THE PRISONER OF PRAENESTE
On the morrow of St. Laurentius, at that point of dawn when a man can
recognise the face of one who passes, there issued from the Lateran a
silent company equipped for travel. In a covered carriage drawn by two
horses sat the Pope, beside him a churchman of his household; a second
carriage conveyed the deacon Leander and another ecclesiastic; servants
and a baggage vehicle brought up the rear. With what speed it could
over the ill-paved roads, this procession made for the bank of the
Tiber below the Aventine, where, hard by the empty public granaries, a
ship lay ready to drop down stream. It was a flight rather than a
departure. Having at length made up his mind to obey the Emperor's
summons, Vigilius endeavoured to steal away whilst the Romans slept off
their day of festival. But he was not suffered to escape thus. Before
he had reached the place of embarkation, folk began to run shouting
behind his carriage. Ere he could set foot on board the vessel a crowd
had gathered. The farewell of the people to their supreme Pontiff was
given in a volley of stones and potsherds, whilst the air rang with
maledictions.
Notwithstanding his secret hostility, Leander had of late crept into
Vigilius' confidence, thus protecting himself against his formidable
adversary Pelagius. He was now the Pope's travelling companion as far
as Sicily. Had he remained in Rome, the authority of Pelagius would
have fallen heavily upon him, and he could scarce have escaped the
humiliation of yielding his Gothic captive to Justinian's friend.
Apprised only a day before of Vigilius' purpose, he had barely time to
plot with Marcian for the conveyance of Veranilda to Totila's camp.
This had long been his intention, for, convinced that Totila would rule
over Italy, he saw in the favour of the king not only a personal
advantage, but the hope of the Western Church in its struggle with
Byzantium. Driven at length to act hurriedly, he persuaded himself that
he could use no better agent than Marcian, who had so deeply pledged
himself to the Gothic cause. Of what had passed between Marcian and
Pelagius he of course knew nothing. So, as the ship moved seaward upon
tawny Tiber, and day flamed upon the Alban hills, Leander laughed
within himself. He enjoyed a plot for its own sake, and a plot, long
savoured, which gave him triumph over ecclesiastical rivals, and even
over the Emperor Justinian, was well worth the little risk that might
ensue When he returned to Rome, it would doubtless be with the
victorious Goth--safe, jubilant, and ere long to be seated in the chair
of the Apostle.
At the same hour Marcian was riding along the Praenestine Way, the
glory of summer sunrise straight before him. The thought most active in
his mind had nothing to do with the contest of nations or with the fate
of Rome: it was that on the morrow he should behold Veranilda. For a
long time he had ceased to think of her; her name came to his lips in
connection with artifice and intrigue, but the maiden herself had faded
into nothingness, no longer touched his imagination. He wondered at
that fantastic jealousy of Basil from which he had suffered. This
morning, the caress of the warm air, the scents wafted about him as he
rode over the great brown wilderness, revived his bygone mood. Again he
mused on that ideal loveliness which he attributed to the unseen
Veranilda For nearly a year she had been sought in vain by her lover,
by Greek commanders, by powerful churchmen; she had been made the
pretext of far-reaching plots and conspiracies; her name had excited
passions vehement and perilous, had been the cause of death. Now he was
at length to look upon her; nay, she was to pass into his guardianship,
and be by him delivered into the hands of the warrior king. Dreaming,
dreaming, he rode along the Praenestine Way.
Though the personal dignity of Pelagius and the calm force of his
speech had awed and perturbed him, Marcian soon recovered his habitual
mind. He had thought and felt too deeply regarding public affairs to be
so easily converted from the cause for which he lived. A new treachery
was imposed upon him. When, after receiving all his instructions from
Leander, he went to see Pelagius, it was in order to secure his own
safety and the fulfilment of his secret mission by a seeming betrayal
of him he served. He knew that his every movement was watched; he could
not hope to leave Rome without being stopped and interrogated. If he
desired to carry out Leander's project--and he desired it the more
ardently the longer he reflected--his only course was this. Why did it
agitate him more than his treachery hitherto? Why did he shake and
perspire when he left Pelagius, after promising to bring Veranilda to
Rome? He knew not himself--unless it were due to a fear that he might
perform his promise.
This fear it was, perhaps, which had filled his short sleep with dreams
now terrible, now luxurious. This fear it was which caught hold of him,
at length distinct and intelligible, when, on turning his head towards
the city soon after sunrise, he became aware of a group of horsemen
following him at a distance of half a mile or so. Thus had it been
agreed with Pelagius. The men were to follow him, without approaching,
to a certain point of his journey, then would close about him and his
attendants, who would be inferior in number, and carry them, with the
Gothic maiden, back to Rome. At the sight Marcian drew rein, and for a
moment sat in his saddle with bent head, suffering strangely. Sagaris
came up to his side, regarded him with anxious eye, and asked whether
the heat of the sun's rays incommoded him; whereupon he made a negative
sign and rode on.
