Meanwhile, Mataswintha had entered her husband's presence unannounced.
Witichis had left untouched all the rooms which had been occupied by
the Amelungs--Theodoric, Athalaric, and Amalaswintha--and had
appropriated to his own use the apartments which he had formerly been
accustomed to inhabit when on duty at court.
He had never assumed the gold and purple trappings of the Amelungs, and
had banished from his chamber all the pomp of royalty.
A low camp-bed, upon which lay his helmet, sword, and various
documents, a long wooden table, and a few wooden chairs and utensils,
formed the simple furniture of the room.
When Procopius had taken leave, the King had thrown himself into a
chair, and, supporting his weary head on his hands, leaned his elbows
upon the table. Thus he had not noticed Mataswintha's light step.
She remained standing near the door, reluctant to advance. She had
never before sought an interview with her husband. Her heart beat fast,
and she could not muster courage to address him.
At last Witichis rose with a sigh, and, turning, saw the motionless
figure at the door.
"Thou here, Queen!" he asked with surprise, as he approached her. "What
can have led thee to me?"
"Duty--compassion--" Mataswintha answered quickly; "otherwise I had
not---- I have a favour to ask of thee."
"It is the first," said Witichis.
"It does not concern me," she added hastily. "I beg for food for some
poor people, who----"
The King silently stretched out his right hand.
It was the first time he had ever offered it. She did not dare to clasp
it, and yet how gladly she would have done so.
Then the King took her hand himself, and pressed it gently.
"I thank thee, Mataswintha, and regret my injustice. I never believed
that thou hadst a heart for thy people. I have thought unkindly of
thee."
"If thy thoughts had been more just from the beginning, perhaps many
things might be better now."
"Scarcely! Misfortune dogs my heels. Just now--thou hast a right to
know it--my last hopes have been destroyed. The Franks, upon whose aid
I depended, have betrayed us. Relief is impossible; the superiority of
the enemy has become too great, by reason of the rebellion of the
Italians. Only one thing remains to me--death!"
"Let me share it with thee," cried Mataswintha, her eyes sparkling.
"Thou? No. The granddaughter of Theodoric will be honourably received
at the Court of Byzantium. It is known that she became my wife against
her will. Thou canst appeal to that fact."
"Never!" exclaimed Mataswintha with enthusiasm.
Witichis, without noticing her, went on:
"But the others! The thousands, the tens of thousands of women and
children! Belisarius will keep his word. There is only one hope for
them, one single hope! For--all the powers of nature are in league
against me. The Padus has suddenly become so shallow, that two hundred
ships with grain, which I had expected, could not be brought down the
river, and fell into the hands of the enemy. I have now written for
assistance to the King of the Ostrogoths; I have asked him to send a
fleet; for ours is lost. If the ships can force their way into the
harbour, then all who cannot fight may take refuge in them. And, if
thou wilt, thou canst fly to Spain."
"I will die with thee--with the others!"
"In a few weeks the Ostrogothic sails may appear off the city. Until
then my magazines will not be exhausted. That is my only comfort. But
that reminds me of thy wish. Here is the key to the great door of the
granaries. I carry it with me day and night. Keep it carefully--it
guards my last hope. Upon its safety depend the lives of many
thousands. These granaries are the only thing that has not failed. I
wonder," he added sadly, "that the earth has not opened, or fire fallen
from Heaven, to destroy this my work!"
He took the heavy key from the bosom of his doublet.
"Guard it well, it is my last treasure, Mataswintha."
"I thank thee, Witichis--King Witichis," said she, and would have taken
the key, but her hand trembled so much that it fell to the ground.
"What is the matter?" asked the King as he picked up the key and put it
into her hand. "Thou tremblest? Art thou sick!" he added anxiously.
"No--it is nothing. But do not look at me so--do not look at me as thou
didst this morning----"
"Forgive me, Queen," said Witichis, turning away, "my looks shall no
more offend thee. I have had much, too much, to grieve me lately. And
when I tried to find out for what hidden guilt I could have deserved
all my misfortune--" his voice grew very tender.
"Then? Oh, speak!" cried Mataswintha; for she could not doubt the
meaning of his unspoken thought.
"I often thought amid all my doubt, that it might be a punishment for
the cruel, cruel wrong I did to a noble creature; a woman whom I have
sacrificed to my people----"
And in the ardour of his speech he involuntarily looked at his
listener.
Mataswintha's cheeks glowed. She was obliged, in order to keep herself
upright, to grasp the arm of the chair near her.
"At last," she thought, "at last his heart awakes, and I--how have I
acted towards him! And he regrets----"
"A woman," continued Witichis, "who has suffered unspeakably on my
account, more than words can express----"
"Cease," whispered Mataswintha so softly that he did not hear it.
