"Oh, that must not be taken so literally," Ausonius remarked.
"I am not superstitious. I rely possibly too much upon my sword and too
little upon heaven; and I care nothing about the Vestal virgins. But I
do not like the second step your pupil took last year in Rome."
"What do you mean?"
"He removed from the council-hall of the Senate the altar of the
goddess of victory, where sacrifices were offered before the opening of
debates."
"Constantine had removed it previously."
"But Julian, the mighty conqueror of the Alemanni, restored it. And, by
Jupiter!--pardon me, by God!--with good success. The priests called him
'the apostate,' but the goddess of victory was not unfaithful to him.
Now men fight stoutly, with or without the goddess of victory. But--I
am a Roman--I dread the omen."
"You see the matter in too dark colors."
"You see it in too rosy a light. Your kind heart wishes good to all."
"Yes, even to the Barbarians!" Ausonius nodded, raising his goblet.
"They are human beings, too. And as the Stoa, not the Galilean, first
taught, all men are brothers."
"But there are too many of these yellow-maned brothers."
"And I believe in a deity--call him by whatever name you choose--that
directs all things well. Therefore I believe that these Barbarians will
listen to reason and soon offer you their submission."
"Perhaps the little girl--what is her name? Bissula--will also
surrender to Ausonius," said the Tribune in a jesting tone.
"Oh, the dear child! If I could only see her again."
"Do not wish it, Prefect."
"Why?"
"Perhaps she will conquer you! She would not be the first Barbarian.
Was it Pipa--or Pipara--that the girl of the Marcomanni was called,
with whom even an emperor fell desperately and hopelessly in love?"
"You forget I wanted her for a daughter, not a wife."
"At that time. Now she is no longer a child--and you are a widower."
"Alas! she probably fled with her people long ago. And yet, I am so
ready to believe what I desire!"
"Yes, that is one of your most amiable weaknesses,"
"Am I to hope for what I fear?"
"No, but to think what we do not desire more probable than what we
wish--that is my wisdom."
"No, no! I will not allow myself to be robbed of the hope that I shall
again see the little nymph of these forests."
"But if I catch her," cried the Tribune, laughing, "she will be mine
according to the laws of war."
A sudden change of expression--like a flash of lightning--flickered
across Herculanus's hazard visage. The Tribune did not see; his eyes
were fixed upon Ausonius's face, wondering that his features should
pale with fear.
"Can this feeling be so deep-seated in my worthy friend?" he thought.
"Uncle, surely you know that the Tribune is jesting," cried Herculanus,
as if to comfort him.
The Illyrian turned toward him with a threatening bearing, saying in a
stern, grave tone: "Who tells you so?"
Ausonius cast a hasty, anxious glance at the handsome, stately man;
then he tried to smile, but the attempt was not very successful. "Your
jest brought before me the possibility of a terrible earnest. If the
charming, innocent child should fall into the hands of one of our
pitiless centurions! Horrible!"
"It has been the fate of thousands--pshaw, what am I saying--of many
hundred thousands, since we Romans bore our eagles over the world. You
poets--even you, my softhearted friend--are fond of singing the praises
of war. I tell you, he who knows and directs it rarely lauds it. War is
necessary. I laugh at the foolish weaklings who, like the worthy
stoics, or the monks, imagine that some day there will be a kingdom of
eternal peace. War is grand; death for one's native land is the most
powerful feeling that rules mankind; but war is horrible! To me it does
not matter," he added, laughing, as he drained his goblet. "I need only
make war, not answer for it, and above all, I need not sing its
praises, I am neither anvil nor lyre; I am hammer, and woe to the
vanquished! For a thousand years we have carried the terrors of our
victories to all nations: an unprecedented loyalty on the part of
Fortuna. But now--I hope I shall not witness it--now her wheel is
gradually rolling backward--toward us--over us!"
"Never!" cried the poet. "What can these half-naked Barbarians do
against us? So long as we have warriors like you and, for the service
of the Muses, minds--"
"Like Ausonius's, do you mean? Enviable self-reliance! I tell you, I
consider myself--and far better soldiers than I--incapable of resisting
this ever-advancing ocean which is called 'Germans.' I have gone
through many a campaign against them--against these very Alemanni. I
think they know my name! But there is something mysterious under this
surging multitude--I know not what--a motive power unintelligible to us
all, which can no more be resisted with sword and spear than the sea
itself. I have long sought the clue to the secret, yet cannot find it.
But so far as the service of the Muses is concerned--pardon a rude
soldier--we need peasants, not poets. There are only millionaires,
beggars, and slaves. Give me a hundred thousand free peasants of the
ancient Latin stock, and I'll sacrifice in return for them all the
Latin poets, dead and living, and once more believe in the future of
Rome. As things are--but it is already late," he cried, starting up.
"Let us seek our couches. We shall not be able to end this old
conflict of ours; coming generations will decide it, but not with
words. Good-night! Dream of Bissula--that we may find her: you believe
in dreams. For to-morrow--Nannienus has at least completed a couple of
ships which he will send to cruise along the northern shore--we will
make a little expedition eastward."
He raised the curtain and strode in his clanking armor out into the
darkness; he could not help thinking constantly of the beautiful
wood-nymph. Herculanus also took his leave, but he was scarcely outside
the tent when he shook his clenched fist threateningly toward the east,
muttering through his set teeth: "Wait, Barbarian witch!" But Ausonius
stretched himself on his camp bed, put out the light, and murmured:
"Sleep peacefully, my Bissula, wherever you may be; to-morrow perhaps I
shall once more see those never-to-be-forgotten eyes."