old master-at-arms.
She overwhelmed him and his comrades with honours, confided the castle
of Ravenna to their care, and made them swear to keep faith with the
Amelung family. As this connection with popular names was to form a
sort of counterbalance to the influence of Witichis, Hildebrand and
their friends--and Witichis could not justly prevent her from
distinguishing the old friends of Theodoric with honours--so the Queen
also looked about for aid against the family of the Balthes and their
revenge. With sharp discernment she perceived that this could best be
procured from the Woelfungs, whose family possessed great influence and
riches in central Italy. At that time the heads of this family were two
brothers, Duke Guntharis and Earl Arahad.
To win their alliance she had thought of a peculiarly effective means.
For the friendship of the Woelfungs she would offer no less a price than
the hand of her beautiful daughter.
In a richly decorated room at Ravenna the mother and daughter were
engaged in an earnest but not amicable conversation on this subject.
The Queen was measuring the narrow apartment with hasty steps; all her
usual repose of manner gone. She frequently threw an angry look at the
beautiful girl, who, leaning against a marble table, stood quietly
before her with downcast eyelids.
"Reflect well," cried Amalaswintha angrily, and suddenly standing
still, "reflect once more! I give you three days' time."
"It is in vain. I shall always speak as I have done to-day," said
Mataswintha without raising her eyes.
"Then tell me, what have you to say against Earl Arahad?"
"Nothing, except that I cannot love him."
The Queen did not seem to hear her.
"This is quite a different case from the other, when we would have had
you marry Cyprianus," she said. "He was old and--which perhaps in your
eyes was a greater disadvantage," she added bitterly--"a Roman."
"And yet I was banished to Tarentum because I refused him."
"I hoped that severity would have induced you to change your mind. For
months I kept you away from my court, from my motherly heart." A bitter
smile curled Mataswintha's lovely mouth. "In vain," continued the
Queen. "I now call you back----"
"You err. My brother Athalaric called me back!"
"I now offer you another husband. Young, handsome, a Goth of the purest
nobility, his rank is at this moment the second in the kingdom. You
know, at least you suspect, how sorely my throne, surrounded by
enemies, needs protection. He and his powerful brother promise us the
help of their whole army. Earl Arahad loves you, and you, you refuse
him! Tell me why?"
"Because I do not love him."
"A girl's stupid speech! You are a King's daughter; you ought to
sacrifice yourself to your rank, to your kingdom."
"I am a woman," answered Mataswintha, raising her sparkling eyes, "and
will sacrifice my heart to no power in heaven or on earth!"
"And thus speaks my daughter? Look at me, foolish child. I have striven
after great things, and have attained much. As long as men admire what
is great, they will name my name. I have won all that life can offer,
and yet I never----"
"Loved! I know it," sighed her daughter.
"You know it?"
"Yes; it was the curse of my childhood! I was indeed still a child when
my father died. I knew not how to express it, but even then I could
feel that his heart missed something, when, sighing deeply, he embraced
Athalaric and me, and sighed again. And I loved him all the more
tenderly because I felt that he sought love most where it was wanting.
Now indeed I know what then I could not explain to myself. You became
our father's wife, because, after Theodoric, he stood next to the
throne. Ambition, and not love, led you to his arms, and you could only
give cold pride in return for his warm affection."
Amalaswintha was startled, and stopped again in her restless walk.
"You are very bold!" she said.
"I am your daughter----"
"You speak of love so familiarly--you seem to know it at twenty better
than I at fifty. You love!" she cried suddenly, "and thence comes this
obstinacy!"
Mataswintha blushed and was silent.
"Speak," cried her angry mother; "confess it or deny it."
Mataswintha cast down her eyes and still kept silence. She had never
looked more beautiful.
"Will you deny the truth? Are you afraid, you, a daughter of the
Amelungs?"
The girl proudly raised her eyes.
"I am not afraid and I do not deny the truth. Yes, I love."
"And whom, unhappy girl?"
"Not even a god could force me to tell that!"
She looked so decided that Amalaswintha did not attempt to learn more.
"Well," she said, "my daughter has no common nature. So I demand of you
what is uncommon: to sacrifice all to the highest."
"Mother, I cherish a noble dream in my heart. To me it is the highest.
To it I will sacrifice all."
"Mataswintha," said the Queen, "how unqueenly! See, God has blessed you
above thousands with beauty of body and mind. You are born to be a
queen."
"I will be a queen of love. All praise my beauty. I have proposed to
myself, loving and beloved, happy and bestowing happiness, to be a true
woman!"
"A woman? is that all your ambition?"
"It is. Oh, would it had been yours!"
"And the realm is nothing to you, the grandchild of Theodoric? Your
nation, the Goths, are they of no account?"
"No, mother," said Mataswintha quietly; "it grieves me, it almost makes
me ashamed, but I cannot pretend what I do not feel. The word 'Goth'
arouses no sentiment in me. Perhaps it is not my fault; you have always
despised these Goths and valued these 'barbarians' lightly; that was my
first impression; it is enduring. And I hate this crown, this kingdom
of the Goths; it has taken the place of my father, of my brother, and
of myself in your heart! The Gothic crown has never been anything to me
but a hated and inimical power."
"Oh, my child, woe to me if I am guilty of this! If you will not do it
for the sake of our kingdom, oh, do it for my sake! I am lost without
these Woelfungs. Do it for the sake of my love!" And she took her
daughter's hand.
Mataswintha drew back with a bitter smile:
"Mother, do not blaspheme that holy name! Your love? You have never
loved me. Nor my brother, nor my father."
"My child! What should I have loved if not you?"
"The crown, mother, and the hated monarchy! How often have you repulsed
me before Athalaric's birth, because I was a girl, and you wished for a
crown-prince. Think of my father's grave and of----"
"Cease!" cried Amalaswintha.
"And Athalaric? Have you ever loved him? Have you not rather loved his
right to the throne? Oh, how often have we poor children wept, when we
sought the mother and found the Queen!"
"You never complained to me! you do it only now, when I ask you for the
sacrifice----"
"Mother, even now it was not for yourself, only for your crown and
throne. Put off the crown and you are free from all care. It has
brought us no happiness, only pain. You are not threatened--I would
sacrifice everything for you--but only your throne, only the golden
diadem, the idol of your heart, the curse of my life! Never will I
sacrifice my love to this hated crown, never, never, never!" And she
crossed her white arms over her bosom as if she would protect her love
thus from all assailers.
"Ha!" cried the Queen indignantly, "selfish, heartless child! you
confess that you have no feeling for your people, no pride in the crown
of your great ancestors! You will not voluntarily obey the voice of
honour; well then, obey force! You deny my love? then feel my severity!
You will leave Ravenna at once with your attendants. You will go to
Florentia, as the guest of Duke Guntharis; his wife has invited you.
Earl Arahad will accompany you on your journey. Leave me. Time will
bend your stubborn will!"
"No power can do that," said Mataswintha, proudly raising her head, and
she left the room.
The Queen looked after her silently. Her daughter's reproofs had made a
greater impression upon her than she was willing to allow.
"Ambition?" she said to herself. "No, it is not that which fills my
soul. I feel that I could protect my realm and render it happy, and
truly I could sacrifice my life, as well as my crown, if the well-being
of my nation demanded it. Could I not?" she asked herself, doubtfully
laying her hand upon her heart.
She was roused from her reverie by Cassiodorus, who entered with bent
head and slow steps.
"Well," said Amalaswintha, struck by the sad expression of his face,
"do you come to tell me of a misfortune?"
