"Food and drink and a place to sleep if you have it," said one on

horseback. His voice was full and resonant and very deep; the tones of

one used to command men. Another added querulously:

"This place is crowded to the doors. Every public-house--Say quick if

you can take us in, for a cloud of vermin is swarming at our heels,

ready to snap the food from our very jaws."

Nicodemus's eye, long used to sizing up the purses of would-be

customers, lighted to quick and eager greed.

"All I have is at your lordships' service. You say truly; Thorney is

crowded, so that many will sleep on the naked ground to-night."

There came a group of weary carters along the street, smelling loudly of

drink and of the stables, clamoring at every crowded house for bed and

board. Nicodemus saw the disgusted scorn with which the lord who had

last spoken regarded these; saw the other two on horseback turn away as

though contaminated by the very atmosphere of their presence,--an

atmosphere none too sweet, in truth,--and promptly took his cue.

"Nay, friend," said he to the foremost carter, as they clustered close

around, hopeful at last of shelter. "You're too late--I'm full. Best go

to the Black Cock--a step further down the street. There you'll find all

you ask for."

"The Black Cock be full also," the man protested sulkily. "You have room

to spare! See then, friend, we'll pay 'ee well."

But Nicodemus, fearful lest his golden geese should fly, turned on him

fiercely.

"Get ye gone! I've no time to dicker over coppers. I'm full, I tell you,

and that's all there is to it.--This way, lords."

He led his guests into the house, shouting for Myleia to come and put up

the horses. Two wore the dress of private citizens of wealth; the

equipment of the third and youngest proclaimed him a military tribune.

The face of this one, the most noticeable of the trio--a man of some

seven-and-thirty years--was pale and aristocratic, with high nose, thick

and level brows, a thin-lipped mouth at once refined and sensual. And

the eyes were the eyes of a son of Rome the Mighty, dark, keen,

dominant, impatient of restraint. Behind them one might read what the

man himself stood for; the epitome of centuries of culture, of severest

physical training and the restraint of the discipline of the mightiest

machine the world had ever seen; and, at the same time, of equal

centuries of indulgence and luxury and vice--a curious mingling of

ascetic and sybarite. Of the other two, one bore a marked resemblance to

the soldier, with the pride and passion of the younger face tempered by

years to a mellower dignity. He was richly dressed, and on his thumb

was a large and heavily chased signet ring. The third man, who at first

spoke little, keeping his eyes cast down, was small and shrivelled, with

a scholar's face and a distinct cast in the right eye.

These three sat at the table, whence Valerius had hurriedly removed

himself and his wine, and were served obsequiously by Nicodemus and his

wife with the best the house afforded. For a while they ate and drank in

silence. Then the tongue of the small old man, loosened by the wine,

began to wag. He spoke abruptly, in a voice husky and somewhat

over-precise.

"I had not looked to see thee here, friend Marius. Thy father made no

mention of thy coming."

"He knew nothing of it," the young tribune answered shortly. "There was

no time to send word from Gaul--where I have been stationed these last

two years--that I had been ordered into Britain. And when I arrived, he

was travelling, and my letter did not reach him."

"He came with his legion, which is that one sent hither by the proconsul

AEtius of Gaul, at the request of the governors of the cities to drive

out the barbarians from Britannia Secunda. And that was nine months

ago," his father explained.

"So; I see. It was gallant work of gallant men," said the old man with

effusion. The soldier shrugged his broad shoulders in an indifference

half contemptuous. "And thou hast remained in Britain since thy comrades

sailed back to Gaul?"

"The commander left certain men to guard against further outbreak," the

father of Marius explained, patiently. "And my son is of that number.

But the trouble seems thoroughly subdued, and they have been ordered to

return to Gaul."

"I have applied for leave by the physicians' orders, having been wounded

during the affair," said Marius. "Myself I know that I am fit for

service, but I am constrained--" Again he shrugged. "A campaign hath

been started in Gaul against the Huns who threaten us, and you may guess

if I like the prospect of missing it. Until my leave is granted, I am

here to make arrangements for a vessel for my cohort. After, I shall

remain for some weeks; it is long since my father and I have been

together."

"And those weeks, I doubt not, you will spend together at the house of

Eudemius," the old man persisted, and received a curt grunt of assent.

Undeterred by lack of enthusiasm of his hearers, he settled to the

discussion of a new subject.

"It is years since I have seen him, but men say that he is greatly

changed, since the physicians have failed to mend his daughter's

misfortune."

The soldier, staring moodily into his horn cup, made no sign of having

heard. His father poured himself more wine, and nodded. The old man

added, with a chuckle and a senile attempt at jocularity:

"Marius, boy, thou shouldst but see her! Not a goddess of Rome herself

could equal her. Eh, but she's the morsel for thy lips, she and her fat

lands and the gold of her father's coffers. And it were high time thou

shouldst think of marriage."

"I care nothing for damaged goods," Marius interrupted. "And as for

marriage, that may well wait awhile."

"But since thou art to visit the father, it is but meet that thou

shouldst become enamoured of the daughter, for the time at least. What

else could be expected of thee?" quavered he of the cast. He poured

himself another cup of wine; his hand, none too steady, shook, and the

liquor spilled. Hereat he wept, dolefully, and forgot his discourse on

the duty of guests to their hosts' daughters. Unheeding him, the others

talked quietly, in low tones. But he, bound to hold the centre of the

stage, remembered suddenly what he wished to say, and began again.

"My boy, thou couldst have her for the taking!"

Marius, his speech with his father interrupted, eyed him with a sort of

grim patience, waiting until he chose to cease.

"A fit morsel for thy lips," the garrulous one repeated. "I speak of

what mine eyes have seen. What if the mind be wanting, so long as the

face is fair? Many a man hath found too much mind a sorry investment in

a wife. And she's fair enough! By Venus, yes! Eyes like clouded stars,

midnight tresses, a bosom whiter than milk--"

Marius laughed scornfully.

"Maybe so! But so have a thousand others, with sense thrown in. Why so

keen to set me after her? Let the poor fool be. I tell you I'll have no

damaged goods. If I marry at all, by the veil of Isis, the price I must

needs pay will be high enough to warrant me in asking the best in

return."

Nicanor, hearing the murmur of voices, raised his head slowly and looked

over the edge of the bunk. He saw Valerius in his corner, sound asleep,

and wondered what he wanted there. The old man sat with his back to

him, but the face of the soldier was in plain sight. At him Nicanor

stared, stolidly, without interest, and let himself drop back into the

blankets. But the remedy of Nicodemus was beginning to have effect. By

degrees his head became clearer; objects in the room no longer jumped

startlingly when he set his glance upon them; his thoughts became more

connected. There had been a scene in a garden--her garden. Marcus had

come; had discovered him with her. His heart stood still. What had

happened then? Had he killed the old man? He recalled the truth with a

gasp of relief which yet was mingled with apprehension. But afterwards?

There came to him, slowly, a memory, vague and confused, of a weary

wandering through endless night, torn by temptation and desire, raging

with defiance of the consequences of his rashness, consumed by fever

that ran through his veins like fire and dried the very heart within

him. What had become of Varia? Of Marcus? How much had been found out?

Sudden blind fury at his impotence in the face of supreme and arrogant

power possessed him. The brazen collar about his throat burned like a

band of fire. He raised his hands to it, and let them drop. What could

he do--a slave? After all, what did it matter? Nothing mattered then,

save Varia. He lay devising ways and means of seeing her again, since

this he was bound to do, though gods and men might say him nay. The

voices at the table droned on, as from a great distance, and Nicanor lay

and listened. They spoke of some woman. No name was mentioned, but the

description of her, as it fell from the old man's maudlin lips, sent his

heart pounding. So might be described another woman, who for him held

life and death and all that lay between. The voice of Valerius at his

ear made him start.

"Awake, lad? Art better? So, then; it's time to start."

Nicanor got out of the bunk. Once on his legs, he discovered that he was

by no means steady. The three at the table ceased talking as he rose,

more from prudence than curiosity, it seemed. The soldier glanced at

him, with keen eyes, indifferent at first, lighting to faint

professional interest, that noted every point of bearing and physique;

the lean flanks, swelling upward to muscular torso and the shoulders of

a chariot-racer; the knotted muscle of forearm and back; finally rested

on the broad collar circling the brown massive throat.

"That fellow would look well in the ranks," he observed casually. His

father glanced at Nicanor as one might at a dog whose good points were

under discussion, and nodded. Marius added, continuing what had gone

before:

"You can't kill a man with hard work if you know how to handle him. I

tell Fabian that these brushes with barbarians at least serve the

purpose of keeping the men in condition."

His father sighed.

"Always thou wert a hard taskmaster, Marius," he said gently. "It may be

that thou drivest the men farther than thou knowest. Men are not brute

beasts, that they must be goaded even to the breaking-point."

"Most men are, my father," Marius returned. "Most men will do what they

are made to do, no more. As for driving them to breaking-point, I think

you need not fear for that. Men need a lot of killing."

He fell into silence, staring into the amber depths of his cup of wine.

His father glanced at him, sighed once more, and turned away. Nicodemus

and Myleia hurried in to prepare fresh beds for their lordly guests.

Valerius and Nicanor went out into the night.

The keen air struck Nicanor like a dash of cold water. He drew a deep

and grateful breath of it, and felt revived.

"How long have I been from the house?" he asked, with intent to fill in

the blank spaces of his memory.

"It is the second night," Valerius answered. "When you asked Hito for

leave, he gave command that you return last night."

"When I asked Hito--" Nicanor repeated. He had no recollection of having

asked the overseer for anything.

"You did not come, so, being angry, he directed me to search for you and

bring you back for a flogging. What more was in store, he did not say."

Nicanor shot a glance of swift suspicion at him through the darkness.

"What more should there be?" he demanded.

"Why, how can I tell?" Valerius parried. "Imprisonment, maybe, for a day

or so.... Though, in truth, as the offence is repeated by some one or

other every day, he can have no excuse for--"

"Well?" Nicanor said impatiently, as Valerius paused.

"Treating you as he would like to do," the latter added soberly. "Hito

hates you, my friend."

Nicanor shrugged his shoulders. This tale of an overseer's feelings was

not what he had feared.

"Oh, that!" he exclaimed, and snapped his fingers. "If that were all I

had to think about.... Valerius, tell me this. Each time I have seen you

I have wished to ask. How comes it that you are in the service of the

Torturer?"

"I got tired of the church," Valerius answered simply. "The good fathers

were very good, but me they singled out as the black sheep of all the

fold, and it was more than could be endured. 'What religion have you?'

says Father Ambrose. 'None at all,' says I, 'and want none.' So he

nearly wept, and told the others, and they agreed that I was fit food

for the fires of hell. So they gave me their blessing, and told me Holy

Church was better off without me, and there were no more sandals to be

repaired. Then I fell in with Hito, and he took me into the service of

our lord. How hath it been with you?"

Nicanor told of the manner of his capture, and Valerius laughed.

"Clever!" he chuckled. "But tell me truth, lad. Is not this a long sight

better than the work-room of that fish-faced brother Tobias? Are we not

hand in glove with the great ones of the earth? Do we not know them, in

all their parts, far better than those of their own world could ever do,

since we serve them?"

"Ay," said Nicanor. "That is so. And yet, after all--when I was in the

workshop, if the bone cut straight, and if there was what I liked for

supper, I was happy, and wanted nothing more. Now--"

"Now," said Valerius, dropping into his old familiar tone, with an arm

thrust through Nicanor's--"now thou hast found that there are many other

things in life which a man may want. Is it not so?"

"Ay," Nicanor said again. "That is so also."

V

In the slaves' quarters, next morning, Nicanor took his flogging without

a change of face, while Hito, the fat overseer, looked on and grinned in

evil glee. But Nicanor had so much worse than flogging hanging over him

that he scarcely felt the blows, and merely grinned back at Hito, with

insolent bravado, until the latter was cursing with rage. Then, being

set to grind sand for the floors of the kitchens, he made an opportunity

to seek out Marcus. But Marcus was nowhere to be found. Nicanor

questioned, cautiously; no one had seen him. Apparently, no one cared

what had become of him. He might have been rotting in sewer or

drain-hole for all his fellow-slaves seemed concerned. To save his life

Nicanor could not have told just why he wished to find the old man,

since the farther he and Marcus were apart, the better it would be for

both.