"And when I lately saw thee so gentle, so mild, more womanly than ever
before--it touched my heart, and tears came into my eyes!"
"O Witichis!" breathed Mataswintha.
"Every tone of thy voice penetrated deeply into my heart, for the sweet
sound reminded me so vividly, so sadly----"
"Of whom?" asked Mataswintha, and she turned pale as death.
"Of her whom I have sacrificed! Who gave up all for me; of my wife
Rauthgundis, the soul of my soul!"
For how long a time had he never uttered aloud that beloved name! At
the sound of his own voice, grief and longing overcame him, and sinking
into a chair, he buried his face in his hands.
It was well that he did so, for it spared him the sight of the Queen's
sudden start, and the Medusa-like expression which convulsed her
features.
But the sound of a fall made him spring from his seat.
Mataswintha lay upon the ground. Her left hand grasped the broken arm
of the chair near which she had fallen, while her right was pressed
convulsively upon the mosaic floor. Her pale face was bent down; her
splendid golden hair, loosed from its bonds, flowed over her shoulders;
her mobile nostrils quivered.
"Queen!" cried Witichis, bending to lift her up, "what ails thee?"
But before he could touch her, she started up, swift as a serpent, and
stood erect.
"It was only a weakness--which is already over," she panted.
"Farewell!"
She tottered to the door, and, closing it behind her, fell senseless
into Aspa's arms.
During all this time, the mysteriously threatening appearance of the
atmosphere had increased.
The little cloud which Cethegus had remarked the day before, had been
the forerunner of an immense black wall of vapour which had arisen in
the east during the night, and which, since morning, had hovered
gloomily, as if brooding destruction, over the city and the greater
part of the horizon.
In the south, however, the sun shone with an intolerable heat from a
cloudless sky.
The Gothic sentries had doffed their helmets and armour; they preferred
to expose themselves to the arrows of the enemy rather than suffer the
unbearable heat.
There was not a breath of air. The east wind, which had brought up the
wall of cloud, had dropped again.
The sea was grey and motionless; not a leaf of the poplars in the
palace garden moved.
The animal world, silent the day before, was uneasy and terrified. Over
the hot sands on the shore swallows, seagulls, and marsh-birds
fluttered hither and thither, without cause or aim, flying low above
the ground, and often uttering shrill cries.
In the city the dogs ran whining out of the houses; the horses tore
themselves loose from their halters and, snorting impatiently, kicked
and pranced; cats, asses, and mules uttered lamentable cries; and three
of the dromedaries belonging to Belisarius killed themselves in their
frantic efforts to get loose.
Evening was approaching. The sun was about to sink below the horizon.
In the Forum of Hercules a citizen was sitting upon the marble steps of
his house. He was a vine-dresser, and, as the dry branch hung at his
door indicated, himself sold the produce of his vines. He glanced at
the threatening thundercloud.
"I wish it would rain," he sighed. "If it does not rain, it will hail,
and then all the fruit that has not been trampled by the enemy's horses
will be completely destroyed."
"Do you call the troops of our Emperor enemies?" whispered his son, a
Roman patriot. But he said it very softly, for just then a Gothic
patrol turned the corner of the Forum. "I wish Orcus would devour them
all, Greeks and barbarians! The Goths at least are always thirsty. See,
there comes that long Hildebadus; he is one of the thirstiest. I shall
be surprised if he has no desire to drink to-day, when the very stones
are cracking with heat!"
Hildebad had just set the nearest watch. He held his helmet in his left
hand; his lance was carelessly laid across his shoulder.
He passed the wine-house--to the great astonishment of its
owner--turned into the next street, and soon stood before a lofty
massive round tower--it was called the Tower of AEtius.
A handsome young Goth was walking up and down upon the wall in the
shadow of the tower. Long light locks curled upon his shoulders, and
the delicate white and red of his complexion, as well as his mild blue
eyes, gave him almost a girlish aspect.
"Hey! Fridugern," Hildebad called up to him. "Hey! How canst thou bear to
stay up there on that gridiron? With shield and breastplate too!
_Ouff_!"
"I have the watch, Hildebad," answered the youth gently.
"Bother the watch! Dost thou think that Belisarius will attack us in
this blazing heat? I tell you he is glad if he can get air; to-day he
will not thirst for blood. Come with me; I came to fetch thee. The
fat Ravennese in the Forum of Hercules has old wine and young
daughters--let us put both to our lips."
The young Goth shook his long ringlets and frowned.
"I have the watch, and no desire for girls. But thirsty I am,
truly--send me a cup of wine up here."
"Aha! 'tis true, by Freia, Venus, and Maria! Thou hast a bride across
the mountains! And thou thinkest that she will find it out and break
her promise if thou lookest too closely into a pair of black Roman
eyes! Oh, dear friend, how young thou art! No, no; no malice! It is all
right. Thou art nevertheless a very good fellow and wilt get older
by-and-by. I will send thee some old Massikian--then thou canst drink
to Allgunthis all alone."