"No; only to ask a question."
"What question?"
"Queen," the old man solemnly commenced, "I have served you and your
father faithfully for thirty years. I, a Roman, have served the
barbarians, for I honoured your virtues, and believed that Italy, no
longer capable of self-government, would flourish best under your rule,
for your rule was just and mild. I continued to serve you, even when
the blood of my best friends--and, as I believe, the most innocent
blood--was shed. But they died by law, and not by treachery. I was
obliged to honour your father, even where I could not praise him. But
now----"
"Now? but now?" repeated the Queen proudly.
"I come now to beg from my friend, may I say my scholar----"
"You may," answered the Queen, softened.
"To beg great Theodoric's noble daughter to speak one single word, a
'yes.' If you can say this 'yes.'--and I pray to God that you can--then
I will serve you as faithfully as ever, so long as my grey hairs are
spared."
"And if not?"
"And if not, O Queen," answered the old man sadly--"oh, then farewell
to you, and to my last joy in this world!"
"What have you to ask?"
"Amalaswintha, you know that I was far away on the northern frontiers
of the realm, when the rebellion here broke out, when that terrible
rumour arose, and that fearful accusation was made. I believed
nothing--I hurried here from Tridentum--I arrived two days ago,
and not an hour passes, not a Goth do I meet, but a terrible doubt
falls heavily upon my heart. And you, too, are changed; restless,
inconstant--and yet I cannot believe it. One sincere word of yours will
dispel all these mists."
"Why use so many words?" she cried, supporting herself on the arm of
her chair. "Ask briefly what you have to ask."
"Say but one simple 'yes.' Are you guiltless of the death of the three
dukes?"
"And if I were not, have they not richly deserved their fate?"
"Amalaswintha--I beseech you--say 'yes.'"
"You take a very sudden interest in the Gothic rebels!"
"I beseech you," cried the old man, falling on his knees, "daughter of
Theodoric, say 'yes,' if you can!"
"Rise!" she cried, turning away with a frown. "You have no right to
question me thus."
"No," said the old man quietly, and rising from his knees. "No, not
now. From this moment I no longer belong to this world."
"Cassiodorus!" cried the Queen, alarmed.
"Here are the keys of my rooms in the palace. There you will find all
the gifts that I have received from you and Theodoric; the documents
which assert my dignities, and my seals of office. I go!"
"Whither, my old friend, oh, whither?"
"To the cloister which I founded at Squillacium, in Apulia.
Henceforward, far from kings and their deeds, I shall only do God's
work upon earth. My soul has long since panted for peace, and now I
have nothing left on earth that is dear to me. Accept once more my
advice at parting: put away the sceptre from your blood-stained hands.
You can bless this realm no longer, you can only bring a curse upon the
nation. Think of the salvation of your soul, and may God be gracious to
you!" And before the Queen could recover from her consternation, he had
disappeared.
She would have hurried after him to call him back but she was met at
the door by Petros, the ambassador.
"Stay, Queen," he said in a low and rapid voice, "stay and hear me. I
have no time to lose. I am followed."
"Who follows you?"
"People who do not mean so well by you as I do. Deceive yourself no
more; the fate of the kingdom is decided; you can hinder it no longer,
so save for yourself what you can. I repeat my proposal."
"What proposal?"
"You heard it yesterday."
"That treacherous advice! Never! I shall report it to your master, the
Emperor, and beg him to recall you. With you I will confer no more."
"Queen, this is not the moment to spare you. The next ambassador of
Justinian is called Belisarius, and he will come with an army!"
"Impossible!" cried the forsaken Queen. "I recall my petition."
"Too late. The fleet of Belisarius already lies off Sicily. The
proposal which you thought came from me you have rejected. Learn that
the Emperor, and not I, was the propounder, and meant it as a last
token of his favour."
"Justinian, my friend, my protector, would thus ruin me and my
kingdom!" cried Amalaswintha, who began to see the terrible truth.
"Not ruin you, but save you! He will re-conquer this Italy, the cradle
of the Roman Empire. This unnatural, impossible kingdom of the Goths is
condemned and lost. Leave the sinking ship. Justinian reaches out to
you a friendly hand, and the Empress offers you an asylum, if you will
deliver Neapolis, Rome, Ravenna, and all the fortresses into the hands
of Belisarius, and consent that the Goths shall be led, disarmed, over
the Alps."
"Wretched man! Shall I betray my people as you have betrayed me? Too
late I see your schemes; I came to you for help, and you will destroy
me!"
"Not you, only the barbarians."
"These barbarians are my people; they are my only friends! I see it
now, and will stand by them to the death."
"But they will not stand by you."
"Insolent! Out of my sight! Leave my court!"
"You will not listen? Reflect, O Queen! only on this condition can I
answer for your life."
"My people in arms shall answer for my life!"
"Hardly. For the last time I ask you----"
"Be silent! I will not give up my crown to Justinian without a
struggle."
"Well, then," said Petros to himself, "another must, do it. Enter!" he
called aloud at the entrance.
But Cethegus alone appeared from behind the curtain.
"Where is Gothelindis? Where is Theodahad?" whispered Petros.
"I left them outside the palace. The two women hate each other too
bitterly. Their passion would spoil all."
"You are not my good angel, Prefect of Rome," said Amalaswintha,
turning away from him gloomily, as he approached.
"This time perhaps I am," whispered Cethegus, going close up to her.
"You have rejected the proposals from Byzantium, as I expected you
would. Dismiss that false Greek."
At a sign from the Queen, Petros retired into an ante-room.
"What would you with me, Cethegus? I trust you no longer."
"You have trusted the Emperor instead of me, and you see the
consequences."
"I do indeed," she answered in deep grief.
"Queen, I have never deceived you in this: that I love Italy and Rome
more than the Goths. You will remember that I never concealed it from
you."
"I know it, and do not blame you."
"My dearest wish is to see Italy free. In order to keep the Emperor
off, I would uphold your government; but I tell you openly that there
is now no hope of this. If you proclaim war against Byzantium, the
Goths will no more obey or the Italians trust you."
"And why not? What separates me from the Italians and my people?"
"Your own acts: two unfortunate documents, which, are in Justinian's
hands. You yourself first called his arms into Italy--a body-guard from
Byzantium!"
Amalaswintha grew pale.
"You know----"
"Unfortunately not I alone, but my friends, the conspirators of the
Catacombs. Petros showed them, the letter, and they call down curses
upon you."
"Then my Goths, at least, remain to me!"
"No longer. Not alone do the adherents of the Balthes seek your life;
but the conspirators of Rome have sworn, as soon as war breaks out, to
announce to all the world that your name stands at the head of their
conspiracy against the Goths--against your own nation! The document,
with your signature, is in my hands no longer; it lies in the archives
of the conspirators."
"Faithless man!"
"How could I know that you treated with Byzantium behind my back, and
thus made enemies of my friends? You see that Byzantium, the Goths, and
Italy are all against you. If the war break out under your direction,
division will run rife in Italy. No one will obey you, and the kingdom
will fall helpless into the hands of Belisarius. Amalaswintha, there
must be a sacrifice! I demand it of you in the name of Italy, in the
name of your people and of mine."
"What sacrifice? I consent to any."
"The greatest sacrifice--your crown. Give it to a man who is capable of
uniting the Goths and Italians against Byzantium, and save both
nations."
Amalaswintha looked at him searchingly. A terrible struggle took place
in her soul.
"My crown? It is very dear to me," she said.
