PELAGIUS
Rome waited. It had been thought that the fall of Neapolis would be
followed by Totila's swift march along the Appian Way; but three months
had passed, and the Gothic king was but little nearer to the city. He
seemed resolved to leave nothing behind him that had not yielded to his
arms; slowly and surely his rule was being established over all the
South. Through the heats of summer, with pestilence still lurking in
her palaces and her dens, no fountain plashing where the sun blazed on
Forum and on street, Rome waited.
In June Bessas was joined by another of the Greek commanders, Joannes,
famed for his ferocity, and nicknamed the Devourer. A show of activity
in the garrison resulted from this arrival; soldiers were set to work
upon parts of the city wall which needed strengthening; the Romans
began to make ready for a siege; and some, remembering the horrors of a
few years ago, took to flight. There was much talk of a conspiracy to
open the gates to Totila; one or two senators were imprisoned, and a
few Arian priests who still dwelt in Rome were sentenced to banishment.
But when, after a few weeks, Joannes and his troop marched northward,
commotion ceased; Bessas fell back into the life of indolent rapacity,
work on the walls was soon neglected, and Rome found that she had still
only to wait.
About this time Marcian fell sick. He had suffered much from
disappointment of high hopes, neither Heliodora nor Leander aiding his
schemes as he expected. The constant danger in which he lived tried his
fortitude to the utmost, and at length he began to burn with fever.
Agonies came upon him, for even the slightest disorder in these
plague-stricken times filled men with fear. And whilst he lay thus
wretched, his servants scarce daring to attend upon him--Sagaris
refused to enter his chamber, and held himself ready for flight (with
all he could lay hands on) as soon as the physician should have uttered
the fatal word--whilst his brain was confused and his soul shaken with
even worse than the wonted terrors, there came to visit him the deacon
Pelagius. That the visit happened at this moment was mere chance, but
Pelagius, hearing of Marcian's condition, felt that he could not have
come more opportunely. A courageous man, strong in body as in mind, he
was not to be alarmed by mere talk of the pest; bidding the porter
conduct him, he came to Marcian's bedside, and there sat for half an
hour. When he went away, his handsome countenance wore a smile of
thoughtful satisfaction.
As though this conversation had relieved him, the sick man at once
began to mend. But with his recovery came another torment. Lying in
fear of death and hell, he had opened his soul to Pelagius, and had
revealed secrets upon which depended all he cared for in this world.
Not only he himself was ruined, but the lives of those he had betrayed
were in jeopardy. That suspicion was busy with him he knew; the
keen-sighted deacon had once already held long talk with him, whereupon
followed troublesome interrogation by Bessas, who had since regarded
him with somewhat a sullen eye. How would Pelagius use the knowledge he
had gained? Even when quite recovered from the fever, Marcian did not
venture to go forth, lest an enemy should be waiting for him without.
In his weak, dejected and humbled state he thought of the peace of a
monastery, and passed most of his time in prayer.
But when a few days had passed without event, and increasing strength
enabled him to think less brain-sickly, he began to ask whether he
himself had not peradventure been betrayed It was a long time since he
had seen Heliodora, who appeared to be making no effort for the
conquest of the Greek commander; had she merely failed, and lost
courage, or did the change in her mean treachery? To trust Heliodora
was to take a fool's risk; even a little wound to her vanity might
suffice to turn her against him. At their last meeting she had sat with
furrowed brows, brooding as if over some wrong, and when he urged her
for an explanation of her mood, she was first petulant, then fiery, so
that he took umbrage and left her. Happily she knew none of his graver
secrets, much though she had tried to discover them. Were she
traitorous, she could betray him alone.
But he, in the wreck of his manhood, had uttered many names besides
hers--that of Basil, from whom he had recently heard news, that of the
politic Leander, those of several nobles engaged in the Gothic cause.
Scarcely could he believe that he had been guilty of such baseness; he
would fain have persuaded himself that it was but a memory of delirium.
He cursed the subtlety of Pelagius, which had led him on till
everything was uttered. Pelagius, the bosom friend of Justinian, would
know how to deal with plotters against the Empire. Why had he not
already struck? What cunning held his hand?
Unable at length to sit in idleness, he tried to ease his conscience by
sending a warning to Basil, using for this purpose the trustworthy
slave who, in many disguises, was wont to travel with his secret
messages. This man wore false hair so well fixed upon his head that it
could not attract attention; the letter he had to deliver was laid
beneath an artificial scalp.
'Be on your guard,' thus Marcian wrote. 'Some one has made known to the
Greeks that you are arming men, and for what purpose. Delay no longer
than you must in joining the King. In him is your only hope, if hope
there still can be. I, too, shall soon be in the camp.'
These last words were for his friend's encouragement. As soon as the
letter had been despatched, he went forth about Rome in his usual way,
spoke with many persons, and returned home unscathed. Plainly, then, he
was to be left at liberty yet awhile; Pelagius had purposes to serve.