Hildebad turned back, and soon disappeared into the wine-house.
Presently a slave brought a cup of wine to the young Goth, who
whispered, "Here's to thee, Allgunthis!" and he emptied it at one
draught. Then he took up his lance, and slowly paced to and fro on the
wall.
"I can at least think of her," he said; "no duty can prevent that. When
shall I see her again?"
He walked on, but presently stopped and stood, lost in thought, in the
shadow of the great dark tower, which looked down upon him
threateningly.
In a short time another troop of Goths passed the tower. In their midst
they led a man blindfolded, and let him out at the Porta Honorii.
It was Procopius who had in vain waited for three hours, hoping that
the King would change his mind. It was useless. No messenger came, and
the ambassador left the city ill at ease.
Another hour passed. It had become darker, but not cooler.
Suddenly a strong blast of wind rose from the sea. It drove the black
cloud toward the north with great rapidity. It now hung dense and heavy
over the city. But the sea and the south-eastern horizon were not
thereby rendered clear, for a second and similar wall of cloud closely
followed the first.
The whole sky had now become one black vault.
Hildebad, drowsy with wine, went towards his night-watch at the Porta
Honorii.
"Still at thy post, Fridugern?" he called to the young Goth in passing.
"And still no rain. The poor earth, how thirsty it will be! I pity it!
Goodnight!"
It was insufferably sultry in the houses, for the wind blew from the
scorching deserts of Africa.
The people, alarmed by the threatening appearance of the heavens, came
out of doors, walking in companies through the streets, or sitting in
groups in the courtyards and under the colonnades of the churches.
A crowd of people sat upon the steps of Saint Apollonaris.
And, though the sun had scarcely set, it was already as black as night.
Upon her couch in her bed-chamber lay Mataswintha, the Queen, in a kind
of heavy stupor, her cheeks pale as death. Her wide open eyes stared
into the darkness. She refused to answer Aspa's anxious questions, and
presently dismissed the weeping slave with a motion of her hand.
As she lay thinking, these names passed continuously and monotonously
through her mind: Witichis--Rauthgundis--Mataswintha!
Mataswintha--Rauthgundis--Witichis!
Thus she lay for a long, long time; and it seemed as if nothing could
ever interrupt the unceasing circle of these words.
Suddenly a red light flashed into the room, and at the same moment a
peal of thunder, louder than she had ever before heard, clattered over
the trembling city.
A scream from her women caught her ear, and she started upright on her
couch.
Aspa had divested her of her upper garment; she wore only her
under-dress of white silk. Throwing the falling tresses of her splendid
hair back over her shoulder, she leaned on her elbow and listened.
There was an awful stillness.
Then another flash and another peal.
A rush of wind tore open the window of feldspath which looked into the
court.
Mataswintha stared out at the darkness, which was illuminated at every
moment by a vivid flash of lightning. The thunder rolled incessantly,
overpowering even the fearful howling of the wind.
Mataswintha felt relieved by this strife of the elements. She looked
out eagerly.
Just then Aspa hurried in with a light. It was a torch, the flame of
which was protected from the wind by a glass globe.
"Queen, thou--but, by all the gods! how dost thou look? Like a
Lemure--like the Goddess of Revenge!"
"Would that I were!" said Mataswintha, without taking her eyes from the
window.
They were the first words that she had spoken for hours.
Flash after flash, and peal after peal.
Aspa closed the window.
"O Queen! the Christian maids say that the end of the world has come,
and that the Son of God will come down upon fiery clouds to judge the
living and the dead. Oh! what a flash! And yet there is not a drop of
rain. I have never seen such a storm. The gods are very angry."
"Woe to those with whom they are angry! Oh, I envy the gods! They can
love and hate as they like. They can annihilate those who do not adore
them."
"O mistress! I was in the streets; I have just returned. All the people
stream into the churches, praying and singing. I pray to Kairu and
Astarte. Mistress, dost thou not pray?"
"I curse. That, too, is a kind of prayer."
"Oh, what a peal!" screamed the slave, and fell trembling on her knees.
The dark blue mantle which she wore slid from her shoulders.
The thunder and lightning had now become so violent, that Mataswintha
sprang from her couch and ran to the window.
"Mercy, mercy!" prayed the slave. "Have pity upon us, ye great gods!"
"No, no mercy--a curse upon us miserable mortals! Ha! that was
splendid! Dost thou hear how they scream with fear in the streets?
Another, and yet another! Ha! ye gods--if there be a God or gods--I
envy ye but one thing: the power of your hate and your deadly
lightning. Ye hurl it with all the rage and lust of your hearts, and
your enemies vanish. Then you laugh; the thunder is your laughter. Ha!
what was that!"