"I always held Amalaswintha capable of any sacrifice."
"Dare I place confidence in your advice?"
"If it were sweet, you might doubt it; if I flattered your pride you
might mistrust me. But I offer you the bitter cup of renunciation. I
appeal to your generosity and courage. Make me not ashamed."
"Your last advice was a crime," cried Amalaswintha, shuddering.
"I preserved your throne by every possible means as long as it could be
upheld, as long as it was necessary for Italy; and I now demand that
you should love your people more than your sceptre."
"By God! there you do not err. For my people I have not hesitated to
sacrifice the lives of others"--she gladly dwelt on this thought, which
appeased her conscience--"and I shall not refuse now to sacrifice my
personal ambition. But who will be my successor?"
"Your heir, to whom the crown belongs--Theodahad, the last of the
Amelungs."
"What! that feeble creature?"
"He is no hero, it is true; but heroes will obey the nephew of
Theodoric if you place him on the throne. And, consider, his Roman
education has won the Italians for him; they will stand by him. They
would both fear and hate a king after Hildebrand's heart."
"And rightly," answered the Queen reflectively. "But Gothelindis,
Queen!"
Cethegus came nearer, and looked keenly into her eyes.
"Amalaswintha is not so mean as to nourish a pitiful feminine enmity
when there is need of a noble resolve. You have ever appeared to me
nobler than your sex. Now prove it, and decide."
"Not now," said Amalaswintha. "My head burns and my brain is confused.
Let me alone to-night. You believe me capable of self-sacrifice. I
thank you for that at least. To-morrow I will decide."
BOOK III.
THEODAHAD.
"It seemed to Theodahad that to have neighbours was a kind of
misfortune."--_Procopius: Wars of the Goths_, i. 3.
CHAPTER I.
The morning after the events before described, a manifesto announced to
the astonished inhabitants of Ravenna that the daughter of Theodoric
had resigned the crown in favour of her cousin Theodahad, the last male
scion oL the House of Amelung.
Italians and Goths were summoned to swear the oath of allegiance to
their new sovereign.
Cethegus had judged rightly. Amalaswintha had felt her conscience
oppressed by many a folly, and even by deadly sin. Noble natures seek
consolation and atonement in sacrifice and self-denial; and the unhappy
woman had been much affected by the reproaches of her daughter and
Cassiodorus; therefore the Prefect had found her in a mood favourable
for the reception of his advice. The very bitterness of this advice
induced her to follow it; indeed, to save her people and expiate her
guilt, she would even have endured much greater humiliation.
The change of dynasty was accomplished without difficulty. The Italians
at Ravenna were in nowise prepared for rebellion, and Cethegus fed them
with hopes of a more favourable opportunity. Besides this, the new King
was known and liked by them as a friend of Roman civilisation.
The Goths, however, did not seem inclined to submit to the change
without more ado. Prince Theodahad was certainly a man--that was in his
favour and an Amelung, which last circumstance weighed heavily; but he
was by no means esteemed. Cowardly and unmartial, effeminate in body
and mind, he had none of the qualities which the Germans require in
their kings. One sole passion filled his soul--avarice, insatiable love
of gold. Though very rich, he was constantly engaged in mean quarrels
with his neighbours in Tuscany. He well understood the art of
increasing his estates by force and cunning, and the weight of his
royal rank, and how to wrest their property from his neighbours; "for,"
says an author of that period, "it seemed to Theodahad that to have
neighbours was a kind of misfortune." At the same time, his weak nature
was entirely subject to that of his wicked but strong-minded wife.
For all these reasons, the worthiest members of the Gothic nation saw
the accession of such a man to the throne of Theodoric with great
dislike; and the manifesto had scarcely been published, when Earl Teja,
who had shortly before returned to Ravenna with Hildebad, summoned the
old master-at-arms and Witichis, and invited them to arouse and direct
the discontent of the people, and to set a more worthy man in
Theodahad's place.
"You know," he concluded his exhortation, "how favourable is the temper
of the people. Since the night of our meeting in the Temple of Mercury,
we have incessantly stirred up the nation, and have succeeded in many
of our efforts. The noble self-assertion of Athalaric, the victory of
the Feast of Epiphany, the prevention of Amalaswintha's escape was all
our work. Now a favourable opportunity offers. Shall a man who is
weaker than a woman step into a woman's place? Have we no more worthy
man than Theodahad amongst us?"
"He is right, by Thor and Woden!" cried Hildebad. "Away with these weak
Amelungs! Raise a hero upon our shield, and hit about on all sides!
Away with the Amelungs!"
"No," said Witichis calmly; "not yet. Perhaps it will come to that at
last; but it must not happen sooner than is necessary. The Amelungs
have a great party. Theodahad would never part with the riches, nor
Gothelindis with the power of the crown without a struggle; they are
strong enough, if not for victory, at least for battle. But strife
between brothers is terrible. Necessity alone can justify it; and, at
present, that does not exist. Theodahad may try; he is weak, and may
easily be led. There is time enough to act if he prove incapable."
"Who knows if then there will be time?" said Teja warningly.
"What dost thou advise, old man?" asked Hildebad, upon whose mind the
remarks of Witichis had not been without effect.
"Brothers," answered Hildebrand, stroking his long beard, "you have the
choice, and therefore are plagued with doubt. I am spared both, for I
am bound. The King's old followers have sworn an oath that, as long as
a member of his House lives, they will allow no stranger to occupy the
throne."
"What a foolish oath!" cried Hildebad.
"I am old, and yet I do not call it foolish. I know what a blessing
rests upon the great and sacred law of inheritance; and the Amelungs
are descended from the gods!" he added mysteriously.
"Theodahad is a fine child of the gods!" laughed Hildebad.
"Be silent!" cried the old man angrily. "You modern men understand this
no longer. You think you can fathom everything with your miserable
reason. The mystery, the secrecy, the magic that lies in blood--for
this you have lost all sense. Therefore I have held my peace about such
things. But you cannot change me, with my near a hundred years. Do what
you like; I shall do what I must."
"Well," said Earl Teja, yielding, "upon thy head be the responsibility.
But when this last Amelung is no more----"
"Then the followers of Theodoric are free from their oath."
"Perhaps," said Witichis, "it is fortunate that your oath spares us the
choice, for we certainly wish for no ruler whom thou canst not
acknowledge. Let us then go and pacify the people; and let us bear with
this King as long as it is possible."
"But not an hour longer!" cried Teja, and went away in anger.
CHAPTER II.
The very same day Theodahad and Gothelindis were crowned with the
ancient crown of the Goths.
A splendid banquet, at which all the Roman and Gothic dignitaries of
the court and city were present, enlivened the old palace and the
usually quiet gardens, with which we have become acquainted as the
scene of Athalaric's and Camilla's loves.
The revel lasted until deep into the night.
The new King, no friend of the cup, or of barbaric revelry, had retired
early.
Gothelindis, on the contrary, sunned herself in the glory of her new
rank. Proudly she sat upon her high seat, the golden circlet on her
dark hair. She seemed all ear for the loud hurrahs with which, again
and again, her own and her husband's names were greeted. But most of
all she enjoyed the thought that these shouts would penetrate into the
royal vault, where Amalaswintha, her hated and conquered rival, sat
mourning by the sarcophagus of her son.
Among the crowd of such guests as need only a full cup to make them
merry, many a grave face was to be seen; many a Roman who would rather
have seen the Emperor Justinian upon the throne at the head of the
table; many a Goth who, in the present precarious condition of affairs,
could not do homage to such a King as Theodahad without anxiety.