Foiled in his search, he went back to work again. Many times before his

labor was ended, he passed the closed door of the garden where Varia

dwelt; and each time his heart beat hard and his face flushed and his

brown hands trembled. To know her so near, and not to see her; to be

conscious of her in every throbbing pulse, and not to seek her; not to

know whether she was safe and unharmed, or whether blame for his

rashness had fallen, through her father's wrath, on her--

"Last night I could have gone to her had I not chosen to make myself a

drunken swine," he said, and caught himself up in fear lest he had

spoken the words aloud. "Did she look for me--wait for me?--for I'll

warrant she has not forgotten. But to-night--to-night--"

He caught his breath, his eyes lighting.

"I'll make her confess she loves me! I'll have the words from her own

lips--words, ay, and kisses also! Ah, lord, noble lord, mighty lord!

what wouldst say to know that for the lifting of a slave's finger thou

standest to lose what all thy gold could never buy thee back?" His

passion died before it had fairly gathered force. He stood an instant,

motionless and shaken, drew a hand across his eyes, and returned to his

labor.

All that day Hito worked him mercilessly, in a mean and entirely

comprehensible spirit of revenge, until, being not fully recovered from

his drinking-bout, his brain was reeling and he could scarcely keep his

legs. At sunset he took his share of the rations dealt out nightly to

the slaves, but although he was faint from emptiness the sight of the

food turned him sick. He went to the cell where he, with others, slept,

and dropped like a log, exhausted in mind and body. Here he lay until

Hito's whistle summoned the household slaves for emergency service. Not

to obey meant punishment, but in his present state Nicanor cared little

for that. He lay listening to the sound of hasty feet and voices as

slaves passed to and fro across the courtyard to the house, expecting

momently to be called to account for his delinquency. But no one came to

him, and by and by he slept.

Waking, he found the world dark and peopled with restless, moving

shadows. There was still much hurrying here and there, and from the

kitchens came strident sounds of nervous activity. Thither Nicanor

started, across the unlighted court, stopping on the way for a cup of

water at the well. As he put down the dipper and turned to go, he ran

into some one bound in the same direction, who staggered under the shock

with an exclamation, and dropped a dish, which crashed into fragments on

the ground. At the same instant Nicanor caught her by the shoulder and

steadied her; in the darkness he could not see her face.

"It is broken!" she exclaimed. "I must go quickly and get another."

"It was my fault," said Nicanor. "I will go."

"There is no need," the woman answered.

She started back, Nicanor keeping perversely beside her.

"What is happening?" he wished to know. "Is there a feast made in the

house to-night?" He could feel that she was looking at him in surprise.

"You do not know? Two strangers came to-day, with news of importance,

men say, for our lord. There be strange things told: they urge that our

lord will go back with them to Rome. The old man was indisposed when he

arrived; his servant tells that he is not over strong."

She hurried off, and Nicanor stood still, repeating stupidly her words.

"Our lord will go back with them to Rome. Then she will go with him. But

that is not possible. His home is here--why should he leave it?" At once

he was filled with feverish anxiety to find out what truth there might

be in the gossip.

He invented an errand which would take him within the house, to see if

by chance Lady Varia might be among the feasters. Since she was kept in

strictest seclusion by Eudemius, he was quite sure of not finding her,

but his mood of perversity still held. On the way he met a Saxon slave,

Wardo, a fair-haired, blue-eyed fellow, hurrying toward the atrium with

a pierced copper bowl packed with snow for cooling wines. Him Nicanor

stopped with a question.

"Hast seen these strangers, Wardo? Whence come they, and who have been

bidden to meet them?"

"They and our lord sup alone," Wardo answered. He shifted his bowl from

hand to hand, and blew on his fingers as though it burned instead of

freezing him. "The dancing girls have been commanded, and wine is to be

brought. Much hath been brought already. And Nicanor, hark 'ee! Egon,

who pours the wines, saith that the talk is strange talk for feasting.

They urge that our lord go back with them to Rome--wherefore, think you?

They speak of Rome, and Londinium, and the legions from Gaul, and of

losses of ships and money, until one's head rings. What might it be

about? Think you that we go to Rome? I should like to go to Rome, if it

be anything like Londinium--"

"We go to Rome?" Nicanor repeated. "Say rather that we should be left

here to die like chained rats that the trainer hath forgotten."

He went off; and watched his chance and slipped away outside, and

stopped before the little garden door. He put his hand upon it, drew

back, and glanced over his shoulder as though for possible pursuit. His

face held a curious mixture of doubt and boldness, hesitancy and desire.

Only a moment he paused; then opened the door with a silent key, slipped

inside so that the vines scarcely rustled, and closed it without noise.

No one was in the garden. His eagerness took fire at the delay; lithe

and silent as a mountain cat he crossed the open space of lawn, mounted

the steps of the terrace, and gained the windows, whence came no light

from the tall silver lamps within. And here he discovered that the

windows were closed. With all his boldness he dared venture no further.

Baffled, yet keener set in his determination for being thwarted, he drew

back into the shadows and waited.

From where he stood by the marble bench no sound came to him save the

chirring of insects in the grass, the squeak of a bat or twitter of a

sleepy bird. One might never have thought the place to be in the heart

of a house whose inmates numbered five hundred souls and more, so still

it was, so seemingly remote from all human noise and tumult. The

combined effects of the silence and the perfume of the many

night-blooming plants made him drowsy; also his head was light from want

of food. Every clump of bushes seemed suspicious; he began at last to

hear footsteps in every sough of wind and creak of branch. But he set

his teeth grimly, bound not to be beaten, fighting hard against sleep

and overwhelming weariness. Yet what it meant for him should he, in

spite of himself, fall asleep and be discovered there by Lady Varia's

women, none knew better than he.

"She will come! She must come!" he muttered, and kept himself awake with

that.

And she did come. After untold hours of waiting, during which he

alternately dozed and started into uneasy watchfulness through sheer

force of will, she came to him out of the scented darkness, walking

slowly, with hands hanging straight at her sides, a slim figure dimly

white. So suddenly did she appear that at first he did not move,

believing himself still drowsing. But she stopped before him; and at

once the world fell away from him, leaving him thought and memory of

nothing but that she had come to him at his call and that they were

alone together.

"I am here," she said, very low. "Didst call me, or did I dream it? And

why?"

"Because I wanted thee!" he answered, and caught her hands and kissed

them. His own hands shook as he drew her down upon the bench beside him;

he dared not trust his voice to utter what was on his tongue. She sat

beside him, leaving her hands in one of his, and he slipped his arm

about her, unrebuked. In the darkness he could not tell whether or not

her eyes were on him. Presently she spoke.

"Hast thou not a tale to tell to-night? Last night thou didst not come,

and I was lonely. All the night I did not sleep. Now I am tired--so

tired...."

Her voice drifted into silence. She yawned, quite openly, like a sleepy

child, and leaned her head slowly back against his arm. Nicanor quivered

from head to foot, and tightened his clasp about her. It was these

innocent tricks of hers, these child ways, wholly trusting, without

thought of guile, that made him mad for her, tempted him almost beyond

endurance, and yet, in their very innocence, made themselves her

strongest shield. She knew nothing, with that child's soul of hers, of

the passion which shook him at her touch, which sent his hands hot when

her fingers fluttered into his, and set his heart pounding in heavy

throbs when, as now, she leaned her cheek above it. How should she know?

Her mind was a child's mind, unawakened, even though her body was a

woman's body, fragrant cup of the mystic wine of life, abounding in

sweet allurements of which she knew not the smallest meaning.

"I would have another tale!" she said at length, imperiously, and raised

her head to look at him in grieved surprise that her command should be

so slighted. But Nicanor drew her back to him, lifting both her cool

palms to his burning face.

"Ah, lady mine!" he said, "the only tale I have to tell thee, I may not

utter. None other have I to-night; my heart is big with it, my brain

reels with it, but my lips must e'en be dumb. And yet--I know that thou

wouldst listen; that what I might say would echo in thy heart forever

and a day. Then why should I not say it? Why, if the thorns be not

strong enough to guard, should I not pluck the rose?"

He gathered her more closely into his arms, drinking the perfume of her

hair, the warmth of her, into every fibre of his being. She lay quiet,

her head thrown back against his shoulder, great eyes wide open in the

darkness, resting easily as a bird in its nest against his strength.

"Because the rose is too fair and fragrant for common hands to pluck."

Nicanor's voice grew to a hushed intensity, as though he argued with

himself a point gone over many times before, yet never wholly

gained--what higher manhood there was in him contending with temptation

innocently offered, striving against lawless passion and desire. "Now it

is but a half-blown bud, this rose, knowing nothing of the perils which

beset all roses in all gardens, lady mine, hiding the golden heart of it

in shy, half-open leaves. Some day a high-born stranger will enter the

garden, and the gardener will point to this his rose, and say: 'Look

you, friend, at the fair flower I have nurtured here. I have tended it

well, kept from it frost and blasting heat, watered it, let the sun to

shine upon it. Now it is ready for the plucking--take you it.' Then the

stranger will pluck the rose, and will watch it unfold, petal by petal,

until all the beauty of it is laid bare. And gardener nor stranger will

ever know that one was in the garden there before them, with his hand

upon the rose's stem and his breath upon the rose's heart."

Varia stirred and brushed a hand across his lips.

"But that is not a tale!" she said plaintively. "Or if it be a tale, it

is a sad one. The poor rose! It may be that it wished to stay within the

garden, and not be plucked to fade away and die. I had not thought of

that before! Never will I pluck a rose again; I will let it live where

the gardener plants it. I thought it pretty to pluck them and smell

them, and watch the leaves all fall; I did not know I killed them!

Sometimes I think that people do not know when they kill roses. Now tell

another tale, I pray thee! Tell that tale of when thou and I lived long

and long ago, and of how we met in that other world which is gone. That

tale I love the best of all."

"Of how we met--" Nicanor repeated absently. Again his mood had changed,

as always in her presence. When away from her, with but the memory of

her face, her innocent wiles, her passiveness under his caresses,

passion had its way with him, blinding him, rendering him desperate,

careless of consequences. But when with her, that very innocence of hers

wrought its own spell upon him, taming and stilling him with an awe

which he but half understood. Curiously, this chastened mood left him

invariably sullen and surly, after the manner of a beast which sulks at

having missed its kill.

"Of how we met?" he said again. "So then. Once thou and I lived very

long ago. Ages and ages ago it was, when the world was young, and only

the moon and the stars were old. None walked upon the earth save we two,

and the world and its beauty was for us alone. Dusky forests covered all

the land, where strange birds sang and great flowers grew. Wild beasts

roamed these forests with us, but we walked among them unafraid, for

they knew not that they could harm us. Beneath the sunken light of old

scarred moons we wandered hand in hand; and day by day I told that tale

to thee I dare not tell thee now, and there was none to hinder me.

"Canst dream of a world all happiness, my lady, a world without shadow

of sorrow or cloud of care, with nothing but happy sunshine and the

songs of birds? That world was our world. And in it we were free, we

two, free to wander where we would, free as the winds that called us.

Who may know freedom as do those who walk in chains? We knew not then

the measure of this our freedom, for we had known no thraldom of flesh

nor spirit. Therefore the high gods decreed that we should be brought to

know the greatness of their gift, by losing it; that in our lives to

come we should be bound, and bound remain until we knew what we had

lost. Thy bonds sit upon thee lightly, yet in thine eyes I read that

they are there. And I--I am learning fast what freedom means. In the

shade of great trees which upheld the very floor of heaven we rested,

thou and I, and saw the wide earth smiling in warm golden noons. It was

then thy hands first learned to cling to mine"--he raised her hands and

kissed them--"it was then thy head first leaned above my heart--ay, even

so long since, in the beginning of the world. Down all the after ages it

hath been the same; somewhere, somehow, we met; and each time of our

meeting there came to us a memory of dear dead days long gone, forgotten

until a breath from dim gardens where we wandered blew to us from the

past. Oh, but those days were long, each one a jewel of flame and azure,

strung on the golden chain of Time; and the nights were long, and warm,

and clear, and perfumed as thy hair. Our food was fruit and the nuts I

gathered; our wine the waters of clear brooks which thou drankest from

my hands. Ferns, deep and fragrant, made our couch."

He stopped abruptly.

"As my soul liveth, I can tell no more!" he said, and his voice was

shaken. "Sweet lady o' mine, urge me not, for thine own sake! Thou dost

not understand--how shouldst thou? Any tale I'll tell thee--any tale

save a tale of thee and me."

"That is the tale which I will have," said Varia, drowsily.

Nicanor smothered an exclamation.

"Child, canst not see that my hands tremble, that I burn with fever, and

am scarce master of myself?" His tone quickly changed and softened.

