THE KING OF THE GOTHS
Transported from grief to joy, Basil sprang forward and clasped Felix
in his arms.
'God be thanked,' he exclaimed, 'that I see you alive and well! Whence
come you? What is your news?'
With his wonted grave simplicity, Felix told that he had long since
recovered from the effects of the wound, but had remained at Aesernia,
unable to obtain permission to go in search of his master. The Gothic
army was now advancing along the Via Latina; Basil's followers were
united with the troop under Venantius; and on their arrival at Casinum,
Felix succeeded in getting leave to climb to the monastery. He had been
assured that his lord had recovered health, and was still sojourning
with the holy men; but by whom this news had been brought he could not
say. Doubtless Venantius had held communication with the monastery.
'And you are here alone?' asked Basil, fearing still to utter the
question which was foremost in his mind.
'Alone of my lord's men. I followed those that came with the king.'
'The king? Totila is here?'
'It was rumoured,' replied Felix, in a reverent voice, 'that he desired
to speak of deep matters with the holy Benedict. They are even now
conversing.'
Basil fell into a great agitation. Absorbed in his private griefs, and
in thoughts of eternity, he had all but forgotten the purpose with
which he crossed the Apennines at the summons of Marcian. The name of
Totila revived his interest in the progress of the war, but at the same
time struck his heart with a chill misgiving. With what eyes would the
king regard Marcian's slayer? Was he more likely to pardon the deed if
he knew (as assuredly he must) that it was done in jealous love of
Veranilda? The words he had not dared to speak leapt to his lips.
'Felix, know you anything of the Gothic lady--of her whom we lost?'
'The lord Venantius brought her to Aesernia,' was the grave reply, 'and
she is now among the wives and daughters of the Gothic lords who move
with the army.'
Answering other questions, Felix said that he had not seen Veranilda,
and that he knew nothing of her save what he had heard from those of
Basil's men who had been at the island villa, and, subsequently, from
the gossip of the camp. A story had got abroad that Veranilda was the
lost princess of the Amal line surviving in Italy, and it was commonly
thought among the Goths that their king intended to espouse her--the
marriage to be celebrated in Rome, when Rome once more acknowledged the
Gothic ruler. This did Felix report unwillingly, and only because his
master insisted upon knowing all.
'Very like it is true,' commented Basil, forcing a smile. 'You know, my
good Felix, that the Emperor would fain have had her adorn his court;
and I would rather see her Queen of Italy. But tell me now, last of
all, what talk there has been of me. Or has my name been happily
forgotten?'
'My dear lord's followers,' replied Felix, 'have not ceased to speak of
him among themselves, and to pray for his safety.'
'That I gladly believe. But I see there is more to tell. Out with it
all, good fellow. I have suffered worse things than any that can lie
before me.'
In sad obedience, the servant made known that he and his fellows had
been closely questioned, first by Venantius, later, some two or three
of them, by the king himself, regarding their master's course of life
since he went into Picenum. They had told the truth, happy in that they
could do so without fear and without shame.
'And how did the king bear himself to you?' asked Basil eagerly.
'With that nobleness which became him,' was the fervid answer. 'It is
said among the Goths that only a lie or an act of cowardice can move
Totila to wrath against one who is in his power; and after speaking
face to face with him, I well believe it. He questioned me in few
words, but not as a tyrant; and when I had replied as best I could, he
dismissed me with a smile.'
Basil's head drooped.
'Yes, Totila is noble,' fell softly from him. 'Let be what will be. He
is worthier than I.'
A knock sounded again at the door of the cell, and there entered
Marcus. His keen and kindly face betrayed perturbation of spirit, and
after looking from Basil to the new comer and then at Basil again, he
said in a nervous voice:
'The lord abbot bids you repair at once, my brother, to the prior's
room.'
'I go,' was the prompt reply.
As they left the room, Marcus caught Basil's arm and whispered:
'It is the King of the Goths who awaits you. But have courage, dear
brother; his face is mild. Despite his error, he has borne himself
reverently to our holy father.'
'Know you what has passed between them?' asked Basil, also in a whisper.