To these last belonged Witichis, whose thoughts seemed far absent from
the splendid scene around him. The golden cup before him stood
untouched, and he scarcely noticed the loud exclamations of Hildebad,
who sat opposite him.
At last--the lamps were long since lit, and the stars stood in the
sky--he rose and went into the greeny darkness of the garden. He slowly
wandered through the taxus-walks, his eyes fixed upon the sparkling
luminaries. His heart was with his wife, with his child, whom he had
not seen for months.
He wandered on unconsciously, until at last he came to the little
Temple of Venus by the quay, with which we are already acquainted.
He looked out over the gleaming sea. All at once something shining at
his feet attracted his attention. It was the glittering of the
moonlight upon a small Gothic harp, and upon a suit of mail. A man lay
before him upon the soft grass, and a pale face was uplifted towards
him.
"Thou here, Teja? Thou wert not at the banquet?"
"No; I was with the dead."
"My thoughts, too, were absent; at home with wife and child," said
Witichis.
"With wife and child," repeated Teja, sighing.
"Many asked after thee, Teja."
"After me? Should I sit by Cethegus, who has robbed me of my honour, or
by Theodahad, who took inheritance?"
"Thine inheritance?"
"At least he possesses it. And over the place where once stood my
cradle he now drives his ploughshare."
His head sank upon his breast, and both were silent.
"And thy harp," at last said Witichis, "will it never be heard again?
They praise thee as our nation's best minstrel!"
"Like Gelimer, the last King of the Vandals, who was also the best
singer of his nation.--But they shall never lead _me_ in triumph to
Byzantium!"
"Thou singest but seldom now?"
"Seldom or never. But it seems to me time is coming when I shall sing
again."
"A time of joy?"
"A time of deep and final sorrow."
Again a long pause ensued.
"My Teja," resumed Witichis, "I have ever found thee, in all trouble of
peace or war, as true as steel. And although thou art so much younger
than I--and an elder man does not lightly bind himself to a youth--I
may call thee my best and bosom-friend. I know that thy heart cleaves
to me more than to thy youthful companions."
Teja took the speaker's hand and pressed it. "Yes, even when my ways
perplex thee, thou withholdest not thy respect and sympathy. The
others---- And yet, _one_ of them I love much!"
"Whom?"
"He whom all love."
"Totila?"
"Yes. I love him as the night loves the morning star. But he is so
frank, that he cannot understand when others are, and must be,
reserved."
"Must be! Why? Thou knowest that curiosity is not my failing. And if,
at this earnest moment, I beg thee to lift the veil from thy grief, I
ask it only because I would gladly help and comfort thee, and because a
friend's eye often sees more clearly than one's own."
"Help? Help me? Canst thou awaken the dead? My pain is irrevocable as
the past! Whoever has, like me, seen the unmerciful wheel of Fate roll,
crushing everything before it, blind and dumb to all tenderness and
nobleness; yea, even crushing what is noble more easily and readily,
because it _is_ tender; whoever has acknowledged that a dull necessity,
which fools call the wise providence of God, rules the universe and the
life of mankind, is past all help and comfort! If once he has caught
the sound, he hears for ever, with the sharp ear of despair, the
monotonous rumble of the cruel, insensible wheel in the centre of the
universe, which, at every revolution, indifferently produces or
destroys life. Whoever has felt this, and lived through it, renounces
all and for ever. For evermore, nothing can make him afraid. But
certainly--he has also for ever forgotten the sweetness of a smile."
"Thou makest me shudder! God forbid that I should ever entertain such a
delusion! How hast thou acquired, so young, such terrible wisdom?"
"Friend, by thought alone the truth cannot be reached; only the
experience of life can teach it. And in order to understand what and
how a man thinks, it is necessary to know his life. Therefore, that I
may not appear to be an erring dreamer, or an effeminate weakling, who
delights in nursing his sorrow--and in honour of thy trust and
friendship--thou shalt hear a small portion of the cause of my grief.
The larger part, by far the larger, I will keep to myself," he added,
in evident pain, and pressing his hand to his heart. "The time for that
will come too. But now thou shalt only hear how the Star of Misfortune,
even at my birth, shone over my head. And amidst all the million stars
above, this one alone remains faithful. Thou wert present--thou wilt
remember--when the false Prefect taunted me before the whole assembly
with being a bastard, and refused to fight with me. I was obliged to
endure the insult. I am even worse than a bastard. My father, Tagila,
was a famous hero, but no noble. Poor, and of low birth. He had loved,
ever since his beard sprouted, the daughter of his father's brother,
Gisa. She lived far away on the outermost eastern frontier of the
realm; on the cold Ister, where continued battles raged with the Gepidae
and the wild Sarmatian hordes, and where a man has little time to think
of the Church, or of the changing laws promulgated by her Conclaves.
For a long time my father was not able to lead Gisa to his home; ha had
nought but his helm and spear, and could not pay the tax, nor prepare a
home for his wife. At last fortune smiled upon him. In the war against
the Sarmatians, he conquered the king's stronghold on the Alutha, and
the rich treasures which the Sarmatians had gained by years of plunder,
and had there amassed, became his booty. In reward of his valour,
Theodoric gave him the rank of earl, and called him to Italy. My father
took with him Gisa, now become his wife, and all his treasure, and
bought a large and beautiful estate in Tuscany, between Florentia and
Luca. But his good fortune did not last long. Shortly after my birth,
some miserable fellow, some cowardly rascal, accused my parents of
incest before the Bishop of Florentia. They were Catholics, and not
Arians--and brothers' children; their marriage was null in the eyes of
the Church--and the Church ordered them to part. My father pressed his
wife to his heart, and laughed at the order. But the secret accuser did
not rest----"
"Who was he?"
"Oh, would that I knew it! I would reach him, even if he lived amid all
the horrors of Vesuvius! The priests tormented my mother without
cessation, and tried to alarm her conscience. In vain; she stood fast
by her God and her husband, and defied the bishop and his messengers.
And whenever my father met one of the priests upon his estate, he gave
him such a welcome that he took care never to come again. But who can
strive with those who speak in God's name! A last term was appointed;
if, by that time, the disobedient couple had not separated, they were
to be excommunicated, and their property forfeited to the Church. My
father now hurried in despair to the King, to beg for the abolition of
the terrible sentence. But the verdict of the Conclave was too clear,
and Theodoric did not dare to offend the rights of the Orthodox Church.
When my father returned from Ravenna, he stared in horror at the place
where once his house had stood: the time had elapsed, and the threat
had been fulfilled. His home was destroyed, his wife and child had
disappeared. He madly sought for us all over Italy, and at last,
disguised as a peasant, he discovered Gisa in a convent at Ticinum.
They had torn her boy from her arms, and taken him to Rome. My father
arranged everything for her flight from the convent; at midnight they
escaped over the wall of the cloister garden. But the next morning the
sisters missed their prisoner at the _hora_--her cell was empty. The
convent servants followed the track of the horses--they were overtaken.
Fighting desperately, my father fell; my mother was taken back to the
convent. The pain of her loss and the severe discipline of the order
had such a terrible effect upon her brain, that she went mad and died.
Such was the fate of my parents."
"And thou?"
"I was discovered in Rome by old Hildebrand, who had been a
brother-at-arms of my grandfather and father. With the King's
assistance, he took me from the care of the priests, and brought me up
with his own grandchildren in Regium."
"And thy estate, thine inheritance?"