"There, then, I will not frighten thee! Only ask me not to try my

strength beyond its limit with that tale I taught thee to love and long

for--"

"Then I shall go," said Varia, with no smallest understanding of his

cry, and rose from the bench. But Nicanor was quicker than she. He

caught her hand and turned her half around to face him.

"Nay, I'll not let thee go!" he said unevenly. "The hour is mine, and

the night is mine--and I cannot let thee go!"

She sat down once more upon the bench, passively submissive as a child

to its elders' will. Nicanor dropped on one knee on the grass beside

her, his arms across her lap, his hands prisoning one of hers. His deep

voice lowered to a note of lingering tenderness that thrilled like the

strings of a harp gently touched.

"Oh, light of all the world to me!" he said softly. "If I but dared tell

thee of the thoughts that are mine, and the madness that is mine, and

the punishment for them that is mine also! Wouldst understand? Ay,

truly, I think so! For I'd tell it so that the deaf trees, that whisper

always and hear not--ay, and the very winds of heaven, could not help

but know the meaning of my words."

She put her free hand to his face, upturned to hers, and stroked it.

"Thou poor one!" she said with gentle pity. "Is it that thou art ill

to-night? Thy face burns hot, like fire. Is all well with thee?"

Nicanor suddenly bowed his head forward on her knees.

"Nay," he answered huskily. "It is not well."

She sat a moment, her hand resting idle on his rough black head.

"I am sorry!" she said then, simply. "Is there--is there aught that I

could do? When my lord father is ill, he will have me sometimes to

stroke his head, to ease the pain. Wilt thou that I should stroke thy

head also?--Nay, do not move! See, I will touch it so, and so, and soon

thou shalt be cured."

She bent over him, as he leaned against her, her soft hands slowly

stroking his forehead with touch as light as the brushing of a

rose-leaf. Nicanor stood it as long as he could. Then he crushed her

hands in his, and kissed them passionately, many times, and rose to his

feet.

"Dear little hands, that would cure all the pain and sorrow of the world

an they might! They have healed me, sweet, and made me sane--ay, and

wounded deeper than they healed! Go now, quickly, dear heart, while I

have courage and will to say it."

"But--" she began, hesitating. He interrupted, fiercely.

"Go, child, go! Or I'll not give thee the chance again!"

"But thy head--" she persisted.

"It is cured," he answered. As she turned away, surprised at his sudden

brusqueness, he took a step beside her.

"Hast heard that thy lord father will leave Britain for Rome?" he asked

abruptly.

"Leave Britain? But it is not so!" she exclaimed. "Why should he do

that? He would not leave without me, and I--I will not go. I will stay

here; I will not go to Rome! And thou,--" she came closer to him,--"wilt

thou come to-morrow and tell me tales? Last night I waited for thee, and

when thou didst not come I was lonely. Do not let me be lonely again, I

pray thee!"

Nicanor looked at her for a time.

"Ay," he said finally, in a hushed voice. "I will come."

She turned from him and started across the grass. He watched her, and

his hands slowly clenched. She looked back once over her shoulder, her

face glimmering white in the starlit darkness. It was enough. In a

stride he was after her; in a heart-beat she was in his arms, her face

hidden against his breast.

"I love thee--I love thee!" he whispered hoarsely. "Heart of mine, that

is the tale I dared not tell! A tale of three words, three little words,

which yet is longer than any tale that ever was said or sung. Dost

understand, dear heart, what that must mean to thee and me?"

She drew herself away from him with her hands against his breast.

"You love me," she repeated, not questioningly, but as one making

statement of a fact. "Ay, I understand that. Why should I not?" Her

voice grew tenderly solemn. "'Where thou art, Caius, there am I, Caia;

and thy people shall be my people' ... _that_ is when one loves."

Nicanor cut her short with an exclamation.

"Ay, that is when happy other men and women love!" he said bitterly.

"But not for such as thou and I. For us, beloved, it means that where

thou art, there I may not be; that all men, all circumstance, would

strive to part us, since the world will have it that high blood may not

mate with lowly."

"But why?" she asked. Her voice was wondering. "If two people love, is

not that enough?"

"'If two people love,'" Nicanor repeated. He drew her back into his arms

and turned her face upward to the stars and to his eyes. "Beloved, I

have said I love thee with a love that must last through life and death

and all that lies beyond. So, since I am what I must be, I have placed

my life within thy hands for good or ill. Thou sayest 'If two people

love.' Dost thou then love me?"

She raised her head and looked full at him.

"Ay, surely I love thee," she answered. "Thou hast told me tales so

strange and wonderful that none were ever like them in the world before.

And thou hast been kind to me, nor ever scolded, nor called me fool, as

does my lord father when I have displeased him. Does not one always love

those who are kind to one? It is the least that one can do, I think. And

yet ... I do not know. What is this love thou hast?"

"The most terrible thing in the world, and the sweetest," Nicanor

answered, his eyes on hers. "It is a chain that binds life to life, and

the links of the chain are drops of heart's blood. It is pain from

which one would not seek relief. Men have called it a flower, beloved,

but it is no flower, for flowers wither in a little space, and die, and

love hath eternal life. Ay, for it is eternal; and death, to it, is but

a moment in the dark."

Varia caught her breath with a smothered sob.

"Ah, but I do love thee when thou talkest so!" she whispered. "Often I

cannot understand thy words, but I can feel them, here,--" she clasped

her hands above her heart,--"and sometimes they make me glad, and

sometimes sorry, and sometimes they frighten me, and I do not at all

know why. But always I long to hear more. They make me to want things I

have not got, to know things I do not know, for I am very foolish. Oh,

thou wizard of the silver tongue!" She raised both hands to his temples,

and he could feel that her fingers shook. "Play not with me for the sake

of thy sport, I pray thee! Ay, I am very foolish,--I know it,--for I may

not understand how such things be; but thy speech leads me as a nurse

leads her child by the hand, and I am afraid, because I cannot

understand whither thou wouldst have me go."

"Play with thee! Beloved, it is no play to me," Nicanor answered. "I'd

give thee all my life and soul, as I've given thee my heart, could I but

keep from thee a moment's fear or sorrow." He bent his head and kissed

her snowy eyelids. "Whatever God or gods there be that men may pray to,

may they have thee, lady mine, in their holy keeping. Whoever they may

be, I give thanks that this night they guarded thee--or was it the veil

of thine own white innocence around thee?--for this night hath a beast

been held at bay."

He let her go, and stood watching hungrily as she slipped away from him

across the grass. Over the surrounding walls of the villa a faint gray

mist came stealing. The song of the insects had died, and the world hung

silent, awaiting the mystery of the day. The trees and bushes of the

garden massed themselves into denser shadow against the tinge of ghostly

light. From somewhere, far away, a cock crew, and another answered.

Nicanor listened until the faint click of a closing window reached him.

Suddenly he buried his face in his hands and stood an instant

motionless, a dark and sombre figure in the gray loneliness of dawn.

Before the light had gathered strength for him to be more than a moving

blot among the shadows, he pulled himself together with a quick shake of

his shoulders, and vanished amid the tangle of vines and shrubbery that

hid the little garden door.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

PAWNS AND PLAYERS

BOOK III

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Book III

PAWNS AND PLAYERS

I

The lord Eudemius, covered with tawny leopard skins, lay stretched on a

couch of carven ebony in the library of the villa, of which the windows

overlooked the great central courtyard. He was a tall man, spare, with

black, sombre eyes, a high nose, and a wiry black beard, close clipped.

His hands, long and white and nervous, held a scroll which he kept

slowly unwinding and letting roll together again. His face was

remarkable for nothing save its complete impassivity; devoid of all

expression, it was merely a mask behind which the man kept locked his

real self and thoughts. A dish of fruit stood on a stand at his elbow.

With him in the room sat Livinius, the father of Marius, making notes

with a stylus on a tablet of ivory coated with wax. The face of Livinius

was grave, yet eager. He began to speak presently, as though continuing

a conversation which had gone before.

"Rome has often needed gold, and has wrung it from the people

mercilessly; but I tell you, Eudemius, that her need was never greater

than in this hour. Ay, and not gold alone she must have, but brains to

plan for her, hands to work for her, blood to be spilled for her. You,

yourself, friend, have been soldier, senator, statesman. You know, as I

know, and as every Roman in his soul must know, that the core of the

trouble lies in the fact that she hath gathered in more than her two

hands could hold. I would not see her other than she is,--mistress of

the world; but I would first see her in a position to maintain that

title in the face of all challenge. And she is not in such position.

Outwardly, she hath all show of might, of force invincible and

impregnable. But behind this, what is there? The weakness of dissension,

where there should be solidarity; division of interests, where nothing

can save but union; rottenness, where there should be wholesomeness and

vigor. This is not treason I speak, but truth. We have served her in

field and forum, you and I; we have offered our blood on her altars; we

shall both carry the marks of her service until we die. And she hath

paid us well. Now I am worn out, useless, and cast aside; she has taken

all she would from me, even my son. But you, old friend, have still what

she needs to offer. She needs gold; but more than that, she needs one,

powerful as you are powerful, to come forward and point to more timid

ones the way. When she enters her own once more, she will repay your

loan with interest, for that hath ever been Rome's way. I tell you, Rome

in these days is like a sinking ship, from which the rats scurry in

swarms, to stand aside and wait to see if there be prospect of a safe

return. Here, overseas, you get but an echo of the truth. Every day the

call goes out for more troops, and more."

Eudemius nodded thoughtfully.

"So the Third Legion is to be recalled from Gaul to Rome. It is what may

be expected, but I had not thought so soon. Their plans have been kept

well secret. AEtius will soon not have men enough for himself, not to

speak of sending over men to our assistance. I suppose your son goes

with them? It must be all of ten years since I saw him last."

"He hath changed," the father answered quietly. "Yes, he goes, and I go

with him. Come thou with us, friend! What has Rome done to thee that

thou shouldst not answer to her need? Now, if ever, is the time when her

sons must rally to her, for with all her faults--and she hath many--she

is still the mother of them all. I know well that it was within her

walls that thy trouble fell upon thee; but was she to blame for that?"

Eudemius's dark face never changed from its graven inscrutability, but

his thin hands clutched the scroll tighter and let it fall. Livinius

eyed him tenderly.

"Is not the old wound healing, even yet?" he asked with great

gentleness. For a moment silence fell. Then Eudemius, stooping from the

couch to pick up the fallen roll, said in his hard and even voice, as

though he discussed matters of small moment and everyday concern:

"Healing? Nay, how should it heal when each day fresh salt is rubbed

into it? Take a look at it now, if you will, for hereafter we'll let it

bide and rankle as it must. Tell me; have not your eyes seen changes,

mental as well as physical, concerning which your lips have not

questioned?"

"Changes? in you?" said Livinius, dropping into the other's more

distant tone. "Ay, that is true, and my heart aches to see them. That is

another reason why I urge your return to Rome. New scenes, new

faces--your life is broken, yet a broken pitcher may be mended."

"True," Eudemius admitted evenly. "But who expects it to hold water

again? Is it not rather placed upon the shelf and forgotten--if, indeed,

it be not flung upon the rubbish-heap?"

"But think of this--" Livinius persisted. Eudemius broke in.

"Ay, I have thought of this and that, and this is all it comes to!" he

said harshly. "That when I am gone, my name, blazoned in the annals of

Rome before great Caesar was, must dwindle out to nothing with a weak

girl. It came to me great, unstained, heavy with memories of soldiers,

heroes, statesmen, who had borne it worthily and left it clean for their

sons and their sons' sons. I made it the name of wealth as well as of

greatness; I thought to hand it down to my sons and my sons' sons, as

the fires of Vesta are handed down from one generation to the next. A

son I prayed for--what any sodden carter is judged worthy to beget; a

male child to uprear in the traditions of his house, to add, an he

might, his share to the glory of it. A son to serve Rome as his fathers

served. And what was born to me? A puling fool, not worthy even to breed

her kind into the world. Were she blessed with wit, she might mate with

one worthy of her blood and keep her name thus from complete extinction.

As it is--what man would have her to bear him mindless brats? Who would

become sire to a race of idiots?"

Livinius scratched the wax of his tablet absently, and rubbed his finger

over the mark.

"I have wondered often why you never married again," he remarked,

tentatively. "It is fifteen years since Constantia's death; surely in

that time you might have found a woman to become the mother of your

sons."