He tried to laugh. Had he forgotten the subtlety of his plot for
deceiving Pelagius? To have made known to the deacon where Veranilda
really was, would have been a grave fault in strategy. These armed
horsemen imagined that a two days' journey lay before them, whereas the
place of Veranildas imprisonment would be reached this evening. The
artifice he had elaborated was, to be sure, full of hazard; accident
might disconcert everything; the instruments upon whom he reckoned
might fail him. But not because of this possibility was his heart so
miserably perturbed. It was himself that he dreaded--the failure of his
own purpose, the treachery of his own will.
On he rode in the full eye of the August sun. The vast, undulant plain
spread around him; its farms, villas, aqueducts no less eloquent of
death than the tombs by the wayside its still air and the cloudless
azure above speaking to a man's soul as with the voice of eternity.
Marcian was very sensible of such solemn influence. More than once, in
traversing this region, he had been moved to bow his head in devotion
purer than that which commonly inspired his prayers, but to-day he knew
not a moment's calm. All within him was turbid, subject to evil
thoughts.
A little before noon he made his first halt. Amid the ruins of a
spacious villa two or three peasant families had their miserable home,
with a vineyard, a patch of tilled soil, and a flock of goats for their
sustenance. Here the travellers, sheltered from the fierce sun, ate of
the provisions they carried, and lay resting for a couple of hours.
Marcian did not speak with the peasants, but he heard the voice of a
woman loud in lamentation, and Sagaris told him that it was for the
death of a child, who, straying yesterday at nightfall, had been killed
by a wolf. Many hours had the mother wept and wailed, only interrupting
her grief to vilify and curse the saint to whose protection her little
one was confided.
When he resumed his journey, Marcian kept glancing back until he again
caught sight of the company of horsemen; they continued to follow him
at the same distance. On he rode, the Alban hills at his right hand,
and before him, on its mountain side, the town for which he made. The
sun was yet far from setting when he reached Praeneste. Its great walls
and citadel towering on the height above told of ancient strength, and
many a noble building, within the city and without, monuments of glory
and luxury, resisted doom. Sulla's Temple of Fortune still looked down
upon its columned terraces, but behind the portico was a Christian
church, and where once abode the priests of the heathen sanctuary, the
Bishop of Praeneste had now his dwelling. Thither did Marcian
straightway betake himself. The bishop, a friend and ally of Leander,
received him with cordiality, and eagerly read the letter he brought.
Asked whether Vigilius had left Rome, Marcian was able to tell
something of the Pope's departure, having heard the story just before
his own setting forth; whereat the prelate, a man of jovial aspect,
laughed unrestrainedly.
'To supper! to supper!' he exclaimed with hospitable note. 'Time enough
for our business afterwards.'
But Marcian could not postpone what he had to say. Begging the bishop's
patience, he told how all day long he had been followed by certain
horsemen from Rome, who assuredly were sent to track him. His servant,
he added, was watching for their entrance into the town, and would
observe where they lodged. This, the bishop admitted, was a matter of
some gravity.
'Your guard is ready,' he said. 'Six stout fellows on good horses. But
these pursuers outman you. Let me think, let me think.'
Marcian had but to suggest his scheme. This was, to resume his journey
as soon as the townsfolk were all asleep, and travel through the night,
for there was a moon all but at the full. He might thus gain so much
advance of his pursuers that they would not be able to overtake him
before he came to the nearest outpost of the Gothic army. After
reflection, the bishop gave his approval to this project, and undertook
that all should be ready at the fitting hour. He himself would
accompany them to the gate of the town, and see them safely on their
way. To make surer, Marcian used another device. When he had learned
the quarters of the pursuing horsemen he sent Sagaris privily to speak
with their leader, warning him to be ready to ride at daybreak. Such a
message had of course nothing unexpected for its recipient, who looked
upon Marcian as secretly serving Pelagius. It put his mind at ease and
released him from the necessity of keeping a night watch. Sagaris,
totally ignorant of his master's mission, and of the plans that had
just been formed, imagined himself an intermediary in some plot between
Marcian and the leader of the horsemen, and performed the deceitful
office in all good faith.