"Was forfeited to the Church, which sold it, almost as a gift, to
Theodahad. He was my father's neighbour; he is now my King!"
"My poor friend! But what happened to you later? I have heard only
rumours--thou hast been in Greece----"
Teja rose.
"Let me keep silence on that subject; perhaps another time. I was once
fool enough to believe in happiness and the beneficence of a loving
God. I have repented it bitterly. I shall never believe again.
Farewell, Witichis, and do not blame Teja, if he be different from
other men." He pressed the hand of his friend warmly; and quickly
disappeared into the dark avenues of the garden.
Witichis sat for a long time in silent thought. Then he looked up at
the sky, seeking in the bright stars a contradiction of the gloomy
thoughts which his friend's words had aroused in his mind. He longed
for their peaceful and clear light. But during the conversation, clouds
had risen rapidly from the lagoons, and covered the sky. All around was
dark and dismal. With a sigh, Witichis arose, and filled with sad
thoughts, sought his lonely couch.
CHAPTER III.
While Italians and Goths feasted and drank together in the halls on the
ground-floor of the palace at Ravenna, they little suspected that above
their heads, in the King's apartments, a negotiation was going on which
was to determine the fate of the kingdom.
The King had left the banquet early, and had retired to his rooms with
the Byzantine ambassador, and, for a long time, the two were occupied
in writing and consulting together.
At last they seemed to have come to an agreement, and Petros was about
once more to read what he had written, when the King interrupted him:
"Stop," said the little man, who seemed almost lost in his royal robes,
"stop--there is yet another thing."
And he rose from his seat, softly crossed the room, and looked behind
the curtain at the entrance to see if any were listening.
Having reassured himself, he returned, and gently pulled the sleeve of
the Byzantine. The light of the bronze lamp flickered in the draught,
and fell upon the withered yellow cheeks of his ugly face, as he
cunningly screwed up his already small eyes.
"Yet another thing. If these wholesome changes are to be made, it would
be well, indeed it is necessary, that some of the most daring of my
barbarian subjects should be rendered incapable of opposition."
"I have already thought of that," answered Petros. "There is that old
half heathen, Hildebrand, that coarse Hildebad, and wise Witichis."
"You seem to know men well," said Theodahad, "you have looked sharply
about you. But," he added, "there is one whom you have not mentioned,
one who must be got rid of more than any other."
"And he?"
"Is Earl Teja, the son of Tagila."
"Is the melancholy dreamer so dangerous?"
"More so than any of the others. Besides, he is my personal enemy, as
was his father before him."
"How so?"
"His father was my neighbour at Florentia, I wanted his acres. In vain
I pressed him to give them up. Ha, ha!" and Theodahad laughed, "they
became mine at last! The holy Church dissolved his criminal marriage,
confiscated his property, and let me have it cheap. I had deserved well
of the Church during the process--your friend, the Bishop of Florentia;
can tell you the particulars."
"I understand," said Petros. "Why did not the barbarian give his acres
up with a good will? Does Teja know?"
"He knows nothing. But he hates me merely because I bought his
inheritance. He looks black at me, and the gloomy dreamer is just the
man to strangle an enemy at the very feet of God Himself."
"Indeed?" said Petros, suddenly becoming very thoughtful. "Well, enough
of him! He shall not hurt us. Let me read the treaty once more, point
by point; afterwards you can sign it. 'First: King Theodahad resigns
the sovereignty of Italy, and the subject islands and provinces of the
Gothic kingdom, namely: Dalmatia, Liburnia, Istria, the second
Pannonia, Savia, Noricum, Rhaetia, and the Gothic provinces in Gaul, in
favour of Emperor Justinian, and of his successors. He promises to
deliver Ravenna, Rome, Neapolis, and all the fortresses in the kingdom,
into the hands of the Emperor.'"
Theodahad nodded.
"'Secondly: King Theodahad will use all the means in his power to the
end that the Gothic army shall be disarmed and led away, in small
parties, over the Alps. The women and children will follow the army, or
be taken as slaves to Byzantium, according to the decision of the
imperial generals. The King will take care that any resistance on the
part of the Goths shall be without result. Thirdly: in return, the
Emperor Justinian leaves the titles and honours of royalty to King
Theodahad and his spouse for their lifetime. And fourthly----'"
"I will read this paragraph myself," interrupted Theodahad, and held
out his hand for the document.
"'Fourthly: the Emperor leaves to the King of the Goths not only all
the lands and treasures which the latter possesses as private property,
but the whole of the royal Gothic treasury, which alone is valued at
forty thousand pounds of minted gold. Further, the Emperor assigns to
Theodahad, as his property and inheritance, the whole of Tuscany, from
Pistoria to Caere, from Populonia to Clusium; and lastly, he makes over
to him for life the half of all the public revenues of the kingdom thus
restored to its rightful sovereign.' Tell me, Petros, do not you think
that I might demand three-fourths?"
"You might certainly ask it, but I doubt exceedingly that Justinian
would grant it. I have already overstepped the utmost limits of my
power."
"We will demand it, at all events," said the King, altering the
figures, "then Justinian must either bargain for less, or grant
additional privileges."
A false smile played over the thin lips of the ambassador.
"You are a clever negotiator, O King," he said. "But in this case you
reckon wrongly," he added to himself.
Just at this moment the rustle of trailing garments was heard in the
marble corridor, and Amalaswintha entered, dressed in a long black
mantle and a black veil sowed with silver stars. She was deadly pale,
but composed and dignified; a Queen in spite of having lost her crown.
Intense sorrow ennobled the expression of her countenance.
"King of the Goths," she began, "forgive if a dark shadow suddenly
rises from the realm of the dead to dim your joyous feast. It is for
the last time."
Both the men were struck by her appearance.
"Queen," stammered Theodahad.
"'Queen!' oh, would that I had never borne the name. I come, cousin,
from the grave of my noble son, where I have acknowledged my
infatuation, and repented of all my sins. I come to you, King of the
Goths, to warn you against similar infatuation and similar guilt."
Theodahad's unsteady eyes avoided her grave and searching looks.
"It is an evil guest," she continued, "that I find here as your
confidant at the hour of midnight. There is no safety for a prince
except in his people. Too late I have found this out; too late for
myself; not too late, I hope, for my people. Do not trust Byzantium; it
is a shield that crushes him whom it should protect."
"You are unjust," said Petros, "and ungrateful."
"I beg you, my royal cousin," continued Amalaswintha, unheeding the
remark, "not to consent to what this man demands. Do not grant him that
which I refused. We were to surrender Sicily, and furnish three
thousand warriors to the Emperor for each of his wars. I rejected the
shameful proposal. I see," she went on, pointing to the document on the
table, "that you have already concluded your business. Retreat before
it is too late; they will deceive you always."
Theodahad uneasily drew the document towards him, and cast a suspicious
look at Petros. The latter went up to Amalaswintha.
"What do you want here, you queen of yesterday? Would you control the
ruler of this realm? Your time is past and your power at an end."
"Leave us," said Theodahad, taking courage. "I will do what I think
good. You shall not succeed in parting me from my friends at Byzantium.
Look here, before your very eyes our treaty shall be concluded," And he
signed his name.
"Well," said Petros with a smile, "the Princess comes just at the right
moment to sign as a witness."
"No!" cried Amalaswintha, "I have come at the right moment to frustrate
your plan. I will go straightway to the army, to the National Assembly,
which will soon take place at Regeta. There, before all the nation, I
will expose your proposals, the plans of the Emperor, and the treachery
of this feeble man."