"True, I might," Eudemius admitted, coolly. "But those fifteen years

ago, through mine own folly and hatred of life after that double blow of

her death and knowledge of the girl's condition,--for it was a blow,

Livinius, since I was not then the wooden image of to-day,--there fell

on me the judgment of the gods for such rebellion as mine." He turned

his sombre eyes full on Livinius. "Would you believe, to see me as I sit

here, that mine is a body racked by the tortures of the damned, drained

of the very sap of life by disease that eats into every nerve and leaves

it raw and quivering, yet that only numbs when its fury is spent, and

will not kill? That time after time, when its throes are on me, I have

turned craven and begged Claudius for a potion to end it all?" He

laughed shortly, with no sound of merriment. "I marry again--a rotten

hulk fit only for carrion!"

Livinius listened, shocked.

"Oh, my dear!" he exclaimed in honest sympathy, "is it indeed thus with

thee? And I had thought of thee entering the harbor of thy rest,

wealthy, honored, reconciled, perhaps, to what the gods in their wisdom

had ordained for thee, to end thy days in quiet and content. For fifteen

years, thou sayest. Man, how hast thou lived to tell it?"

Eudemius smiled, a smile which began at his lips and ended there,

leaving his bitter eyes unlightened.

"Ay, fifteen years--and yet not so bad as that!" he said shortly. "Or it

would have been well over with me by now. But I have known from the

first what lay ahead. I won it from Claudius,--poor fool, how he

trembled to tell me!--knew that each attack must be more severe than the

one before; that each day the disease would stride forward a slow inch,

no more, and no human skill might advance it or hold it back." His harsh

voice sank a note lower. "At such times, when that grip closes upon me,

I know not what I do. Rather, I know, yet am powerless to act otherwise.

I tell thee, Livinius, I have had slaves flogged, ay, tortured, before

my eyes, to see if by chance I might find suffering greater than mine

own. And if they died, I have had tortured those who let them die, for

it is not death I want, but what I have found to be worse than death.

Judge then if I were not better out of the world! Yet the only way of

release open to me I will not take, since I have not yet lost courage

enough to brand myself a coward. I have told Claudius, on pain of death

for disobedience, that no matter how I cry to him for peace, he shall

pay no heed. Strange, is it not, that in this house the only happy thing

is the cause of all the sorrow that hath entered it? And yet--perhaps it

is not so strange. She is but the cause; on others fall the effects, ...

and in their wisdom the gods have ordered that only effects shall count

in their scheme of things."

He put a hand over Livinius's hand, held it a moment, and let it go. For

the first time he fell into the intimacy of the other's speech.

"Thank thee, old friend, for thy sympathy. It is not often that the gall

of my bitterness overflows, for I have learned the wisdom of the Stoic

at first hand. But I can claim scant sympathy here,--and would not if I

could,--where men call me the Torturer behind my back and cringe like

curs before my face. I am hard and cruel and calloused to the bone; yet

were I not thus, in the name of the high gods, what should I be? A thing

lower than man, who can be lower than the beasts; from which gods and

men--ay, and beasts themselves--would turn in loathing. Thou art my

childhood's friend; thy sympathy hath been sweet to me, and I've bared

my heart to thee. I have said: 'The world runs thus and so with me; were

it in my power, I'd have it otherhow. As it is, no good will come of its

discussion, so let there be an end to it, now and for all time.'"

A quick step sounded on the marble floor; the curtains at the entrance

parted, and Marius came in. He went clad in spotless white, which oddly

accentuated his bulk and made his swarthiness darker by contrast. He

stopped short at sight of the two apparently in earnest conversation.

"Pardon!" he said easily. "I was told that I should find my father here,

but I intrude."

"Not at all!" Eudemius answered. "We had finished our talk, and it was

over time we were brought back from the memory of other days."

Livinius smiled at his son as the latter sat down on the wide low ledge

of the window, and his genial eyes were full of pride. Eudemius caught

the look, and his own eyes darkened, even though the mask of his face

never changed. This indeed was a son of whom one might be proud--a son

such as he himself should have had but for the mockery of the gods; a

son strong of mind and body, able to hold his own against all men, to

assume the burdens that one by one slipped from his father's shoulders.

There was hint of dissipation in the clear-cut face; there was more than

a trace of headstrong will, which might easily enough turn to sheer

brutality against whoever crossed it. There was hardness, and small

tenderness, in the firm jaw and the black keen eyes; but what Roman

father could not condone such things as these? For to Roman eyes, all

this went to spell strength; and Romans worshipped strength as Athenians

worshipped beauty. And Marius was strong, so that Eudemius, who was

strong also, with the most unbreakable strength of all, and could

appreciate mere physical vigor the more since his own had gone from him,

looked at him and envied the father of him with bitterness.

"To-day I go on to Londinium," Marius said, gazing out into the

sun-flecked courtyard. "Will you wait here, father, for me? To-morrow I

shall return, or next day at most--the business will not take long." He

turned to Eudemius with an explanation. "There is trouble about one of

the transports which are assigned to my cohort for our return to Gaul.

She has been discovered unseaworthy and in need of repairs, and may not

be able to start with the rest of the fleet. This is doubly

inconvenient, as there is small prospect of securing a vessel to take

her place, and our orders are to sail for Gaul with as little delay as

possible. So much misunderstanding and confusion has resulted, that I

have been sent to report personally what are the chances for a start."

"That is too bad," Eudemius said. He was looking at Marius at the

moment, and Marius was looking beyond him into the court. Eudemius saw

that all at once his face changed slightly, and his eyes awoke to a

faint, curious interest. Eudemius knew that nothing in his words could

have aroused this, and waited. Then he understood that Marius was

watching some one outside in the courtyard; some one whose approach he

could gauge by following the man's glance. The some one came to the door

that opened on the court, and stopped there, and Eudemius glanced aside

and saw Varia on the threshold. At the same instant Marius rose.

She wore robes that flowed and yet were clinging, of faintest green,

like the young shining leaves of springtime; and her skin glowed and her

lips were crimson, and her hair was loose and tumbled. She held a ball

in her hands, and stood in the doorway, hesitating, like a child who

does not know whether or not it will be welcomed, and yet would like to

enter and find out what was going on. In her pose there was a quaint and

tender dignity, in odd contrast with her rumpled hair and the childish

plaything in her hands. Eudemius looked at her; and for a single instant

the veil of prejudice was lifted from his eyes, and he saw that, in

spite of all, this child of his was fair,--as fair as the dear dead

woman who had given her to him and lived to know what she had done. For

that instant hope rose in him; he shot a glance at Marius and read the

dawning admiration in his eyes; perhaps, after all, in some not too

distant time, there might be--Then he realized the futility of such

hopes, that had wakened and died so many times before. Marius did not

know the truth. When he did know--He saw that Varia did not look at

either of the others, but straight at him, and he spoke to her.

"Come hither, child!"

She came, docile, and stood near the foot of his couch. With her there

seemed to enter a breath of pure fragrance, as of wind blowing softly

among unspoiled, wild flowers of the country-side, of all things young

and innocent and holy. Livinius's face softened as he looked at her. She

waited, watching her father, expecting nothing. Always he had given her

nothing to expect, neither unkindness nor affection. Eudemius looked at

Livinius; from him to Marius, where he stood in the window, silent,

dominant even in his silence.

"And this is mine!" he said, with a motion of his hand toward Varia.

Livinius, alone understanding all that his words and tone implied, gave

him a glance of mute reproach. He took Varia's hand, as she stood near

him, and patted it.

"I am glad to know thee, dear child," he said gently. "Thy father I have

known these many years, but thou wert a little baby when I saw thee

last. Perhaps he has not told thee that I am a friend of his, and this

is my son."

And Varia, for the first time, looked into Marius's face, and smiled,

saying nothing at all. She sat on the edge of the couch, the ball in her

lap.

"Where have you been, child?" Eudemius asked.

"In the garden, playing ball. I am going to play again," she answered,

and never thought to wonder why he frowned.

But Marius came over to the couch.

"Will you let me play also?" he asked, with a faint note of amusement in

his voice. "Perhaps I can show you a game you do not know, which

soldiers play in camp. When they have no ball, like yours, they take a

lump of bread, that is round, and very hard, and will keep for months

without spoiling, and they play with that."

Varia jumped up.

"I should like that!" she said eagerly. "I cannot show you any game, for

I know none that are interesting; but I can learn yours!"

The two went out into the courtyard, side by side. Livinius said, in his

gentle voice:

"She is a dear child."

And Eudemius answered:

"She is a bad bargain dearly bought," and turned his face away from the

window.

Varia wearied of the new game shortly, and sat down beside the fountain

to rest, with a frank intimation that her companion might go back to the

house. This he showed no intention of doing, but threw himself on the

grass beside her, and set himself the task of making her talk. He

studied her curiously; he had seen much of many women in many lands, but

none who were quite like her. Her utter simplicity was baffling;

artificial himself, brought up in a civilization which was artificial,

he could not get it out of his mind that it was not a pose. Very soon he

got her mental calibre; with it got also certain surprises. She was

all-innocent; yet, at times, when she sat with hands clasping her knees

and looked past him, without speech or motion, as regardless of him as

though he had not been there, he caught a hint in her eyes of something

he could not read. It was as though she struggled to recall a memory of

something gone by,--something sweet yet unholy which she did not

understand, would not ask about, and could not forget. And, at other

times, in the midst of her childish prattle, she would say what would

make him glance at her strangely, in a voice like hers, yet whose subtle

intonations were not like hers. Also, he had not found many women who

were at times as honestly regardless of him as though he had not been

there. With all her contrarieties he found her merry, full of a

primitive joy of life, touched only at moments with a haunting mystery

which to his mind but added to her charm. Her laughter bubbled over as

water from a spring; she was careless, thought-free, light-hearted. For

it is only those who remember nothing that regret nothing; and Varia had

neither remembrance nor what it brings.

When he mounted and rode for Londinium that afternoon it was with the

full determination to despatch his business as quickly as might be and

return. He told himself amusedly that he had been singed too often, by

too many flames, to care for the feeble light of one broken lamp. This

was quite true. But also he acknowledged that when other lamps were

wanting, a broken one might answer for an hour.

II

That night the sun went down in angry crimson that ate like fire through

the sullen heart of clouds banked low along the horizon. In Varia's

garden the shrill insect voices were hushed; the trees drooped their

leaves motionless. It was a hot and breathless night, when thunder

muttered distantly and vague lightnings played hide-and-seek among the

clouds, and the earth was still as an animal that crouches waiting for a

blow.

Eudemius entered his room shortly before midnight, while the storm

menaced and would not break. His thoughts still had their way with him,

and they were none too happy thoughts. By the open window stood a tall

standard of wrought bronze, from the arms of which seven lamps swung by

chains, their flames flaring in the faint hot breeze which entered;

otherwise the room was dark. Eudemius drew a light couch near the window

and stretched himself upon it, slowly, like one worn out by weariness

and pain. The lamplight fell upon his face, and showed it less of a

mask, more unguarded, grim and hollow-cheeked, stamped with the seal of

suffering. A slave entered, without noise, and placed on a stand a bowl

of dewy fruit, a silver pitcher of wine, and a tall cup of the exquisite

Samian ware, rose-pink, thin as a fragile egg shell. In the dim light it

glowed like a ruby; Eudemius glanced at it with a faint pleasure in its

beauty. As the slave turned away, he spoke.

"Hath thy lady retired?"

The man stopped in the doorway.

"Lord, I know not."

"Then find out. If not, bid her come to me here."

The man, bending, crossed his arms before his face, and went. Eudemius

lay and waited, watching the wan lightning at play in the lowering sky,

listening to the far-off grumble of the thunder. Scents from the garden

drifted to him on the warm sickly breeze; once a bat flapped past the

window. His eyes grew heavy with drowsiness.

But a step close at hand aroused him. He turned his head and saw Varia

coming toward him, her face pale in the dim light. She stopped when she

reached the couch, and stood waiting in silence. Eudemius rose,

carefully, lest he bring on a spasm of pain, and stood under the light

of the seven lamps.

"Come here to me, child!" he said. Varia came, and stood where the light

fell on her face and throat; and he took her by the shoulders and looked

long at her. His dark eyes passed over her from brow to feet; noted the

dusky warmth of her hair, where jewels gleamed like a coiled snake's

eyes; the curves of cheek and throat, the ripening grace of her slim

body, half-revealed beneath her silken robe. He studied her with an

impersonal criticism, as though she were a statue with whose workmanship

fault might be found. Had she been a statue, he could have found no

fault.