The bishop and his guest sat down to supper in an ancient room, of
which the floor was a mosaic representing an Egyptian landscape, with a
multitude of figures. Marcian would gladly have asked questions about
Veranilda; how long she had been at Praeneste, whether the lady Aurelia
was in the same convent, and many other things; but he did not venture
to make known how little he had enjoyed of Leander's confidence. His
reverend host spoke not at all on this subject, which evidently had no
interest for him, but abounded in inquiries as to the state of things
ecclesiastical at Rome. The supper was excellent; it pained the good
prelate that his guest seemed to have so poor an appetite. He vaunted
the quality of everything on the table, and was especially enthusiastic
about a wine of the south, very aromatic, which had come to him as a
present from his friend the Bishop of Rhegium, together with a certain
cheese of Sila, exquisite in thymy savour, whereof he ate with
prodigious gusto.
It was about the third hour of the night when Sagaris, to his
astonishment, was aroused from a first sleep, and bidden prepare at
once for travel. Following his master and the bishop, who were not
otherwise attended, he passed through a garden to a postern, where, by
dim lantern light, he saw, in the street without, a small covered
carriage drawn by four mules, and behind it several men on horseback;
his master's horse and his own were also in readiness at the door. He
mounted, the carriage moved forward; and by a steep descent which
needed extreme caution, the gate of the city was soon reached. Here the
bishop, who had walked beside Marcian, spoke a word with two drowsy
watchmen sitting by the open gateway, bade his guest an affectionate
farewell, and stood watching for a few minutes whilst vehicle and
riders moved away in the moonlight.
Finding himself well sped from Praeneste, where his pursuers lay sound
asleep, Marcian felt an extravagant joy; he could scarce command
himself to speak a few necessary words, in an ordinary tone, to the
leader of the guard with which he was provided; to shout, to sing,
would have better suited his mood. Why he thrilled with such exultancy
he could not have truly said; but a weight seemed to be lifted from his
mind, and he told himself that the relief was due to knowing that he
had done with treachery, done with double-dealing, done with the shame
and the peril of such a life as he had led for years. Never could he
return to Rome save with the Gothic King; in beguiling Pelagius, he had
thrown in his lot irrevocably with the enemies of the Greeks. Now he
would play the part of an honest man; his heart throbbed at the thought.
But all this time his eyes were fixed upon the closed vehicle, behind
which he rode; and was it indeed the thought of having gained freedom
which made his heart so strangely beat? He pushed his horse as near as
possible to the carriage; he rode beside it; he stretched out his hand
and touched it. As soon as the nature of the road permitted, he gave an
order to make better speed, and his horse began to trot; he thought
less of the danger from which he was fleeing than of the place of rest
where Veranilda would step down from the carriage, and he would look
upon her face.
Under the great white moon, the valley into which they were descending
lay revealed in every feature, and the road itself was as well
illumined as by daylight. On they sped, as fast as the mules could be
driven. Near or far sounded from time to time the howl of a wolf,
answered by the fierce bark of dogs in some farm or village; the
hooting of owls broke upon the stillness, or the pipe of toads from a
marshy hollow. By the wayside would be seen moving stealthily a dark
form, which the travellers knew to be a bear, but they met no human
being, nor anywhere saw the gleam of a light in human habitation.
Coming within view of some temple of the old religion, all crossed
themselves and murmured a prayer, for this was the hour when the
dethroned demons had power over the bodies and the souls of men.
After a long descent they struck into the Via Latina, still in spite of
long neglect almost as good a road as when the legions marched over its
wheel-furrowed stones. If the information on which Leander had
calculated was correct, some three days' journey by this way would
bring them within reach of the Gothic king; but Marcian was now
debating with himself at what point he should quit the high road, so as
to make certain his escape, in case the Greek horsemen began a chase
early on the morrow. To the left lay a mountainous region, with byways
and little ancient towns, in old time the country of the Hernici;
beyond, a journey of two good days, flowed the river Liris, and there,
not far from the town of Arpinum, was Marcian's ancestral villa. Of
this he thought, as his horse trotted beside or behind the carriage. It
was much out of his way; surely there would be no need to go so far in
order to baffle pursuers. Yet still he thought of his villa, islanded
in the Liris, and seemed to hear through the night the music of
tumbling waters, and said within his heart, 'Could I not there lie
safe?'
Safe?--from the Greeks, that is to say, if they persistently searched
for him. Safe, until a messenger could reach Totila, and let him know
that Veranilda was rescued.
An hour after midnight, one of the mules' traces broke. In the silence
of the stoppage, whilst the driver was mending the harness as best he
could, Marcian alighted, stepped to the side of the vehicle, laid a
hand on the curtain which concealed those within, and spoke in a
subdued voice.