A flash and a peal of thunder which outdid all that had gone before.
Aspa started from her knees.
"What is that great building, Aspa? That dark mass opposite? The
lightning must have struck it. Is it on fire?"
"No, thanks to the gods! The lightning only lit it up. It is the
granaries of the King."
"Ha! has your lightning failed?" cried the Queen. "But mortals, too,
can use the lightning of revenge." And she left the window. The room
became suddenly dark.
"Queen--mistress--where art thou? Whither hast thou gone?" cried Aspa.
And she felt along the walls.
But the room was empty, and Aspa called her mistress in vain.
Below in the streets a procession wound its way to the Basilica of
Saint Apollonaris.
Romans and Goths; children and old people; very many women. Boys with
torches walked first; behind came priests with crucifix and banners.
Through the growling of the thunder and the roaring of the wind sounded
the ancient and solemn chorus:
"Dulce mihi cruciari,
Parva vis doloris est;
Malo mori quam f[oe]dari;
Major vis amoris est."
And the choir answered:
"Parce, judex, contristatis
Parce pecatoribus,
Qui descendis perflammatis
Ultor jam in nubibus."
And the procession disappeared into the church.
The overseers of the corn-magazines had also joined the crowd of
worshippers.
Upon the steps of the Basilica, exactly opposite the door of the
magazines, sat the woman in the brown mantle, calm and fearless amid
the uproar of the elements; her hands not folded, but resting quietly
on her lap.
The man in the steel cap stood near her.
A Gothic woman, who was just hurrying into the church, recognised her
by the light of a flash of lightning.
"Thou here again, countrywoman? Without shelter? I have offered thee my
house, often enough. Thou appearest strange here in Ravenna?"
"I am so; but still I have a lodging."
"Come into the church and pray with us."
"I pray here."
"But thou neither singest nor speakest."
"Yet still God hears me."
"Pray for the city. They fear that the end of the world is at hand."
"I am not afraid."
"Pray for our good King, who daily gives us bread."
"I do pray for him."
Just then two Gothic patrols came clattering round the corner, and met
opposite the Basilica.
"Aye, thunder till the skies crack!" scolded the leader of one of the
bands; "but do not hinder me in my duty. Halt! Wisand, is it thou?
Where is the King? In the church also?"
"No, Hildebad; upon the walls."
"That is right; that is his place. Forwards! Long live the King!"
Their steps died away.
A Roman tutor, with some of his pupils, passed by.
"But, magister," said the youngest boy, "I thought you were going to
the church? Why do you take us out in this storm?"
"I only spoke of church to get you out of the house. Church! I tell
you, the fewer roofs and walls about one the better. I am going to take
you out into the great meadow in the suburbs. I wish it would rain. If
Vesuvius were near, as it is in my native place, I should think that
Ravenna was about to become a second Herculaneum. I know such an
atmosphere as we have to-day--it is dangerous."
And they went on.
"Wilt thou not come with me, mistress?" the man in the steel cap asked
the Gothic woman. "I must try to find Dromon, else we shall get no
lodging tonight. I cannot leave thee alone in the dark. Thou hast no
light with thee."
"Dost thou not see that the lightning never ceases? Go; I will come
afterwards. I have still something to think of--and to pray for."
And the woman remained alone.
She pressed both hands against her bosom and looked up at the black
sky; her lips moved slightly.
Just then it seemed to her as if, in the high outer galleries,
passages, and upper rooms of the mighty wooden edifice which towered in
a dark mass opposite, a light came and went, wandering up and down. She
thought it must have been a deception caused by the lightning, for any
open light would have been extinguished by the wind. But no; it really
was a light, for its appearance and disappearance alternated at regular
intervals, as if the person carrying it were hurrying along the
galleries and passing behind the pillars and supports.
The woman attentively watched the changing light and shadow---- But
suddenly--oh, horror!--she started up.
It seemed to her as if the marble step upon which she was sitting had
been some sleeping animal, which, suddenly awaking, moved slightly,
then rose--and turned itself--violently--from left to right.
Thunder, lightning, and wind ceased all at once.
There! from the granaries sounded a shrill scream. The light flamed up
brightly, and then disappeared.
But the woman in the street also uttered a low cry of fear, for now she
could no longer doubt--the earth quaked under her.
A slight movement; then two, three strong shocks, as if the ground had
heaved from left to right like a wave.
Screams of fear rose from the city.
The people rushed out of the doors of the Basilica.
Another shock!
The woman kept her feet with difficulty.
And, from the farther side of the city, sounded a dull and distant
crash, as if of heavy falling masses.
A fearful earthquake had shaken all Ravenna.