"Thou art fair, child," he said musingly, while she stood passive under

his hands. "Art thou fair enough to win him, handicapped as thou art?

And yet, who would take thee, when there are others for the asking, as

fair as thou and with none of thy defects? If thou didst but know how to

use that beauty of thine, it might make less of difference. For men have

wedded fools before this. Ay, but those fools must have been half woman

as well as fool; but thou--thou art all fool."

He looked at her strangely; suddenly pushed aside the robe from her

shoulders and laid his hands on her soft bare flesh.

"Ay, she's fair enough!" he muttered. "If I could but lash that torpid

soul of hers to life--teach her what all other women in the world know

by nature and instinct! For if she have the beauty of the immortal

women, without the warm spirit of sex behind it, it will avail her

nothing. Passionless, she can never inspire passion. To see her mated to

him--his child in her arms--a son--a son!--who should redeem for me all

the bitterness and the disappointment she hath brought--would not that

be better than nothing?"

His hands on her shoulders shook. She glanced up at him under her

lids,--a strange glance into which there flashed something that died as

it came. Her eyes were dilated, but she made no motion to push his hands

from her.

"Could she win him?" Eudemius's voice was not above a whisper, yet it

was tense with restrained excitement. Drops of sweat beaded his

forehead; the cords of his neck were taut. "Varia, dost know, child,

what thou art?"

"Ay," she answered quietly. "A fool. Thou hast said it."

Eudemius gave an exclamation of bitter impatience.

"Fool--yes, and child and woman as well. Hast thou never thought what it

might be to become as other women are? To know the kiss of a man's lips

on thine--to feel his arms about thee--to listen to the tale of love

that is told to all but thee--"

"Tale!" said Varia, catching at the word. "Oh, I have heard

tales--wonderful tales, more wonderful than any that ever were told

before! And I have known the kiss of a man's lips on mine; and I have

felt a man's arms about me!"

Eudemius gripped her slender shoulders, staring at her, and his face

worked. Then he flung her away from him.

"Thou poor fool!" he said in contemptuous pity. He clenched his hands

and strode up and down before the couch. "Oh, if I could but waken

thee--if I could but waken thee! I'd use thee, poor tool as thou

art--I'd make thee, a worthless pawn, queen to play my game for me! Thou

art mine, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, to do with as I will.

Sometimes my hands itch to shake into thee the sense thou lackest--or

else to shake the useless life out of thee."

He stopped before her, breathless with thwarted passion that time after

time dashed itself like surge against the inexorable rock of

Circumstance, to fall back baffled and beaten.

"Tell me!" he said, in a voice grown suddenly calm. "Child o' mine, dost

think that thou couldst win a man?"

It was a strange question from father to child, but then he did not see

it so. And Varia, looking at him, made a strange answer.

"I have won a man!" she said, and her voice was slow and haunting. "Body

and soul I have won him; he is mine for all time to come, to do with as

I will. I am a fool, but I have done this thing, and I think--" She

stopped, and her voice changed and grew scornful--"I think it is but a

little thing to do!"

Eudemius stared at her.

"Thou hast--" he whispered, and moistened his lips with a dry tongue.

"Say that again, girl! Thou hast--Is this thy raving? Nay, tell me, who

is the man?"

But another mood was on Varia. She laughed, like a rippling brook.

"He hath no name!" she said merrily. "No name--nothing; for he is

nothing! He comes in the clouds and in the storms and in the moonlight,

and whispers strange things which none may hear but I. His voice is the

wind and his words are the rustle of the leaves, and his speech is

golden as flame; and oh, the tales he hath told to me!"

Eudemius laughed shortly.

"At first I even thought--" he muttered, and broke off. "Child, are thy

women always with thee?"

"Ay, save at night. I sleep alone," said Varia.

Eudemius poured wine from the silver pitcher and drank it. Outside, the

rain was falling with a gentle dripping. The thunder had died; the

breeze, cooler, came laden with damp earthy smells. Varia went to the

window and knelt beside it, leaning out into the warm darkness. Her

father's eyes followed her. But if Varia's mood had changed, his was

not to be shaken off so lightly. He sat down on the couch, wiping his

forehead free from sweat. Here, he was close enough to touch her, and he

drew her back from the window so that she leaned against the couch and

his knee.

"Varia," he said, moved by an impulse born of what had gone before,

"dost love thy father?"

"Nay," said Varia, simply. "Why should I, my lord?"

"True," said Eudemius. "Why shouldst thou?"

Varia leaned her elbows on his knee, looking up at him with her chin on

her hands. Her attitude held the frank fearlessness of a child.

"Does my lord father love me?" she asked, and smiled up at him.

Something within him warned Eudemius to honesty.

"Nay, Varia," he said gently, and put a hand on her dark soft hair. "Thy

father hath never loved thee."

Varia suddenly rested her cheek against his other hand.

"Poor father!" she murmured, as though he were somehow deserving of all

sympathy for this, "Didst ever wish that I had not been born?"

"Ay," said Eudemius, still gently. "I have wished that."

Varia considered a long moment, and he knew that her eyes were on him.

"Why was I born?" she asked.

Eudemius turned his head away.

"Because thy mother loved me," he said, low and harshly.

"Because--my mother--loved thee!" Varia repeated. "Now that is strange!

Did ever any one love thee?"

Eudemius started. Then he laughed.

"_Habet!_" he exclaimed, in the language of the arena when a gladiator

is down; and laughed again. "Ay, child; once one loved me, and once I

loved. Thou canst not credit such softness in me? Well, I do not blame

thee; but it is truth."

"I believe," said Varia, "for thou hast told me truth before, to-night.

If thou hadst said my father loved me, I should never have believed thy

word again, but thou gavest me truth for the truth I gave to thee. I am

a fool, and sometimes it is given to fools to know the truth."

"And therein to be wiser than the sane," Eudemius muttered. "And that is

truth also." He looked at her a moment with something awakened in his

face.

"Is there a change then, after all, in thee?" he said suddenly, deep in

thought and study of her face. "Thrice to-night hast thou said what I

did not understand, and never thought to hear thee say. Can it be that

sometime in the future the dawn will break?"

Varia looked at him in her turn, a curious sidelong glance. In the dim

light her face all at once showed strange to him, as occasionally one

will see a well-known face in a new aspect--pale, with scarlet mouth and

long veiled eyes. "Thou art something besides the child I've known;

though whether that thing be good or evil--" His speech died; he gazed

at her as though he would pierce the mystery which shrouded her and

learn what it was that made her alien, forgetting to finish his words.

"There is a change, and I cannot fathom it. What is working in thee? Or

is it the delusion of mine own imaginings? Thy face--thy eyes--have they

changed also? Mine own imaginings--vain imaginings! What is there in thy

life which could have changed thee? Ah, if but these next months might

see thee still more changed!"

Varia rose from her knees beside him.

"Why should I be changed?" she asked. "And why wouldst have me changed?

I am happy--I have been happy as I am. If the joy of life is not mine,

as thou hast said so often, the sorrow of life is not mine either; and I

do not wish to change!" Her voice grew and gathered passion. "I fear to

change, for I know not what the change might bring. I do not understand.

Oh, father--do not wish that I should change!"

She took a step toward him with outstretched, appealing hands. Eudemius

watched her with critical eyes.

But even as he watched, his own face changed and went gray, and he

caught his breath and put a hand against his side. His body stiffened

and grew rigid, while at the same time long shudders ran through it,

dumb protest of tortured nerves against what was in store for it and

them.

"Go for Claudius!" Eudemius gasped; and Varia turned and ran. Eudemius

flung himself back on the couch and lay there, striving with all his

iron will to hold the convulsions in check. But he began to writhe,

terribly, with no sound but the whistling of his breath through locked

jaws. His hand, outflung, touched the cup that glowed like a ruby on the

stand beside the couch. He clutched it, and crushed its fragile beauty

into atoms; and blood dripped with the wine upon the floor.

A torch gleamed outside the door, and hasty feet came running. Claudius,

the physician, entered, very old, very small, with silver hair and beard

that was like a snow-drift, followed by two slaves with lights and

instruments. They lighted all the lamps, so that the room was bright as

noon; and Claudius took from them what he wanted, and sent them both

away. Then he rolled his sleeves above his elbows, and went to the couch

where the silent figure lay twisting; and as he went he tucked his long

white beard inside the collar of his gown.

III

But the plans of Marius did not fall out as he had intended. It was a

month before he returned to the villa, with the prospect of remaining on

British soil until another galley could be fitted out and commissioned.

This was exasperating, and Marius fumed secretly and swore at the delay.

Thinking to make the best of his enforced idleness by betaking himself

to Aquae Solis, the fashionable watering-place of Britain, and what

solace he could find there, he found himself again disappointed. The

leave he applied for was granted, but as he was starting upon his

journey, word was brought to him that his father was ill. He found it

nothing serious, but Livinius, grown querulous and childish in his

fever, begged Marius not to leave him. So, perforce, Marius stayed,

contenting himself with boar-hunting in Eudemius's vast parks, and being

entertained by his host.

Eudemius, seemingly unchanged since his illness, had not forgotten that

the young tribune's eyes had once looked with favor on his daughter. And

since love, like life, is but a game, and much may be done by a player

who handles his pawns wisely, Eudemius began to conjure up hopes which,

in spite of himself, he knew might never see fulfilment. The more he saw

of Marius, the more he coveted his strength to prop his dying house. His

fortune would be safe in Marius's hands, his name would be safe in

Marius's keeping. For with all his faults Marius had a soldier's honor,

and could guard what was given to his charge. Forthwith, then, Eudemius

began to lay silent plans; to scheme indirectly, with cautious skill. It

was a new game for him; he went about it much as one ruler who seeks

alliance, for political ends, with a neighboring kingdom. He was

entirely consistent in his course; no thought of his daughter's desires

or wishes moved him--even no thought as to whether or not she had

desires or wishes on the subject. Nor did he consider the personal

inclinations of Marius himself. The alliance would mean much for him,

saving only for one thing--a thing which yet might override all

advantages. This was where Eudemius considered all his skill and finesse

would be needed.

At first Eudemius mentioned this, the desire of his heart, to no living

soul. He took Marius with him over his estates on his tours of

inspection, tours become unexpectedly frequent; he took pains to have

him present when overseers came with long tax-lists and rent-rolls to

render account to their lord. Marius saw himself surrounded with every

luxury art could devise and skill could execute, not as though brought

forth for some occasion, but quite plainly in everyday use and service.

Life, eased for him from all exertion by the unseen hands of many

slaves, became a dream of indolence and content. Horses, grooms, slaves,

were at his disposal; no wish of his, however lightly uttered, but was

unostentatiously fulfilled. In the midst of all this he was left with no

sense that it was done with a view to impress upon him the magnificence

of the villa and the villa's lord. He took it as he was intended to take

it, and as it was, as a matter of course, since all his life he had been

accustomed to wealth and the luxury it might bring. And, being so

accustomed, he was able to appreciate justly the amount of money it must

take to maintain such an establishment in such a style. He listened to

the reports of overseers and stewards, all unaware that he was meant to

do so; by degrees his own and his father's fortunes came to seem by

contrast mean and small. He fell readily enough into ways which,

reasonable for Eudemius, were extravagant for him. But, in spite of his

inclinations toward the life sybaritic, it was plain that he had no

intention of getting himself in debt to Eudemius in any shape or form.

When Eudemius judged the time to be ripe, he brought Varia upon the

scene. This he did after his own fashion, studying carefully each effect

that she should make, with an artist's eye and a mind that would stop at

no subterfuge to gain its end.

Livinius was convalescent, though still weak and unable to leave his

bed, when Eudemius went upon a day to his apartments and was admitted.

Livinius lay in bed, looking gentler and frailer than of old, with a

slave reading to him from the _De ira_ of Seneca. He signed to the

latter to leave, and held out a hand to his friend.

"Sit by me here, if you will," he said. "I have much to ask, and, I

doubt not, you to tell. That worthy physician of yours is dumb as any

oyster. Were it not for my boy bringing me scraps of news now and again,

I should indeed feel out of touch with the world."

Eudemius seated himself beside the bed, his back, as usual, to the

light.

"The world wags to its own appointed end," he said carelessly. "Have you

heard, then, that Rome has again refused to send troops to our aid?