'That none may know. But when Totila came forth from the tower, he had
the face of one who has heard strange things. Who can say what the
Almighty purposes by the power of his servant Benedict? Not unguided,
surely, did the feet of the misbelieving warrior turn to climb this
mount.'
Leaving the poet monk to nurse his hopes, Basil betook himself with
rapid steps to the prior's room. At the door stood three armed men; two
had the long flaxen hair which proclaimed them Goths, the third was
Venantius. A look of friendly recognition was all that passed between
Basil and his countryman, who straightway admitted him to the room,
announced his name, and retired. Alone--his attitude that of one who
muses--sat the Gothic King. He was bareheaded and wore neither armour
nor weapon; his apparel a purple tunic, with a loose, gold-broidered
belt, and a white mantle purple seamed. Youth shone in his ruddy
countenance, and the vigour of perfect manhood graced his frame. The
locks that fell to his shoulders had a darker hue than that common in
the Gothic race, being a deep burnished chestnut; but upon his lips and
chin the hair gleamed like pale gold. Across his forehead, from temple
to temple, ran one deep furrow, and this, together with a slight droop
of the eyelids, touched his visage with a cast of melancholy, whereby,
perhaps, the comely features became more royal.
Upon Basil, who paused at a respectful distance, he fixed a gaze of
meditative intentness, and gazed so long in silence that the Roman
could not but at length lift his eyes. Meeting the glance with grave
good nature, Totila spoke firmly and frankly.
'Lord Basil, they tell me that you crossed Italy to draw your sword in
my cause. Is this the truth?'
'It is the truth, O king.'
'How comes it then that you are laden with the death of one who had
long proved himself my faithful servant, one who, when you encountered
him, was bound on a mission of great moment?'
'He whom I slew,' answered Basil, 'was the man whom of all men I most
loved. I thought him false to me, and struck in a moment of madness.'
'Then you have since learnt that you were deceived?'
Basil paused a moment.
'Gracious lord, that I accused him falsely, I no longer doubt, having
had time to reflect upon many things, and to repent of my evil haste.
But I am still ignorant of the cause which led him to think ill of me,
and so to speak and act in a way which could not but make my heart burn
against him.'
'Something of this too I have heard,' said the king, his blue eyes
resting upon Basil's countenance with a thoughtful interest. 'You
believe, then, that your friend was wholly blameless towards you, in
intention and in act?'
'Save inasmuch as credited that strange slander, borne I know not upon
what lips.'
'May I hear,' asked Totila, 'what this slander charged upon you?'
Basil raised his head, and put all his courage into a brief reply.
'That I sought to betray the lady Veranilda into the hands of the
Greeks.'
'And you think,' said the king slowly, meditatively, his eyes still
searching Basil's face, 'that your friend could believe you capable of
that?'
'How he could, I know not,' came the sad reply. 'Yet I must needs think
it was so.'
'Why?' sounded from the king's lips abruptly, and with a change to
unexpected sternness. 'What forbids you the more natural thought that
this man, this Marcian, was himself your slanderer?'
'Thinking so, O king, I slew him. Thinking so, I defiled my tongue with
base suspicion of Veranilda. Being now again in my right mind, I know
that my accusation of _her_ was frenzy, and therefore I choose rather
to believe that I wronged Marcian than that he could conceive so base a
treachery.'
Totila reflected. All but a smile as of satisfaction lurked within his
eyes.
'Know you,' he next inquired, 'by what means Marcian obtained charge of
the lady Veranilda?'
'Of that I am as ignorant as of how she was first carried into
captivity.'
'Yet,' said the king sharply, 'you conversed with her after Marcian's
death.'
'Gracious lord,' answered Basil in low tones, 'it were miscalled
conversing. With blood upon my hands, I said I scarce knew what, and
would not give ear to the words which should have filled me with
remorse.'
There was again a brief silence. Totila let his eyes stray for a
moment, then spoke again meditatively.
'You sought vainly for this maiden, whilst she was kept in ward. Being
your friend, did not Marcian lend his aid to discover her for you?'
'He did so, but fruitlessly. And when at length he found her, his mind
to me had changed.'