Next day, he betook himself to the Palatine; Bessas received him with
bluff friendliness, joked about his escape from death (for every one
believed that he had had the plague), and showed no sign of the
mistrust which had marked their last meeting. In gossip with certain
Romans who were wont to hang about the commander, flattering and
fawning upon him for their base advantage, he learnt that no one had
yet succeeded to the place left vacant by the hapless Muscula; only in
casual amours, generally of the ignoblest, did Bessas bestow his
affections. Of Heliodora there was no talk.
Another day he passed in sauntering; nothing that he could perceive in
those with whom he talked gave hint of menace to his safety. Then,
early the next morning, he turned his steps to the Quirinal. As usual,
he was straightway admitted to Heliodora's house, but had to wait
awhile until the lady could receive him. Gloomily thoughtful, standing
with eyes fixed upon those of the great bust of Berenice, he was
startled by a sudden cry from within the house, the hoarse yell of a
man in agony; it was repeated, and became a long shriek, rising and
falling in terrible undulation. He had stepped forward to seek an
explanation, when Heliodora's eunuch smilingly came to meet him.
'What is that?' asked Marcian, his nerves a-quiver.
'The noble lady has ordered a slave to be punished,' was the cheerful
reply.
'What is his fault?'
'Illustrious, I know not,' answered the eunuch more gravely.
The fearful sounds still continuing, Marcian turned as though to hurry
away; but the eunuch, following, implored him not to go, for his
departure would but increase Heliodora's wrath. So for a few more
minutes he endured the horror of that unbroken yell. When it ceased, he
could hear his heart beating.
Summoned at length to the lady's presence, he found her lying in the
chamber of the Hermaphrodite. A strange odour floated in the air,
overcoming that of wonted perfumes.
Faint with a sudden nausea, Marcian performed no courtesy, but stood
regarding the living woman much as he had gazed at the face in marble,
absent and sombre-browed.
'What now?' were Heliodora's first words, her smile fading in
displeasure.
'Must we needs converse in your torture-chamber?' asked Marcian.
'Are your senses more delicate than mine?'
'It seems so. I could wish I had chosen another hour for visiting you.'
'It was well chosen,' said Heliodora, regarding him fixedly. 'This
slave I have chastised, shall I tell you of what he was guilty? He has
a blabbing tongue.'
'I see not how that concerns me,' was his cold reply, as he met her
look with steady indifference.
From her lounging attitude Heliodora changed suddenly to one in which,
whilst seated, she bent forward as though about to spring at him.
'How comes it that Bessas knows every word that has passed between us?'
broke fiercely from her lips.
In an instant Marcian commanded himself, shrugged his shoulders, and
laughed.
'That is a question,' he said, 'to put to your astrologer, your
oneirocritic, your genethliac. I profess not to read mysteries.'
'Liar!' she shot out. 'How could he have had it but from your own lips?'
Marcian betook himself to his utmost dissimulation, and the talk of the
next few minutes--on his part, deliberately provocative; on hers,
recklessly vehement--instructed him in much that he had desired to
learn. It was made clear to him that a long combat of wills and desires
had been in progress between the crafty courtesan and the half wily and
the half brutal soldier, with a baffling of Heliodora's devices which
would never have come to his knowledge but for this outbreak of rage.
How far the woman had gone in her lures, whether she had played her
last stake, he could not even now determine; but he suspected that only
such supreme defeat could account for the fury in which he beheld her.
Bessas, having (as was evident) heard the secret from Pelagius, might
perchance have played the part of a lover vanquished by his passions,
and then, after winning his end by pretence of treachery to the
Emperor, had broken into scoffing revelation. That were a triumph after
the Thracian's heart. Having read thus far in the past, Marcian had to
turn anxious thought upon the future, for his position of seeming
security could not long continue. He bent himself to allay the wrath he
had excited. Falling of a sudden into a show of profound distress, he
kept silence for a little, then murmured bitterly:
'I see what has happened. When the fever was upon me, my mind wandered,
and I talked.'
So convincing was the face, the tone, so plausible the explanation,
that Heliodora drew slowly back, her fury all but quenched. She
questioned him as to the likely betrayer, and the name of Sagaris
having been mentioned, used the opportunity to learn what she could
concerning the man.
'I cannot promise to give him up to you to be tortured,' said Marcian,
with his characteristic smile of irony.
'That I do not ask. But,' she added significantly, 'will you send him
here, and let me use gentler ways of discovering what I can?'
'That, willingly.'
And when Marcian went away, he reflected that all was not yet lost. For
Heliodora still had faith in the prophecy of her astrologer; she was
more resolute than ever in her resolve to triumph over Bessas; she
could gain nothing to this end by helping her confederate's ruin.
Before parting, they had agreed that Marcian would do well to affect
ignorance of the discovery Bessas had made; time and events must
instruct them as to the projects of their enemies, and guide their own
course.
That same day, he despatched the Syrian with a letter to Heliodora, and
on the man's return spoke with him as if carelessly of his commission.
He remarked that the face of Sagaris shone as though exultantly, but no
indiscreet word dropped from the vaunter's lips. A useful fellow,
murmured Marcian within himself, and smiled contempt.