Verily, Britain is left to struggle with her independence like a dog

with a bone too large for it. There is but a sorry time in store for us,

if present indications point aright. You have asked me often to go back

with you to Rome, and I have been long considering it. But Rome has

twenty strong men where Britain has one, and I think that my place is

here. To my mind, the people of the land, seeing those in power

withdrawing, and not knowing what to do of themselves, will turn like

sheep to any who will stand by them. Why, man, if one played his game

with skill in this coming crisis, and kept from joining in the panic

into which others have flung themselves headlong, he might make his

power here little short of absolute, and reap his reward when Rome has

settled her affairs and the storm has blown over. One might become a

second Carausius, another Constantine. Already, since the troops of

AEtius have gone, folk believe they hear that endless storm muttering

again in the West and South, and tell tales of new invasions of Jutes

and Saxons. It is a fact also that merchants going north require a

double bonus on the goods they take. What Britain will do without the

hand to hold to which has led her for so long, is a question which no

man can answer and all men ask. But these be weighty topics to concern a

sickroom, and I have other matters to discuss with thee."

Livinius turned inquiring eyes upon him, but Eudemius was staring past

him, thoughtfully.

"A matter which touches me nearly," he said, and all at once dropped

into a more familiar mode of speech. "Thou art my oldest friend, and

there is none to whom I would sooner speak in confidence. Thou knowest

that I am growing old. Soon the gods of the shades will lay their hands

upon mine eyes, and my daughter and my house will be left alone. And a

heavy time of trial it will be for her, incompetent, with the burden of

my wealth upon her. Were it not for this, I could willingly leave all

this; but some one first I must find to charge himself with that burden

for the recompense it may bring him. And there is but one way to do

this; I must mate her to some worthy man. If he be in humble

circumstances, her gold shall alter that; if he be great, it shall make

him greater. To take her with it would be, after all, but a little

thing, since she is too much a child to want more than is given her, and

is content with little. With her unmated, as she is, fancy what would

follow were she alone. No--it needs a strong hand to guard what I have

guarded; but it is a task well worth the taking. And it is in my mind

that I have found that strong hand I seek--if so it be that the owner

thereof is willing."

He paused, to see that the sick man's eyes were on him in quickened

interest.

"That man, friend," Eudemius said slowly, "is thy son. Him I would have,

and none other, to reign in my stead and take the place of that son

denied me, who was to rear his children in the traditions of my house

and his. What say you to this, friend, if it chances that Marius himself

is willing?"

For a moment there was a pause. Livinius lay back on his pillows, and

his face was a battleground of contending thought. Plainly it said:

"Power is great, but gold is greater, since it can purchase power;

therefore gold is a good thing to have. Yet no bargain was ever offered

without a 'but,' and what goes with this bargain of thine, O friend? An

incubus which a man might well hesitate to let fasten upon him; a

hindrance to himself and, it may be, a menace to generations yet unborn.

And yet, the prize is worth risking much for, and the temptation is

great."

At this point came wavering, uncertainty, a look of greed, cautious and

eager. Eudemius, watching, let the battle wage itself. When Livinius

finally spoke, it was slowly, weighing his words with care.

"You have spoken with all the frankness one friend could wish from

another. It is only meet that I too should be as frank. If my words

offend, remember that it is I who shall grieve most. Your daughter, fair

though she is, and lovely, is yet a child, despite her years,--a child

who needs the care and thought which only love can give. Needing all,

she could give nothing save herself to her husband; and man's needs are

of the spirit as well as of the flesh. And suppose he wanted not the

gift; what would there be for him? You see, I set aside all mention of

her dower; for though a man may marry gold, he must marry the woman

also. I have watched Marius from his cradle; I have marked when his

nature followed the lines along which I strove to train it, and when it

turned of itself into new channels of its own. And of these channels,

some, I confess, ran widely counter to those which I had planned. No

parent ever saw a child grow precisely to the measure of the ideal of

which he dreamed; it may be that every father under the sun is doomed to

disappointment at some trait or other in the child of his flesh."

Eudemius looked away from him, nodding soberly.

"So it hath been with me," said Livinius. "Marius has been a good son;

but a good man he has not been. For a bad man may make a good son, even

though a bad son never makes a good man. But I am not blind, and year by

year have I watched the changes in him, some for the better, some for

the worse. When he was a child I chastised; when he was a youth I

counselled; when he became a man I could do no more than stand aside and

watch him start upon the road he had marked out for himself. And I tell

you, Eudemius,--and you may guess if the words come easily,--that were I

in your place I would not give my daughter, being what she is, to such a

man as he. For her sake as well as his I say this. He is my son, and my

house is his home for so long as he wills it, and what I have is his.

But to your daughter, young, innocent, knowing nothing of the world, and

less than nothing of men, he would bring only unhappiness and woe. She

could not understand him; he would be at no pains to understand her.

Whether love might raise him to its own height, I dare not say; rather I

fear that he would lower it to him. He is passionate, yet cold; but he

is strong, and to men he is loyal and a lasting friend. He is a soldier

through and through; no mistress, were she never so madly loved, could

come before his sword. For to him, arms mean ambition and the fame he

has set himself to gain; love is a dalliance by the way, pleasant for

the hour, soon forgotten. Sorry sport for a wife, you see! There you

have him, as I, his father, know him. And how can I, his father, say

these things of him, who should stand with him against all the world?

Because he needs not my help to win his battles; and there is one who in

my mind may need it sorely."

And again there was a silence. Eudemius rose.

"Thank thee, friend," he said. "Thy words have made me to hunger all the

more for that son of thine. Mine also he shall be, if I can compass it.

What need he give her but a name?--and that, in good sooth, it will not

hurt him to bestow."

He turned on his heel and went away; and Livinius looked after him long

and gravely.

When Marius entered, some time later, it was to find his father alone

and in deep thought. Marius inquired how he had been feeling that day,

and if he thought his strength returning. Livinius answered

abstractedly. He was aware that Eudemius's plan was taking root in his

mind; coming to weigh its pros and cons, he found that after all it

might not be such a bad thing for Marius--and himself. He motioned

Marius to seat himself. Marius obeyed, waiting for what his father might

have to say. But Livinius kept his abstracted silence, and presently

Marius himself spoke.

"Will Eudemius return with you to Rome?"

Livinius shook his head thoughtfully.

"I fear not. I have tried to persuade him, but--I think his plans lie

here. For one thing, he does not like the idea of going back with that

daughter of his."

Marius turned a slow glance on his father.

"It is a pity about that girl," he said indifferently. "She is very

fair--as fair as any of Rome's beauties."

"And as wealthy. When her father hath undergone his fate, his estates

will pass to her," said Livinius. He did not look at his son, and his

voice was careless.

"It is a pity," Marius repeated, noncommittally. Livinius put his own

construction upon the words.

"You mean--her misfortune? Ay, true. But many a man would overlook even

that for sake of the gold she would bring him."

"And that is true also," Marius said. "And yet--it were a risky thing

for a man to give his sons a mother found so wanting."

So that Livinius knew that Marius's thoughts, like his own, had strayed

into those paths wherein Eudemius would lead them. He changed the

subject then, speaking of the delayed transport and affairs in Gaul.

Then he became weary, being still weak, and Marius left him.

The next evening, Marius, returning from hunting to the villa just

before dusk, unwontedly thoughtful over prospects which his mind was

beginning to conjure up, to look at, and play with, as it were, was met

by a slave who said that the Lady Varia sent word that she wished to see

him on his return. Somewhat surprised at this, for he had scarcely seen

her, much less spoken with her, since his arrival from Londinium, he

followed the man to the door of her apartments. Here he passed a second

slave, a tall fellow with a shock of black, unkempt hair, who was

trimming a lamp near by. This one turned his head to watch him as he

entered, with fierce wolf eyes into which leaped sudden jealous

distrust. But a slave was a slave to Marius; and so heedless was he of

the man's presence, that later he could not have told whether or not he

had been there.

Just inside the door Marius's guide crossed his arms before his face,

bending low, and left him, as though at an order. Marius, again

surprised at this, stood and waited. The room, lofty and warm and

floored with exquisite tiling, seemed to overlook a garden, where dusk

was gathering fast. It was furnished sumptuously, and was filled with

flowers which stood in great jars of gorgeous Eastern coloring. Halfway

down its centre ran one of the dwarf walls so common in Roman rooms,

which was made to serve as the back of a low and cushioned couch on

either side of it. A lamp of wrought bronze stood near, and by its light

Marius saw that a figure was lying on the couch, with head thrown back

against the cushions and one white arm hanging over the side.

"Lady Varia?" Marius exclaimed. She did not answer, and he saw that she

seemed asleep. He went to the couch, walking softly, with a faint wonder

as to why she had sent for him. She lay with long lashes sweeping her

cheeks and her warm lips parted, in the careless abandon of a child,

infinitely graceful, full of allurement. The thought entered his mind

that it was a pose, a piece of pretty trickery. He bent down until his

lips all but touched her cheek and the perfume of her hair rose to him,

so that had she been feigning she must have given sign, or else been

better skilled in the gentle art of flirting than he believed. But she

slept on, unconscious, with slow, regular breathing, so still that he

could see the beat of her heart under the filmy stuff of her tunic.

And even as he watched her, so another, unseen, watched him,--another

with gaunt, haggard face and calculating eyes that took in every move of

his pawns in the game to which he had set them. With his father's

words, in which he had read the hint, clear in his mind, Marius stood

looking long at the sleeping girl. Patrician she was from the crown of

her dusky head to the tip of her jewelled sandal. Fair she was,--and his

breath came shorter as his gaze wandered unchecked over her,--eminently

desirable, and yet--He found himself confronted by the unavoidable fact

of her affliction. A man might well hesitate in face of all that it

could mean. One could not tell--that was the trouble. He realized, all

at once, that her eyes were open, and that she was looking at him,

without speech or motion. He drew back, with a certain wholly

unconscious veiling of expression, and spoke.

"You sent for me, Lady Varia?"

She raised herself on an elbow, pushing the hair out of her eyes to look

up at him. With the motion, the jewelled fibula which held her tunic at

the shoulder became unfastened, letting the drapery slip lower over

snowy neck and arm. He noticed that if she saw this, she made no effort

to replace it.

"Sent for you? Not I!" she said, and tapped her fingers on her lips to

stifle a yawn. "Or if I did, I have forgotten. Why should I have sent

for you?"

She let herself sink back in the cushions, and he pulled a seat near the

couch and sat down. She began to play idly with the coiled golden snake

around her bare arm, looking down at it with long sleepy eyes. Again, as

once before, the novelty of this lack of attention piqued him into a

passing interest.

"If I disturb you, I will go away," he offered. "You were sleeping; it

were pity to disturb such sweet repose."

"You do not disturb me," she answered, with all calmness, not looking at

him. "Why should you? If you like to stay, you may. I am not asleep

now."

"Did you have pleasant dreams?" Marius asked, as he might have asked it

of a child. She turned scornful eyes on him.

"I do not dream asleep!" she said. "Only when I wake. What are dreams

but thoughts, and how can one think, asleep?"

He looked at her, surprised. She relapsed into silence, unwound the

snake from her arm, at length, and took to turning it over and over in

her fingers, letting the light play on its emerald eyes and the rich

chasing of its scales. He continued to watch her, with greater freedom

under her entire indifference. He felt that, if he should get up and

leave her, she would take no notice, but lie there just the same,

drowsy-eyed and indifferent, turning and turning the golden snake. This

slipped from her fingers after a time and dropped to the floor at his

feet. He picked it up, and as she held out her hand to receive it back,

he clasped her wrist gently and began to coil the snake about her arm,

above the elbow. She let him do it; emboldened, he kept her hand, when

the jewel was in place, and pressed it gently. But she drew it away, not

as though in rebuke, however, and examined the armlet to see that it was

on properly.

"Is it not right?" Marius asked, amused. "Let me do it again; this time

I will make sure."

She shook her head, with a slow smile at him. Greatly daring, he leaned

nearer, and fastened the loosened pin on her shoulder. In the operation,

his fingers touched her soft flesh. But she seemed not to notice him at

all; so that quite suddenly he felt baffled and perplexed.

"You are a strange girl!" he said abruptly. Again she smiled.

"Why?" she asked. "Because you cannot understand me, you call me

strange?"

He laughed.

"Perhaps that is it, O my Lady Wisdom. But truly I begin to think you a

riddle worth the reading. It may be, that with somewhat of teaching, you

might prove a pupil apt enough for any man."

She looked at him eagerly.

"Is it a game?" she asked. "You taught me one before, and I liked it.

Wilt teach me also this other game? Is it a good game?"