'Is all well with you, lady?'
'As well,' came the answer, 'as it can be with one who dreads her
unknown fate.'
The soft accents made Marcian tremble. He expected to hear a sweet
voice, but this was sweeter far than he could have imagined: its
gentleness, its sadness, utterly overcame him, so that he all but wept
in his anguish of delight.
'Have no fear,' he whispered eagerly. 'It is freedom that awaits you. I
am Marcian--Marcian, the friend of Basil.'
There sounded a low cry of joy; then the two names were repeated, his
and that of his friend, and again Marcian quivered.
'You will be no more afraid?' he said, as though laughingly.
'Oh no! The Blessed Virgin be thanked!'
An owl's long hoot wailed through the stillness, seeming to fill with
its infinite melancholy the great vault of moonlit heaven. In Marcian
it produced a sudden, unaccountable fear. Leaping on to his horse, he
cursed the driver for slowness. Another minute, and they were speeding
onward.
Marcian watched anxiously the course of the silver orb above them. When
it began to descend seaward, the animals were showing signs of
weariness; before daybreak he must perforce call a halt. In
conversation with the leader of his guard, he told the reason of their
hasting on by night (known already to the horseman, a trusted follower
of the Bishop of Praeneste), and at length announced his resolve to
turn off the Latin Way into the mountains, with the view of gaining the
little town Aletrium, whence, he explained, they could cross the hills
to the valley of the Liris, and so descend again to the main road. It
was the man's business to obey; he let fall a few words, however,
concerning the dangers of the track; it was well known that bands of
marauders frequented this country, moving onward before the slow
advance of the Gothic troops. Marcian reflected, but none the less held
to his scheme. The beasts were urged along an upward way, which, just
about the setting of the moon, brought them to a poor village with a
little church. Marcian set himself to discover the priest, and, when
this good man was roused from slumber, spoke in his ear a word which
had great effect. With little delay stabling was found, and a place of
repose for Marcian's followers; he himself would rest under the
priest's roof, whither he conducted Veranilda and a woman servant who
sat with her in the carriage. The face which was so troubling his
imagination he did not yet see, for Veranilda kept the hood close about
her as she passed by candle light up steps to the comfortless and dirty
little chamber which was the best she could have.
'Rest in peace,' whispered Marcian as the door closed. 'I guard you.'
For an hour or more he sat talking with his host over a pitcher of
wine, found how far he was from Aletrium, and heard with satisfaction
that the brigand bands seemed to have gone higher into the mountains.
The presbyter asked eagerly for Roman news, and cautiously concerning
King Totila, whom it was evident he regarded with no very hostile
feeling. As the day broke he stretched himself on his host's bed, there
being no other for him, and there dozed for two or three hours, far too
agitated to enjoy a sound sleep.
When he arose, he went forth into the already hot sunshine, looked at
the poor peasants' cottages, and talked with Sagaris, whose
half-smiling face seemed anxious to declare that he knew perfectly well
on what business they were engaged. At this hour, in all probability,
the horsemen of Pelagius were galloping along the Latin Way, in hope of
overtaking the fugitives. It seemed little likely that they would
search in this direction, and the chances were that they would turn
back when their horses got tired out. Of them, indeed, Marcian thought
but carelessly; his hard-set brows betokened another subject of
disquiet. Should he, after Aletrium, go down again to the Latin Way, or
should he push a few miles further to the valley of the Liris, and to
his own villa?
To-day, being the first day of the week, there was a gathering to hear
mass. Marcian, though he had that in his mind which little accorded
with religious worship, felt himself drawn to the little church, and
knelt among the toil-worn folk. Here, as always when he heard the
liturgy, his heart melted, his soul was overcome with awe. From
earliest childhood he had cherished a peculiar love and reverence for
the Eucharistic prayer, which was associated with his noblest feelings,
his purest aspirations. As he heard it now, here amid the solitude of
the hills, it brought him help such as he needed.
'Vere dignum et justum est, aequum et salutare, nos tibi semper et
ubique gratias agere, Domine sancte, Pater omnipotens, aeterne Deus.'
When at the end he rose, these words were still resonant within him. He
turned to go forth, and there behind, also just risen from her knees,
stood a veiled woman, at the sight of whom he thrilled with
astonishment. No peasant she; for her attire, though but little
adorned, told of refinement, and the grace of her figure, the simple
dignity of her attitude, would alone have marked her out among the
girls and women who were leaving the church, their eyes all turned upon
her and on the female attendant standing respectfully near. Through the
veil which covered her face and hung about her shoulders, Marcian could
dimly discern lips and eyebrows.