Another day or two of indecision, then in obedience to an impulse he
could no longer resist, he sought speech with the deacon Pelagius. Not
without trouble was this obtained, for Pelagius was at all times busy,
always beset by suitors of every degree, the Romans holding him in high
reverence, and making their appeals to him rather than to the Pope, for
whom few had a good word. When at last Marcian was admitted to the
deacon's presence, he found himself disconcerted by the long, silent
scrutiny of eyes deep read in the souls of men. No word would reach his
lips.
'I have been expecting you,' said the deacon at length, gravely, but
without severity. 'You have made no haste to come.'
'Most reverend,' replied Marcian, in a tone of the deepest reproach, 'I
knew not certainly whether I had indeed made confession to you, or if
it was but a dream of fever.'
Pelagius smiled. He was standing by a table, and his hand lay upon an
open volume.
'You are of noble blood, lord Marcian,' he continued, 'and the
greatness of your ancestors is not unknown to you. Tell me by what
motive you have been induced to play the traitor against Rome. I cannot
think it was for the gain that perishes. Rather would I suppose you
misled by the opinion of Cassiodorus, whose politics were as unsound as
his theology. I read here, in his treatise _De Anima_, that there is
neither bliss nor torment for the soul before the great Day of
Judgment--a flagrant heresy, in utter contradiction of the Scriptures,
and long ago refuted by the holy Augustine. Can you trust in worldly
matters one who is so blinded to the clearest truths of eternity?'
'I confess,' murmured the listener, 'that I thought him justified in
his support of the Gothic kingdom.'
'You are content, then, you whose ancestors have sat in the Senate, to
be ruled by barbarians? You, a Catholic, revolt not against the
dominions of Arians? And so little is your foresight, your speculation,
that you dream of permanent conquest of Italy by this leader of a
barbaric horde? I tell you, lord Marcian, that ere another twelvemonth
has passed, the Goths will be defeated, scattered, lost. The Emperor is
preparing a great army, and before the end of summer Belisarius will
again land on our shores. Think you Totila can stand against him? Be
warned; consider with yourself. Because your confession had indeed
something of sickness in it, I have forborne to use it against you as
another might have done. But not with impunity can you resume your
traitorous practices; of that be assured.'
He paused, looking sternly into Marcian's face.
'I have no leisure to debate with you, to confute your errors. One
thing only will I add, before dismissing you to ponder what I have
uttered. It is in your power to prove your return to reason and the
dignity of a Roman; I need not say how; the occasion will surely ere
long present itself, and leave you in no doubt as to my meaning.
Remember, then, how I have dealt with you; remember, also, that no such
indulgence will be granted to a renewal of your crime against Rome,
your sin against God.'
Marcian dropped to his knees; there was a moment of silence; then he
arose and went forth.
A week passed, and there came the festival of St. Laurentius. All Rome
streamed out to the basilica beyond the Tiburtine Gate, and among those
who prayed most fervently at the shrine was Marcian. He besought
guidance in an anguish of doubt. Not long ago, in the early days of
summer, carnal temptation had once more overcome him, and the
sufferings, the perils, of this last month he attributed to that lapse
from purity. His illness was perhaps caused by excess of rigour in
penitence. To-day he prayed with many tears that the Roman martyr would
enlighten him, and make him understand his duty to Rome.
As he was leaving the church, a hand touched him; he turned, and beheld
the deacon Leander, who led him apart.
'It is well that I have met you,' said the cleric, with less than his
usual bland deliberation. 'A messenger is at your house to bid you come
to me this evening. Can you leave Rome to-morrow?'
'On what mission?'
Leander pursed his lips for a moment, rolled his eyes hither and
thither, and said with a cautious smile:
'That for which you have been waiting.'
With difficulty Marcian dissembled his agitation. Was this the saint's
reply to his prayer? Or was it a temptation of the Evil Power, which it
behoved him to resist?
'I am ready,' he said, off-hand.
'You will be alone for the first day's journey, and in the evening you
will be met by such attendants as safety demands. Do you willingly
undertake the charge? Or is there some new danger which you had not
foreseen?'
'There is none,' replied Marcian, 'and I undertake the charge right
willingly.'
'Come to me, then, at sunset. The travel is planned in every detail,
and the letters ready. What follower goes with you?'
'The same as always--Sagaris.'
'Confide nothing to him until you are far from Rome. Better if you need
not even then.'
Leander broke off the conference, and walked away at a step quicker
than his wont. But Marcian, after lingering awhile in troubled thought,
returned to the martyr's grave. Long he remained upon his knees, the
conflict within him so violent that he could scarce find coherent words
of prayer. Meanwhile the August sky had clouded, and thunder was
beginning to roll. As he went forth again, a flash of lightning dazzled
him. He saw that it was on the left hand, and took courage to follow
the purpose that had shaped in his thoughts.
That evening, after an hour's close colloquy with Leander, he betook
himself by circuitous way to the dwelling of Pelagius, and with him
again held long talk. Then went home, through the dark, still streets,
to such slumber as his conscience might permit.