"Ay," said Marius, amusement in his voice. "It is a good game--the

finest game in the world, for the one who wins. And, indeed, I have it

in mind to teach thee, thou pretty witch, the more so since I should

have the methods of no other to unteach. See, then, I'll show thee the

first move. Give me thy hand--so."

Varia held out her hand, leaning back on her pillows with eager eyes of

anticipation. Marius took the hand. It was small and soft and fragrant,

with rosy, polished nails.

"This, you must know, is a game at which but two can properly play," he

explained, as a schoolmaster might propound theories to a class. "Three

have sometimes tried it, but the third in most cases has wished he had

kept away. Most players divide it into three parts, for the sake of

convenience. The first, for the woman; the second, for the man; the

third, usually, for the lawyers. This latter may be played in various

ways--sometimes is omitted altogether. A great advantage of this game is

that so many rules govern it, that whatever one does, is in accordance

with some rules, even though it may be at variance with certain others."

He turned the little hand over and kissed the palm.

"Certain things there be which every player should possess," he added in

the same tone. "For the woman, beauty--or if not this, a cleverness

which is clever enough to manifest itself only in results. Also, if a

woman hath not beauty, it is imperative that she be an adept at the

game. Innocence, in one party, not in both, is a valuable asset, since

one of the objects of the game is the winning of it. Were both to have

it, it would become in very truth a child's game. Wealth is also a good

thing to have,--and this for both players,--since one or both are apt to

pay dearly in the end. And wealth is also nearly always an object in the

game. It hath many points, you see, which must be remembered."

"I fear it is a hard game," said Varia, and shook her head in doubt.

"I--I cannot remember things very well sometimes."

"Even that hath been found an advantage at times," said Marius, and

laughed softly. He changed his place and sat on the edge of the couch

beside her, and possessed himself of her other hand. Varia glanced from

her prisoned fingers to his face and back again.

"The game may be played fast, or it may be played slowly," said Marius,

his eyes on her perplexed face. "In most cases, the faster the better,

lest one or other of the players should tire. What say you,

sweetheart--shall ours be short and therefore merrier?"

He drew her back into his arms, and raised her face with his free hand

and kissed her lips.

"No!" said Varia, quickly, and struggled slightly to sit up.

"Yes--that is in the game!" said Marius, and would not let her go. "Does

it come hard at first, my sweet? Never mind--soon you will like it

better. Besides, I have told you that it is part of the game. So--rest

quiet, and I will show you how else it goes."

In her eyes he read a struggle to recall something gone before and all

but forgotten; a mental groping, painful in its intensity. She ceased

her resistance, and he drew her closer and kissed her many times, with a

growing passion which surprised himself. Her breath came quicker, but in

her eyes was only the dumb striving after things forgotten, with no fear

at all nor anger with him. His lips strayed where they would; in her

strange absorption she seemed scarcely conscious of him.

"Truly I did well to call thee strange!" Marius said low in her ear.

"Did one not know the facts of the case he might well count thee as good

a player as himself."

Varia wrenched her hands from his and sat up. So swift was her motion

that he had let her go before he knew it. She put her hands to her

temples.

"But I have played this game before!" she cried, unheeding him. "I know

now--oh, I know now! Thou wilt tell me that I am beautiful, and that

thou lovest me, and thou wilt say that all is not well with thee for the

pain thou hast. And I will stroke thy head to ease the pain, as

sometimes my lord father will have me do. That is how the game goes. And

Marcus comes and tries to play as he came before; he was the third, as

thou hast told, who wished that he had not. But it should be in the

garden; it was in the garden before!"

"Now what is this raving?" Marius exclaimed, wholly uncomprehending. He

tried to take her again, but she slid off the couch and escaped him. He

pursued and caught her, but instead of the passive yielding he expected,

he met resistance which was unlooked-for.

"No! I'll have no more!" she cried. "Let me go--I do not wish to play

this game with thee! Always he stops when I bid him--thou must do the

same. I do not like this thy way. He is not rough, but gentle, and I do

not fear him. Oh, let me go!"

"Thou hast played this game before, then?" said Marius. "Be still, girl!

I'll not hurt thee, but I will not let thee go. Is there more in this

than I had fancied? Are thy words mere idle raving? By the gods, I think

not! Answer me what questions I shall ask, and I'll let thee go, not

sooner. I have a mind to know the truth of this!"

She stood still, half in tears, breathing fast, like a frightened child.

"Hast thou played this game before?" Marius asked.

"Ay," she murmured, like a child brought to task, and tried again to

release herself as though to escape punishment.

"With a man didst thou play it?"

"Ay, with a man."

"What man?"

She ceased her futile efforts to escape, and wrung her hands helplessly.

"I will not tell! He said that if my lord father knew it he would be

displeased!" she wept.

"I think it likely that he would," said Marius, grimly. "But to tell me

would not be telling him. It may be that I can help thee. There, never

cry like that! Am I not thy friend?"

"I know not!" she sobbed. "Oh, I am frightened! Let me go, I pray thee!"

"Tell me first!" Marius persisted. He cast a hasty glance around.

"Quick, for we shall not be alone much longer. Tell me, I say!"

She only wept, her face hidden in her hands. Marius's temper, a fragile

thing at best, gave way.

"Never think to keep it from me! I'll have it whether thou wilt or no,"

he said roughly. The idea of an intruder upon what he had suddenly come

to consider his own domain was not to be tolerated. Varia again

struggled, with violence, and finding herself held fast, screamed

loudly.

"Hush, little fool!" Marius exclaimed. "I am not hurting thee!"

"Let the girl go, lord!" said a voice behind them. Marius turned his

head, to see a figure bearing down upon them, lean and tall, with a

shock of black hair and angry eyes. Varia, turning at the same instant

in Marius's grasp, saw the man, and cried:

"Make him to let me go! He hath tried to make me tell thy name--do not

thou tell it!"

"So!" Marius exclaimed in triumph, catching the clew. "Thou art the

man--thou!" His tone held wrath and amazed disgust.

The slave stood his ground.

"Let the girl go!" he repeated. It might well have been that never had a

man used such a tone to Marius in his life before. From a slave it was

not to be brooked.

"Get you gone, you dog!" he said savagely. "Later I'll settle with you,

if it be that my suspicions be correct. How dare you enter here

unbidden?"

"I heard my lady cry out," Nicanor answered. Varia's voice broke into

his speech.

"I tell thee make him to let me go! He is a beast, and I hate him--I

hate him!"

Rather than prolong the scene before a slave, Marius let her go. She ran

to Nicanor and caught his arm.

"Take me away!" she cried through tears. "I will not stay with him!"

"It were best that you should go," Marius agreed promptly. "As for you,

fellow--"

"He shall come with me!" Varia said imperiously. "You will harm him--I

will not have him stay. Go yourself, bad man!"

"There will be no harm done, my lady," Nicanor said gently. There was

all possible respect in his voice, but Varia went, obedient, with a last

look backward on the threshold. Marius turned upon Nicanor.

"Now, who are you?" he asked curtly.

"You see me--a slave," Nicanor made reply. His voice was sullen; he was

cornered, and he knew it. Also he was powerless, unable to strike a blow

in his own defence; and who would see that justice was done a slave?

Marius sat down on the couch and eyed him. Nicanor returned his gaze

with watchful eyes alert for any move.

"I have seen your face before!" Marius said suddenly, awaking to a

consciousness of the fact. Nicanor answered nothing. The two eyed one

another in silence, neither yielding an inch, the Roman coldly haughty,

the slave always watchful.

"Hast ever held communication with the Lady Varia?" Marius asked.

"I have served her," Nicanor answered.

Marius laughed, looking him up and down as though he had been a horse

put up for sale.

"So I begin to think!" he muttered. "After what fashion, dog?"

Nicanor's eyes blazed beneath their shaggy brows; his brown hands

clenched in fury.

"As a servant should," he said harshly.

Again Marius laughed.

"So! That drew blood, did it? What has passed between you? Have you, you

base-born clod, dared draw her attention to you, and she a noble's

daughter? Speak, you fool, if you would not die the death!"

Nicanor raised his head slowly and looked his questioner in the eyes, a

defiance as direct as insolent bravado could make it. Marius's thin lips

drew tighter.

"You refuse to answer, do you? Do you know that for this you will be

broken on the rack at the lifting of my finger? And if you refuse to

speak, this shall be done before another day is past. You have a chance

now which you will not have again, to deny or to confess. And it is not

every one who would give it!"

"My lord hath not questioned me. To no other am I accountable," said

Nicanor.

Marius grunted scornfully.

"You fool! Do you think your silence can save you? I'll have the story

from Lady Varia; how may she withhold it? Her own lips shall seal your

guilt, as already they have convicted you."

This was true. Nicanor knew it, but he did not flinch. All that was left

to him was to die game, and this he knew also.

Marius all at once wearied of his examination.

"Be off with you!" he ordered insolently. "I'll have you cringing yet

before I am through with you."

Nicanor turned on his heel, with no obeisance such as a slave should

make, and strode out of the room. Marius gave a short, angry laugh.

"The brute will not whine! By all the Furies, he's worth the breaking.

Now, methinks, I have my scornful lady where I want her--and my lord as

well. This slave may be a weapon worth the having, since my foot is on

his neck also. We shall soon see!"

IV

That night Eudemius and his younger guest supped alone, with but one

slave to wait upon them. Marius, never prone to speech, kept his own

counsel as to the events of the afternoon, and bided the time when he

might turn them to his own ends. Eudemius also was more silent than his

position as host seemed to warrant. That he was in bad humor was to be

seen from the threatening glances he cast at the luckless slave when a

dish was delayed or a wine too warm. He was an old man, this latter,

white-haired and bent and very skilful, with a sunken face as pale as

parchment. Marius, as keen to observe as he was silent, saw that always

the old man watched his lord's face with an eager anxiety, like a dog

that would read every thought in its master's eyes.

Eudemius, as was his custom, took only fruit and one of the light Cyprus

wines. Marius, not at all disturbed by his host's example, dined

luxuriously and drank freely. Wine had small effect on him; but he

noticed that each time his glass was filled Eudemius glanced at him,

with apparent carelessness. This amused him, and, sure of himself, out

of sheer perversity, he took care to have it replenished many times.

Halfway through the meal, Eudemius clapped his hands.

"Marcus, come hither!" he said shortly. Marcus came, with servile

submission. "Go to Nerissa, and bid her bring her mistress here. She

will know what to do."

The old man hesitated a bare instant, with a strange glance at his lord,

crossed his arms, and went.

"Marius." Marius's keen wits, instantly at work upon the name and the

half-forgotten idea it conjured up, found the thread they sought.

"Marcus came once and tried to play; he was the third," Varia had said.

Marius's eyes lightened to a secret satisfaction. Here was one, at his

hand, who could supply the information he wanted. He leaned forward

across the table.

"To-day I had speech with thy daughter," he said, as one introducing a

topic which may prove of interest. Eudemius turned his inscrutable eyes

on him.

"So?" he said calmly.

"She told me a wondrous tale of a man who came to her in a garden," said

Marius; and watched suspicion grow into the other's eyes and burn there.

"She said it was a game they played--what game, thou and I may guess. I

put it down to the--fancies she hath at times, and paid no heed. But

when she said that one Marcus had seen this man there also, it came to

me that perhaps there might be more in it than might be thought. If this

be the Marcus of whom she spoke, it may be that he would have something

to tell.--Try these roasted snails, I pray thee; they are beyond praise.

It would seem that they are delicate enough--"

"She herself hath said--" Eudemius began, and stopped. The mask of his

face never changed; only his mouth settled into sterner lines and his

eyes grew more forbidding. Silence fell between the two and lasted until

Marcus came in again and held the curtains apart for Varia. She entered

quickly, her bosom heaving, lips pouting, eyes full of tears.

"Nerissa would have it that I should wear this dress, and I hate it!"

she cried petulantly, before either man could speak. "She said that thou

didst will it so. Wherefore? I will not wear it ever again. I scolded

her until she wept, but she made me wear it."

"She was right. I gave command to her," Eudemius said coldly. "Sit

there."

Varia dropped into the seat opposite Marius, with a resentful glance at

her father and a wrathful twitch of the hated robe. It was of faintest

amethyst, with tunic embroidered in gold, fastened by many jewels. She

looked like a fair young princess, a very angry young princess; and

Marius, from where he reclined at ease on the opposite side of the

table, looked across at her with quite evident admiration.

"Why should you hate it, if unworthy man may ask?" he said amusedly.

"Surely not because you think it makes you less fair, since nothing

could do that. Why, then?"

"Because I do!" she flashed at him, as though that settled the matter.