'Lord Marcian, may I speak with you?'
It was the voice of last night, and again it shook him with an ecstasy
which had more of dread than of joy.
'You here?' he replied, speaking very low. 'You have heard the mass?'
'I am a Catholic. My religion is that of Basil.'
'God be thanked!' broke from Marcian. And his exclamation meant more
than it conveyed to the listener.
'May you tell me whither we are going?' was the next question from the
veiled lips.
The church was now empty, but in the doorway appeared faces curiously
peering. Marcian looking in that direction seemed for a moment to find
no reply; his lips were parted, and his breath came rapidly; then he
whispered:
'Not far from here there is a villa. There you shall rest in safety
until Basil comes.'
'He is near?'
'Already I have summoned him.'
'O kind Marcian!' uttered the low, sweet voice. 'Oh, true and brave
friend!'
In silence they walked together to the priest's house. Marcian had now
put off all irresolution. He gave orders to his guard; as soon as the
horses had sufficiently rested, they would push on for Aletrium, and
there pass the night. The start was made some two hours after noon.
Riding once more beside the carriage, Marcian felt his heart light:
passions and fears were all forgotten; the sun flaming amid the pale
blue sky, the violet shadows of the mountains, the voice of cicadas
made rapture to his senses. It was as though Veranilda's beauty, not
even yet beheld, rayed something of itself upon all the visible world.
Never had a summer's day shone so gloriously for him; never had he so
marked the hues of height and hollow, the shape of hills, the winding
of a stream. Where an ascent made the pace slow, he alighted, walked by
the vehicle, and exchanged a few words with her who sat behind the
curtain.
At length Aletrium came in view, a little town in a strong position on
the mountain side, its walls and citadel built in old time, long unused
for defence, but resisting ages with their cyclopean force. On
arriving, they found a scene of disorder, misery and fear. This morning
the place had been attacked by a brigand horde, which had ravaged at
will: the church was robbed of its sacred vessels, the beasts of burden
were driven away, and, worst of all, wives and daughters of the
defenceless townsmen had suffered outrage. Marcian, with that air of
authority which he well knew how to assume, commanded the attendance of
the leading citizens and spoke with them in private. Finding them eager
for the arrival of the Goths, to whom they looked rather than to the
distant Greeks for protection against ruinous disorder (already they
had despatched messengers to Totila entreating his aid), he made known
to them that he was travelling to meet the Gothic outposts, and
promised to hasten the king's advance. At present, there seemed to be
no more danger, the marauders having gone on into the Apennines; so
Marcian obtained lodging for Veranilda and for himself in the priest's
house. Only when he was alone did he reflect upon the narrowness of his
escape from those fierce plunderers, and horror shook him. There
remained but half a day's journey to his villa. He was so impatient to
arrive there, and to dismiss the horsemen, that though utterly wearied,
he lay awake through many hours of darkness, hearing the footsteps of
men who patrolled the streets, and listening with anxious ear for any
sound of warning.
He rose in the twilight, and again held conference with those of the
townsmen who were stoutest in the Gothic cause. To them he announced
that he should travel this day as far as Arpinum (whither he was
conducting a lady who desired to enter a convent hard by that city),
and thence should proceed in search of Totila, for whom, he assured his
hearers, he carried letters of summons from the leading churchmen at
Rome. This news greatly cheered the unhappy Aletrians, who had been
troubled by the thought that the Goths were heretics. If Roman
ecclesiastics closed their eyes to this obstacle, the inhabitants of a
little mountain town evidently need nurse no scruples in welcoming the
conqueror. With acclamations and good wishes, the crowd saw Marcian and
his train set forth along the road over the hills; before the sun had
shed its first beam into the westward valley, they had lost sight of
Aletrium.
Not a word of the perils escaped had been allowed to reach Veranilda's
ear; exhausted by her journeying and her emotions, she had slept
soundly through the whole night, and this morning, when Marcian told
her how near was their destination, she laughed light-heartedly as a
child. But not yet had he looked upon her countenance. At Aletrium he
might have done so had he willed, but he withheld himself as if from a
dread temptation.
Never had he known such tremours of cowardliness as on this ride over
the hills. He strained his eyes in every direction, and constantly
imagined an enemy where there was none. The brigands, as he found by
inquiry of labouring peasants, had not even passed this way. He would
not halt, though the heat of the sun grew terrible. At length, when
exhaustion threatened men and beasts, they surmounted a ridge, issued
from a forest of chestnut-trees, and all at once, but a little way
below them, saw the gleam of the river Liris.