"That will do no good," said Petros quietly, "unless you accuse
yourself."
"I _will_ accuse myself. I will confess all my folly, all my guilt, and
gladly suffer the death I have deserved. But my self-accusation shall
warn and alarm the whole nation from Etna to the Alps. A world in arms
shall be opposed to you, and I will save my Goths by my death, from the
dangers to which my life has exposed them!" And, filled with noble
enthusiasm, she hurried out of the room.
Theodahad looked with dismay at the ambassador. For some time he could
not find a word to say.
"Advise me, help--" he stammered out at last.
"Advise? At this moment there is but one advice to give. That insane
woman will ruin herself and us if we let her alone. She must not be
allowed to fulfil her threat. _You_ must take care of that."
"I?" cried Theodahad, alarmed. "I know nothings about such things!
Where is Gothelindis? She, and she alone, can help us."
"And the Prefect," added Petros; "send for both of them."
Gothelindis and Cethegus were summoned from the banquet. Petros told
them what the Princess had said, but without mentioning the treaty as
the cause of her outburst. He had scarcely finished speaking, when
Gothelindis cried, "Enough! She must not go. Her every step must be
watched. She must speak neither to Goth nor Roman; she must not leave
the palace. That least of all!" And she hurried away to place
confidential slaves at the doors of Amalaswintha's apartments.
Presently she returned.
"She is praying aloud in her cabinet," she cried contemptuously. "Rouse
yourself, Cethegus, and let us thwart her prayers."
Cethegus, leaning against the wall, had observed all these proceedings,
and listened to all that was said in thoughtful silence. He saw how
necessary it was that he should once more take the reins into his own
hands, and hold them more firmly. He saw Byzantium pressing more and
more into the foreground--and that he could not suffer.
"Speak, Cethegus," Gothelindis repeated. "What is most necessary?"
"Clearness of purpose," he answered, standing erect. "In every
contract, the particular aim of each of the contracting parties must be
plain. If not, they will continually hinder each other by mistrust. You
have your aims, I have mine. Yours are evident--I have already told you
what they are. You, Petros, wish that Emperor Justinian should rule in
Italy in place of the Goths. You, Gothelindis and Theodahad, wish so
also, on condition that you receive a rich recompense in revenge, gold,
and honours. But I--I too, have my private aim. What is the use of
denying it? My sly Petros, you would not long believe that I was only
ambitious of serving as your tool, and of being a senator in Byzantium.
I, too, have my aim, and all your threefold cunning would never be able
to discover it, because it lies too close to your eyes. I must betray
it to you myself. My petrified heart still cherishes one ideal: Italy!
and I, like you, wish the Goths well out of this country. But I do not,
like you, wish that the Emperor should step unconditionally into their
shoes. I do not want the deluge instead of the shower. I, the
inveterate Republican, would like best--you know, Petros, that we were
both Republicans at eighteen years of age, and I have remained so; but
you need not tell it to your master, the Emperor; I have told him
myself long since--to cast out the barbarians, bag and baggage, but
without letting you in. Unfortunately, that is not now possible; we
cannot do without your help. But I will limit it to the unavoidable.
No Byzantine army shall enter this country, except--at the last
extremity--to receive it at the hands of the Italians. Italy must be
more a gift from the Italians than a conquest of the Emperor. The
blessing of generals and tax-gatherers, which Byzantium would bring
upon the land, must be spared us; we want your protection, but not your
tyranny."
Over the face of Petros crept a sly smile, which Cethegus seemed not to
observe. He continued:
"Hear my conditions. I know that Belisarius lies off Sicily with his
fleet. He must not land. He must return home. I cannot do with him in
Italy; at least, not until I call him myself. And if you, Petros, do
not at once send him the order to return to Byzantium, our ways
separate. I know Belisarius and Narses, and their military government,
and I know what mild masters these Goths make. I am sorry for
Amalaswintha; she was a mother to my people. Therefore choose--choose
between Belisarius and Cethegus. If Belisarius lands, Cethegus and all
Italy will stand by Amalaswintha and the Goths, and then we will see
whether you can wrest from us a single foot of this soil. If you choose
Cethegus, he will break the power of the barbarians, and Italy will
subject herself to the Emperor, not as his slave, but as his consort.
Choose, Petros."
"You proud man!" cried Gothelindis. "You dare to make conditions to me,
your Queen?" And she lifted her hand with a threatening gesture.
But Cethegus caught the hand in his iron grasp, and drew it quietly
down.
"Leave such antics, you Queen of a day! Here only Italy and Byzantium
negotiate. If you forget your want of power, you must be reminded of
it. You reign only so long as we uphold you."
He stood before the angry woman in an attitude of such quiet majesty,
that she was silenced, but her eyes flashed with inextinguishable
hatred.
"Cethegus," said Petros, who had meanwhile made up his mind, "you are
right. For the moment, Byzantium can gain nothing better than your
help; for without it she can gain nothing. If Belisarius returns to
Byzantium, will you be for us unconditionally?"
"Unconditionally."
"And Amalaswintha?"
"I abandon her."
"Well, then," said the Byzantine, "we are agreed."
He wrote upon a waxen tablet a briefly-expressed order for the return
of Belisarius to Byzantium, and gave it to the Prefect.
"You may send the message yourself."
Cethegus read it carefully.
"It is well," said he, putting the tablet into the bosom of his dress.
"We are Agreed."
"When will Italy proceed against the barbarians?" asked Petros.
"In the first days of the next month. I shall now go to Rome.
Farewell."
"You are going? Will you not help us to get rid of Amalaswintha? You
will take pity on her again?" asked the Queen, in a reproachful voice.
"She is condemned," said Cethegus, turning as he reached the door. "The
judge goes; the executioner will perform his duty." And he left them
with a proud mien.
Theodahad, who had listened to all that had passed in speechless
astonishment, now caught the hand of Petros in great alarm.
"Petros," he cried, "for God's sake, what have you done? Our contract,
and everything else, depends upon Belisarius; and you send him away?"
"And allow that insolent man to triumph?" added Gothelindis
indignantly.
But Petros laughed; his whole face beamed with the ecstasy of
victorious cunning.
"Be quiet," he said. "This time the invincible Cethegus is conquered by
Petros, at whom he has always scoffed."
He took Theodahad and Gothelindis each by the hand, drew them close to
him, looked round, and then whispered:
"At the commencement of the message to Belisarius I have placed a small
spot, which means: 'All that I have written is not meant in earnest,
and is null.' Yes, yes; one learns the art of writing at the court of
Byzantium!"
CHAPTER IV.
Amalaswintha passed the two days following this midnight interview in a
sort of real or imagined imprisonment. Whenever she left her chamber,
whenever she turned the corner of one of the passages of the palace,
she fancied that some one followed or accompanied her, now appearing,
now slipping past her, now disappearing, and seemingly as eager to
watch all her movements as to avoid her notice. She could not even
descend to the tomb of her son unobserved.
In vain she asked for Witichis or Teja; they had left the city the
morning after the coronation, by order of the King.
The feeling that she was alone, surrounded by lurking enemies, filled
her mind with vague alarms.
Heavily and darkly the autumn rain-clouds hung over Ravenna, as
Amalaswintha rose from her sleepless couch on the morning of the third
day. It affected her disagreeably when, upon going to the window of
sparry gypsum, a raven rose cawing from the marble sill, and flew
slowly over the garden with hoarse cries, heavily flapping its wings.