'Strangely, it must be confessed,' said the king. His eyes were again
fixed upon Basil with a look of pleasant interest. 'Some day,
perchance, you may learn how that came about; meanwhile, you do well to
think good rather than evil. In truth, it would be difficult to do
otherwise in this dwelling of piety and peace. Is there imposed upon
you some term of penance? I scarce think you have it in mind to turn
monk?'
The last words, though not irreverently uttered, marked a change in
Totila's demeanour. He seemed to lay aside an unwonted gravity, to
become the ruler of men, the warrior, the conqueror. His forehead lost
its long wrinkle, as, with eyebrows bent and lips compressed into a
rallying half smile, he seemed to challenge all the manhood in him he
addressed.
'For that,' Basil replied frankly, 'I lack the calling.'
'Well said. And how tends your inclination as regards the things of
this world? Has it changed in aught since you came hither?'
'In nothing, O king,' was the firm response 'I honour the Goth, even as
I love my country.'
'Spoken like a man. But I hear that you have passed through a long
sickness, and your cheek yet lacks something of its native hue. It
might be well if you took your ease yet a little with these good
bedesmen.'
'It is true that I have not yet all my strength,' answered Basil.
'Moreover,' he added, lowering his voice, 'I would fain lighten my soul
of the sin that burdens it. It may be that, ere long, the holy father
will grant me absolution.'
Totila nodded with a grave smile.
'Be it so. When you are sound in flesh and spirit, follow me northward.
I shall then have more to say to you.'
The look accompanying these words lent them a significance which put
confusion into Basil's mind. He saw the courteous gesture wherewith the
king dismissed him; he bowed and withdrew; but when he had left the
room he stood as one bewildered, aware of nothing, his eyes turned
vacantly upon some one who addressed him. Presently he found himself
walking apart with Venantius, who spoke to him of public affairs,
apprised him of the course of the war during these past weeks, and
uttered the hope that before the end of the year the liberators would
enter Rome. It was true that the Emperor had at length charged
Belisarius with the task of reconquering Italy, but months must pass
before an army could be assembled and transported; by the latest news
the great commander was in Illyria, striving to make a force out of
fresh-recruited barbarians, and lamenting the avarice of Justinian
which grudged him needful supplies. And as he listened to all this,
Basil felt a new ardour glow within him. He had ever worshipped the man
of heroic virtues; once upon a time it was Belisarius who fired his
zeal; now his eyes dazzled with the glory of Totila; he burned to
devote a loyal service to this brave and noble king.
Suddenly there sounded a trumpet. Its note broke strangely upon the
monastic stillness, and, in a moment, echoed clear from the mountains.
'The king goes forth,' said Venantius. 'I must leave you. Join us
speedily yonder.'
He pointed towards Rome. On Basil's lips quivered a word, a question,
but before it could be uttered the soldier had stridden away, his
casque gleaming in the sun, and his sword clanking beside him.
Again with mind confused, Basil went to his cell, and sat there head on
hand, trying to recover the mood, the thoughts, with which he had risen
this morning. But everything was changed. He could no longer think of
the past; the future called to him, and its voice was like that of the
Gothic trumpet, stirring his blood, urging him to activity. At midday
some one knocked, and there entered Deodatus.
'Where is Felix?' was Basil's first question.
Felix was gone, but only to the town at the foot of the mountain, where
he and two of his fellows would abide until their master left the
monastery. With this message Deodatus had been charged by Venantius. He
added that Felix had been dismissed, at the abbot's order, during
Basil's interview with the king.
'I understand,' said Basil in himself; and during the rest of the day
he strove with all the force of his will to recover calm and pious
thoughts. In the night that followed he slept little; it was now the
image of Veranilda that hovered before him and kept him wakeful,
perturbed with a tender longing. God, it might be, would pardon him his
offence against the Divine law; but could he look for forgiveness from
Veranilda? When he thought of the king's last words he was lured with
hope; when he reasoned upon this hope, it turned to a mocking
emptiness. And through the next day, and the next again, his struggle
still went on. He worked and prayed as usual, and read the Psalms of
penitence not once only, but several times in the four-and-twenty
hours; that other psalm, to which he had turned for strengthening of
the spirit, he no longer dared to open. And all this time he scarce
spoke with any one; not that the brethren looked upon him with less
kindness, or held him at a distance, but the rebuke of his own
conscience kept him mute. He felt that his communion with these holy
men was in seeming only, and it shamed him to contrast their quiet
service of the Eternal with the turbid worldliness of his own thoughts.