Marius bowed in mock humility.

"The best reason of all!" he said gallantly.

"Child, with whom didst thou play thy game in the garden?" Eudemius

asked. His voice was gentler than his face, and quite casual. Varia fell

into the trap. She looked up eagerly.

"It was a game--" she began, and stopped, with the red blood flushing

into her face and her eyes turning from her father to Marius. "I do not

remember!" she stammered.

Eudemius turned his sombre eyes full on her, and she shrank and

trembled.

"Thou dost not remember?" Eudemius said in his even, inexorable voice.

"But there was a game? Was it a game in which a man held thee in his

arms and kissed thee?"

She nodded quickly.

"Ay, a game," she exclaimed, and caught herself up. "No, no!" she cried

fearfully. "It was no game--Oh, I do not know! I cannot remember!"

She hid her face in her hands and wept. Eudemius motioned to the silent

slave behind her chair.

"Take her to her nurse and return," he said. "I'll have the truth of

this by some means."

Marcus led his weeping mistress away; and Eudemius saw that Marius's

eyes followed her until the curtains fell behind her, and read the look

therein.

With her exit, Eudemius all at once lost his composure. He sprang from

his place at the table and took to striding up and down the room.

Unexpectedly he stopped before Marius.

"If there be truth in this," he said, and his voice shook with rising

fury, "I'll find the man who hath entered my gates by night, and for

what damage he has wrought I will make him pay tenfold with living flesh

and blood. Marcus was there, thou sayest; he will know. And if he will

not tell--if he thinks to shield him--"

He broke off with a quick intake of breath, and put a hand to his side.

A spasm of pain crossed his pale face and distorted it. "Come back, thou

knave, while I have sense to question!" he muttered, and dropped into

the nearest seat, and sat there, with head bent forward and hands

clutching claw-like the arms of the chair.

Marcus entered, alone. Eudemius raised his head.

"Didst thou--" he began, and stopped. But he gathered himself together,

and tried again.

"Didst thou see him who entered the women's place by stealth to hold

speech with thy mistress?"

Marcus nodded eagerly. His voice was drowned in Eudemius's exclamation

of fury.

"So the fool spake truth when I thought she raved! Not so much fool

after all, perhaps, but better fool than--" He checked himself on the

word. "Who is the man?" Again his face grew distorted; on the hands that

gripped his chair the veins stood out dark and swollen. Pain made him

brutal; he glared at Marcus with the bloodshot eyes of a goaded beast.

Marcus, with a hoarse cry, bowed himself to the ground, his hands before

his face. Eudemius brought his fist down on the arm of his chair.

"Who is the man? Answer, slave, if thou wouldst keep the flesh on thy

living bones! Who is the man, and what hath been his work?"

Then Marcus raised himself, with outstretched hands, gesticulating

frantically. The effort he made to speak was fearful; his face became

congested, his eyes seemed starting from his head. And his voice was as

fearful, hoarse, bestial, with apish gibberings. But no words came; he

could only beat the air and cry out in impotent despair.

"The man is mad!" Marius exclaimed, staring.

Eudemius lifted himself half out of his chair. Beads of sweat stood

thick upon his forehead.

"Mad or sane, I'll have the truth from him!" he snarled. He caught the

dog-whip from the back of his chair and lashed the slave across the

face.

"Now speak!" he shouted. "Think not to shield him so, for I'll have thee

flayed alive before thou shalt defy me thus!"

"I--I!" groaned Marcus. The word had a strange and guttural sound, but

Eudemius did not notice.

"Go on!" he ordered furiously.

"I--I--!" Marcus screamed, and fell grovelling at his master's feet.

A spasm of pain shook Eudemius and turned him livid. He kicked savagely

at the writhing figure on the floor and clapped his hands thrice loudly.

Two slaves came running, with faces pale with apprehension. Eudemius,

almost beyond speech himself, raised a shaking hand and pointed downward

at the heap.

"Take him to the stone room and put him to the rack until he is ready to

say what I would hear!" he said hoarsely. His voice broke into a gasp;

he leaned back heavily, with his other hand against the chair from which

he had risen. "When he is ready, call me!"

The men lifted Marcus to his feet and took him away.

Marius watched interestedly. To counsel mercy never crossed his

mind--the mind of a Roman bred to consider bloodshed a sport and mortal

strife a pastime. If Eudemius chose to kill his slave for a whim--well,

the slave was his, and it was nobody else's business. He turned to the

table and poured himself another glass of wine.

Eudemius dropped back heavily into the chair and sat, as before, with

head bent slightly forward and gripping hands. And, as before, he seemed

listening; only this time it was with a cruel and eager greed, and his

eyes, bloodshot and terrible, were as the red eyes of a vulture that

waits for its victim's death. From time to time his mouth twitched, and

a shudder, long and uncontrollable, ran through him.

But still he waited, and there was silence in the room.

V

That day Nicanor had been assigned by Hito to the squad of the fire

slaves, whose duty it was to tend the fires of the hypocausts which

warmed the guest apartments, the rooms of the master's family, the

banquet halls, and the baths. The great fireplaces, one for every

hypocaust, built in arches under the outer walls of the villa, were

approached from the outside by passages of rough masonry. From them the

hot air was carried back through the hypocaust and led to the rooms

above by means of an ingenious system of flue tiles. The fires, burning

constantly from the first approach of the keen weather of Autumn, needed

incessant attention. All day slaves went back and forth, carrying wood

and buckets of mineral coal from the great mines near Uriconium, through

the narrow alleys to the roaring furnaces, where the air, smoke-laden

and acrid, was hot to suffocation. Here, panting, dripping with sweat,

they fed the flaming mouths; then back again into the outer air, which

by contrast struck knife-like to the very vitals. The colder the weather

and the greater the necessity for fires, the more was the suffering of

the slaves increased. The feeding and attendant cleaning of the

furnaces was a task given usually either to none but the lowest menials

or else as punishment. Hence Nicanor knew himself in Hito's black books,

and obeyed his orders with an ill grace which did not tend to lighten

his labors.

Once that day already he had shirked his duty, driven by restless

longing, to stand outside the door which for him hid all the enchantment

of the world, until the coming of Marius had sent him about any task he

could lay hand to. With what had followed, and with the knowledge that

his fate was absolutely in the hands of Marius, he became impatient at

the delay. The sword hung above him and would not fall. If he but knew

what was to happen he fancied that he might have prepared himself in a

measure to meet it. Nothing in the way of escape could be attempted

until after nightfall; he was too much the object of Hito's malicious

attention for that. And escape meant escape from Varia, from stolen,

memory-haunting visits, from all that just then made life bearable.

Suspense and his own powerlessness turned him sullen; he went about his

tasks under Hito's eye with a dogged surliness at which his

fellow-slaves laughed in private and dared not challenge him in

good-natured raillery.

Away from Hito, he straightway forgot what was in his hands, and

remained deep in boding thought, his face lowering. He was on the edge

of a precipice into whose depths no man dared look; into which Marius's

hands might plunge him at will. Thoughts of Thorney, of the churned-up

waters of the fords, of the camp-fires glowing through dusk, of the

nervous press of men and beasts that lit upon the island like a swarm of

bees, and, like a swarm, buzzed awhile and settled to brief rest,

crowded upon him then. He would go back to Thorney--though never to the

ivory workshop--and he would make enough to live on by telling tales to

those who circled about the fires, even though these were not the worlds

he had dreamed of conquering. And first of all, and somehow, he must

free himself from the welded collar of brass about his throat. With this

to brand him for what he was, the first man he met along the highway

might return him to his master--if he could--and claim reward.

The slaves' quarters, following the general plan of the house, were

built around a square inner court, with a cryptoporticus, or covered

gallery, at the northern and southern ends. But here were no polished

floors of rich design and coloring; no soft couches and brilliant

draperies, no marbles and paintings. There were no hypocausts beneath to

warm the rooms to Summer heat; these, small and bare as cells, were

always cold. On the eastern side of the court were housed the women

slaves; on the western, the men. Between these, on the northern end,

were the apartments of the freedmen and stewards and overseers, with

their offices. On the southern side, to the right of the main entrance

to the court, were the storerooms leading down to the dark coldness of

the wine-cellars. To the left of the entrance were the kitchens, with

stoves, and with hypocausts beneath them. Outside the walls, singly and

in groups, were the wattled huts of the field-hands, who cared for the

parks and immediate lands of the villa, and who came twice daily to the

great house to be fed.

In such a household, where economy was a lost word and extravagance the

order of life, the stewards and overseers who managed it, being

accountable only to their lord, were vested with much power, and made

the most of it. Head and front of them all was Hito, fat and shining,

with glinting pig's eyes. No detail of the great establishment was too

trivial for his notice. Supposed to have general control over each

division of slaves, which in turn was managed by its own headman, he yet

had a finger in all businesses. Like all men of his stamp, he went in

mortal fear of ridicule; thought to show his power by abuse of it. On

his word alone a slave might be put to the rack; let an unfortunate

incur his displeasure, and he had endless ways of revenge. His

predominating characteristic was an oily sleekness; the very voice of

him was smooth with unctuousness. Violent likes and dislikes he took,

and was in a position to gratify both, a bad enemy and a worse friend.

And his methods had but one trait in common,--an entire and often

apparently irrational unexpectedness. It was the one thing which in him

might be relied on; he would do the thing he was least expected to do.

After the evening meal came a period of respite for those not on duty at

the house. Much license was carried on at such times, at which Hito

discreetly winked--unless he held a grudge against some luckless one.

Even he had been known to take a hand himself in various affairs, using

his official authority to gain his private ends.

Dusk deepened, and night fell. Hito rolled to the door of his office and

stood looking out into the court, picking his teeth with grunts of

well-fed content. A slave was lighting a brazier of charcoal near the

well in the centre of the court. The bit of blazing tinder, which he

nursed carefully between his hands, threw its light up into his face and

showed it in relief against the darkness, sombre, strongly marked, with

a thatch of black bushy hair. Hito, recognizing him, scowled with an

instantly aroused antagonism.

"Nicanor!" he shouted.

Nicanor lifted the brazier by its handle and came. When he reached Hito,

he set it down, for it was heavy. Hito jerked his head at it.

"Where are you taking that?" he demanded. If he had thought Nicanor had

been trying to steal it, he could not have thrown more suspicion into

his voice.

"To the rooms of the Lady Varia," Nicanor answered. From his tone it was

plain that the antagonism was mutual.

"Who commanded it?"

"Her nurse."

Even Hito had nothing to say to this. But, bound to show his authority,

he thought to have the last word.

"Well, leave it, and I will send another. I have a thing for you to do."

"No!" said Nicanor.

Hito's little pig eyes glinted.

"So be it! Take it, then," he said, and his voice was smooth as oil.

"You can still do what I would have--perhaps even better. Now pay

attention. When you go to our lady's apartments, look well around and

see one of her women there. She is, I know, on duty at this time, but in

what room I do not know. Speak with her, if you can, and say that I,

Hito, am willing to see her to-night, and that I expect her. She will

understand! Say that I wait for her,--she will know where,--and if she

does not come, I will find out why." He crossed his arms on his fat

chest.

"If she is not in the outer room I cannot seek her. I am no eunuch,"

said Nicanor, shortly.

"Maybe she will be there," Hito replied. "See, this is how you shall

know her. Look for one with black hair, with dark brows and eyes blue,

white in the face and somewhat lean, as though consumed by inward

fires,--of passion, you understand! Be sure and say to her that if she

doth not come, I will find out why." He hugged himself gently, leering

at Nicanor. "And--Nicanor, I ask this as a friend, not require it as a

service; wherefore--you understand?--nothing need be said about it. I

would not get the poor girl into trouble, but seeing that she urgeth

so--"

Nicanor looked unmoved upon his fat smirk.

"I will do as you command," he said, and picked up the brazier and

turned to go.

"Nay, never say command," Hito said in haste, and deigned to lay a hand

on the slave's broad shoulder. "I do but ask it of you in all

friendship. Therefore you should be grateful that I, Hito, admit you

thus to confidence. For, look you, there be reasons; this, one might

say, is--not official."

Nicanor's grim lips relaxed to a half smile.

"I will do it, then, since Hito craves it," he said, and went his way

across the court. Hito shook his heavy jowls in rage.

"Dog!" he muttered. "'Hito craves' forsooth! I'll have that up against

you, mighty lordling, one of these fine days! In the name of the gods,

what is one to do with a fellow who cares not the snap of his finger

for any punishment I can devise?"