The Princess felt how much her nerves had been tried by the last few
days of pain, fear, and remorse; for she could not resist the dismal
impression made upon her by the early autumn mists, which rose from the
lagoons of the harbour city.
She looked at the grey and marshy landscape with a deep sigh. Her heart
was heavy with care and remorse. Her only hope lay in the thought of
saving the kingdom at the cost of her own life, by frankly accusing and
humiliating herself before the whole nation. She did not doubt that the
relations and blood-avengers of the murdered dukes would strictly
fulfil their duty.
Buried in such reflections, she went through the empty halls and
corridors of the palace--this time, as she believed, unobserved--to the
resting-place of her son, in order to confirm herself, with prayer and
penitence, in her pious resolution.
As, after some time had elapsed, she re-ascended from the vault and
turned into a gloomy arched passage, a man in the habit of a slave
stepped out of a niche--she thought that she had often seen his face
before--and put into her hand a little wax tablet, immediately
disappearing into a side passage.
She at once recognised the handwriting of Cassiodorus.
And now she guessed who was the secret messenger. It was Dolios, the
letter-carrier of her faithful minister.
Quickly concealing the tablet in her dress, she hastened to her
chamber, where she read as follows:
"In pain, but not in anger, I parted from you. I would not that you
should be called away from this world in an impenitent state, and lose
your immortal soul. Fly from the palace, from the city. You know how
bitter is the hatred of Gothelindis. Your life is not safe for an hour.
Trust no one except my secretary, and at sunset go to the Temple of
Venus in the garden. There you will find my litter, which will bring
you safely to my villa at the Lake of Bolsena. Obey and trust."
Much moved, Amalaswintha pressed the letter to her heart. Faithful
Cassiodorus! He had not, then, quite forsaken her. He still feared and
cared for her life. And that charming villa upon the lonely island in
the blue Lake of Bolsena! There, many, many years ago, in the full
bloom of youth and beauty, as the guest of Cassiodorus, she had been
wedded to Eutharic, the noble Amelung, and, surrounded by all the
splendour of rank and power, had passed the proudest days of her youth.
She was overcome with an intense longing to see once more the scene of
her greatest happiness.
This feeling powerfully induced her to listen to the warning of
Cassiodorus. Still more the fear--not for her life, for she longed to
die--but that her enemies would make it impossible for her to warn the
nation and save the kingdom.
And, finally, she reflected that the way to Regeta, near Rome, where
the great National Assembly was shortly--as was usual every autumn--to
take place, led past the Lake of Bolsena; and that it was therefore
only a furthering of her plan, should she start at once in this
direction.
But, in order to make sure in all cases, so that, even if she never
arrived at the end of her journey, her warning voice might reach the
ears of the nation, she decided to write a letter to Cassiodorus--whom
she could not be sure of meeting at his villa--in which she would
entrust him with her confession, and expose to him all the plans of the
Byzantines and Theodahad.
With closed doors she wrote the painful words. Hot tears of gratitude
and remorse fell upon the parchment; she carefully sealed it, and
delivered it to the most faithful of her slaves, with the strict
injunction to carry it speedily and safely to the monastery at
Squillacium in Apulia, the monastical foundation and usual abode of
Cassiodorus.
Slowly, slowly passed the dreary hours.
She had grasped the offered hand of her friend with all her heart.
Memory and hope vied with each other in painting the island in the lake
as a much-loved asylum. There she hoped to find repose and peace.
She kept carefully within her apartment, in order to give no cause for
suspicion to her spies, or any excuse to detain her.
At last the sun had set.
With light steps, Amalaswintha, forbidding the attendance of her women,
and only hiding a few jewels and documents in the folds of her mantle,
hurried from her room into the wide colonnade which led to the garden.
She feared to meet here as usual some lurking spy, and to be stopped,
and perhaps detained. She frequently looked back, and even glanced
carefully into the niches of the statues--all was empty and quiet, no
spy followed her footsteps. Thus, unobserved, she reached the platform
of the terrace which united the palace and the garden, and afforded an
open view of the latter.
Amalaswintha examined the nearest path leading to the Temple of Venus.
The way was open. Only the faded leaves fell rustling from the tall
pines on to the sandy path, where they were whirled about by the wind,
which drove the mist and clouds before it in ghostly shapes; it was
very dismal in the deserted garden, which looked grey and dim in the
twilight.
The Princess shivered. The cold wind tore at her veil and mantle. She
cast a shy glance at the heavy, gloomy mass of stone which she had left
behind--the building in whose precincts she had ruled so proudly, and
from which she was now escaping, lonely and fearfully as a criminal.
She thought of her son, who reposed in the vault of the palace. She
thought of her daughter, whom she herself had banished from these
walls.
For a moment her pain threatened to overpower the forsaken woman; she
tottered, and with difficulty supported herself by the broad balustrade
of the steps which she was descending. A feverish shudder shook her
frame, as the horror of despair shook her soul.
"But my people," she said to herself, "and my atonement---- I must and
will accomplish it."
Strengthened by this thought, she again hurried down the steps, and
entered an alley overhung by thick foliage, which led across the
garden, and ended at the Temple of Venus.
She walked rapidly forward, trembling whenever the autumn leaves, with
a sighing sound, were swept across her path from a side-walk.
Breathless she arrived at the little temple, and looked searchingly
around her.
But no litter, no slaves were to be seen; all around was quiet; only
the branches of the pines creaked in the wind.
All at once the neighing of a horse struck upon her ear.
She turned; around the corner of a wall a man approached with hasty
steps.
It was Dolios. He looked sharply about him, and then beckoned to her to
come.
The Princess hastened to follow him round the corner; there stood
Cassiodorus's well-known Gallic travelling carriage, the comfortable
and elegant _carruca_, closed on all sides with movable latticed
shutters of polished wood, and to which were harnessed three
swift-footed Flemish horses.
"We must hasten, Princess," whispered Dolios, as he lifted her into the
soft cushions. "The litter was too slow for the hatred of your enemies.
Quiet and speed; so that no one may notice us."
Amalaswintha looked back once more.
Dolios opened the garden-gate and led the horses out. Two men stepped
out of the bushes near. One took the driver's seat on the carriage, the
other mounted one of two saddle-horses which stood outside the gate.
Amalaswintha recognised the men as confidential slaves belonging to
Cassiodorus. Like Dolios, they were provided with weapons.
The latter carefully closed the garden-gate, and let down the shutters
of the carriage. Then he mounted the remaining horse and drew his
sword.
"Forward!" he cried.
And the little company galloped away as if Death himself were at their
heels.
CHAPTER V.
Amalaswintha at first revelled in the feeling of gratitude, freedom,
and safety. She made happy plans of reconciliation. She saw her people
saved from Byzantium by her warning voice--saved from the treachery of
their own King.
She already heard the enthusiastic shouts of the valiant army,
announcing death to the enemy, and pardon to herself.
Lost in such dreams, the hours, days, and nights passed rapidly.
The party hurried on without pause. Three or four times a day the
horses were changed, so that mile after mile was passed with the utmost
velocity.
Dolios carefully watched over the Princess. He stood at the door of the
carriage with drawn sword, while his companions fetched meat and drink
from the stations which they passed.
The speed at which they went, and the faithful attention of Dolios,
freed the Princess from an anxiety which she had not been able for some
time to get rid of--it seemed to her that they were pursued.
Twice, at Perusia and Clusium, where the carriage stopped, she had
thought she heard the rattle of wheels and the sound of horses' hoofs
close behind.
And, at Clusium, she had even fancied, as she looked through the
lattices, that she saw a second _carruca_, likewise accompanied by
outriders, turn into the gate of that town.
But when she had spoken of this to Dolios, he had at once galloped back
to the gate, and shortly returned with the assurance that there was
nothing to be seen.
From that time she had noticed nothing more; and the mad haste with
which she was being carried to the wished-for island, encouraged the
hope that her enemies, even if they had discovered her flight and had
followed her for a time, had soon become tired and remained behind.
An accident, insignificant in itself, but fraught with dread because of
accompanying circumstances, suddenly darkened the brightening hopes of
the fugitive Princess.
A desolate, treeless waste extended on all sides, farther than the eye
could reach. Only reeds and tall marsh-plants stood in the damp ditches
on both sides of the Roman high-road, nodding and whispering
mysteriously in the night wind.
The road was now and then bordered by walls grown over with vines; or,
in old Roman style, by monuments, which, however, were often sadly
ruined, and the scattered stones of which, fallen across the road,
hindered the progress of the horses.
Suddenly the carriage stopped with a violent shock, and Dolios tore
open the door.
"What has happened?" cried the Princess; "have we fallen into the hands
of our enemies?"
"No," said Dolios, who, though known to her as gloomy and reserved,
seemed, during the journey, almost alarmingly silent; "a wheel is
broken. You must descend and wait until it is mended."
A violent gust of wind just then extinguished his torch, and chilly
drops of rain lashed the face of the terrified Princess.
"Descend? here? whither shall I go? There is no house near, not even a
tree which might afford a shelter from the rain and wind. I shall
remain in the carriage."
"The wheel must be taken off. That monument will afford some shelter."
Shivering with fright, Amalaswintha obeyed, and walked over the
scattered stones to the right side of the road, where, across the
ditch, she saw a tall monument rise out of the darkness.
Dolios helped her over the ditch. All at once the neighing of a horse
was heard on the road behind the carriage. Amalaswintha stopped short
in alarm.
"It is our rear-guard," said Dolios quickly. "Come!" And he led her
through the wet grass up the hill upon which stood the monument.
Arrived at the top, she seated herself upon the broad slab of a
sarcophagus. Dolios all at once disappeared into the darkness; in vain
she called him back. Presently she saw the light of his torch on the
road below; it shone redly through the mist of the marsh, and the
stormy wind rapidly bore away the sound of the hammer-strokes of the
slaves who were working at the wheel.
Thus sat the daughter of the great Theodoric, lonely and in fear. The
cold rain slowly penetrated her clothing. The wind tore at her dress
and sighed dismally through the cypresses behind the monument; ragged
clouds drove across the sky and at intervals permitted a gleam of
moonlight to penetrate their folds, which only intensified the darkness
that followed.
Amalaswintha's heart was sick with fear. Gradually her eyes became
accustomed to the gloom, and, looking about her, she could distinguish
the outlines of the nearest objects. There!--her heart stood still with
horror--it seemed to her as if, close behind her on the raised corner
of the back of the sarcophagus, there sat a second figure--it was not
her own shadow--a shorter figure in a wide flowing garment, its arms
resting on its knees, its head supported on its hands, and its eyes
fixed upon her.
She could scarcely breathe; she thought she heard a whisper; she
feverishly tried to see, to hear.
Again there came a whisper.
"No, no; not yet!" this was what she thought she heard.
She raised herself gently, and the figure, too, seemed to move; she
distinctly heard the clang of steel upon stone. In mortal fear she
screamed out:
"Dolios! lights! help! lights!"
She turned to descend the hill, but her knees trembled too much; she
fell and hurt her cheek against the sharp stones.
All at once Dolios stood beside her, and silently lifted her up. He
asked no questions.
"Dolios," she said, trying to compose herself, "give me the light! I
must see what was there; what is there now."
She took the torch and walked with a firm step round the corner of the
sarcophagus. There was nothing to be seen, but by the light of the
torch she now perceived that the monument was not old like the others,
but newly erected; so unsoiled was the white marble, so fresh the black
letters of the inscription.
Irresistibly impelled by the strange curiosity which is inseparable
from terror, she held the torch to the socle of the monument, and by
its flickering light read these words:
"Eternal honour to the three Balthes, Thulun, Ibba, and Pitza. An
eternal curse upon their murderers!"
With a scream Amalaswintha staggered back.
Dolios led her, half fainting, to the carriage. She passed the
remaining hours of her journey in an almost unconscious state. She felt
ill in body and mind. The nearer she came to the island the more the
feverish joy with which she had looked forward to reaching it was
replaced by a mysterious fear. With apprehension she saw the shrubs and
trees at the road-side fly past her faster and faster.
At last the smoking horses stopped. She let down the shutters and
looked out. It was that cold and dreary hour in which the first grey of
dawn struggles for the mastery with the still pervading night. They had
arrived, it seemed, at the shore of the lake, but nothing was to be
seen of its waters.
A dismal grey mist lay, impenetrable as the future, before
Amalaswintha's eyes. Of the villa, even of the island, nothing could be
seen.
On the right side of the road stood a low fisher-hut, half-buried in
the tall, thick reeds, which bent their heads to the soughing of the
morning wind. Singular! they seemed to warn and beckon her away from
the hidden lake behind them.
Dolios had gone into the hut. He now returned and lifted the Princess
out of the carriage. Silently he led her through the damp meadow to the
reeds. Among them lay a small boat, which seemed rather to float on the
mist than on the water.
At the rudder sat an old man in a grey and ragged mantle; his long
white hair hung dishevelled about his face. He seemed to sit dreaming
with closed eyes, which he did not even open when the Princess entered
the rocking boat and placed herself in the middle upon a camp-stool.
Dolios entered the boat after her, and took the two oars; the slaves
remained behind with the carriage.
"Dolios!" cried Amalaswintha anxiously, "it is very dark. Can the old
man steer in this fog, and no light on either shore?"
"A light would be of no use, Queen. He is blind."
"Blind!" cried the terrified woman. "Let me land! Put back!"
"I have guided the boat for twenty years," said the aged ferryman; "no
seeing man knows the way as well as I."
"Were you born blind then?"
"No. Theodoric the Amelung caused me to be blinded, believing that
Alaric, the brother of Thulun, had hired me to murder him. I am a
servant of the Balthes, and a follower of Alaric, but I was innocent;
and so was my master, the banished Alaric. A curse upon the Amelungs!"
he cried with an angry pull at the rudder.
"Silence, old man!" said Dolios.
"Why should I not say to-day what I have said at every oar-stroke for
twenty years? It is the way I beat time. A curse upon the Amelungs!"
The Princess looked with horror at the old man, who, in fact, steered
the boat with complete security, and as straight as an arrow.
His wide mantle and dishevelled hair waved in the wind; all around was
fog and silence; only the regular beat of the oars could be heard.
Empty air and grey mist enveloped the slight boat.
It seemed to Amalaswintha as if Charon was rowing her over the Styx to
the grey realm of shades.
Shivering, she drew her mantle closely around her.
A few more strokes of the oar, and they landed.
Dolios lifted the trembling Queen on to the land; but the old man
silently turned his boat, and rowed as quickly and unerringly back as
he had come. With a sort of dismay Amalaswintha watched him disappear
into the thick mist.
Suddenly it seemed to her as if she heard the sound of oar-strokes from
a second boat, which approached nearer and nearer. She asked Dolios
what was the cause of this noise.