During these days the abbot was not seen. Venturing, at length, when he
happened to find himself alone with Marcus, to speak of this, he learnt
that the holy father was not in his wonted health; Marcus added that
the disorder had resulted from the visit of the king. After Totila's
departure, Benedict had passed hours in solitary prayer, until a
faintness came upon him, from which he could not yet recover. Basil was
turning away sadly, when the monk touched his arm, and said in a
troubled voice:
'Many times he has spoken of you, dear brother.'
'Would,' replied Basil, 'that I were worthy of his thoughts.'
'Did he think you unworthy,' said Marcus, 'he would not grieve that you
must so soon go from among us.'
'The holy father has said that I must soon leave you?'
Marcus nodded gravely, and walked away.
Another week passed. By stern self-discipline, Basil had fixed his
thoughts once more on things spiritual, and the result appeared in a
quiet contentment. He waited upon the will of Benedict, which he had
come to regard as one with the will of God. And at length the expected
summons came. It was on the evening of Saturday, after vespers; the
abbot had been present at the office, and, as he went forth from the
oratory, he bade Basil follow him. They entered the tower, and
Benedict, who walked feebly, sat for some moments silent in his chair,
as if he had need of repose before the effort of speaking. Through the
window streamed a warm light, illumining the aged face turned thither
with eyes which dreamt upon the vanishing day.
'So you are no longer impatient to be gone?' were the abbot's first
words, spoken in a voice which had not lost its music, though weakness
made it low.
'My father,' answered Basil, 'I have striven with myself and God has
helped me.'
He knew that it was needless to say more. The eyes bent upon him read
all his thoughts; the confessions, the pleadings, he might have
uttered, all lay open before that calm intelligence.'
'It is true, dear son,' said Benedict, 'that you have fought bravely,
and your countenance declares that, in some measure, victory has been
granted you. That it is not the complete victory of those who put the
world for ever beneath their feet, shall not move me to murmur. The
Lord of the vineyard biddeth whom He will; not all are called to the
same labour; it may be--for in this matter I see but darkly--it may be
that the earthly strife to which your heart impels you shall serve the
glory of the Highest. As indeed doth every act of man, for how can it
be otherwise? But I speak of the thought, the purpose, whereby 'in the
end of all things, all must be judged.'
Basil heard these sentences with a deep joy. There was silence, and
when the aged voice again spoke, it was in a tone yet more solemn.
Benedict had risen.
'Answer me, my son, and speak as in the presence of God, whom I humbly
serve. Do you truly repent of the sin whereof you made confession to
me?'
Kneeling, Basil declared his penitence. Thereupon, Benedict, looking
upwards, opened his lips in prayer.
'Receive, O Lord, our humble supplications, and to me, who above all
have need of Thy compassion, graciously give ear. Spare Thou this
penitent, that, by Thy mercy, he may escape condemnation in the
judgment to come. Let him not know the dread of darkness, nor the pang
of fire. Having turned from his way of error into the path of
righteousness, be he not again stricken with the wounds of sin, but
grant Thou that there abide with him for ever that soul's health which
Thy grace hath bestowed and Thy mercy hath established.'
As he listened, Basil's eyes filled with tears, and when bidden to rise
he felt as one who has thrown off a burden; rejoicing in his recovered
strength of body and soul, he gazed into that venerable face with
gratitude too great for words.
'Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.' It was with a
parent's tenderness that Benedict now spoke. 'I am old, O Basil, and
have but a few more steps to take upon this earth. Looking upon me, you
see long promise of life before you. And yet--'
The soft accents were suspended. For a moment Benedict gazed as though
into the future; then, with a wave of his hand, passed to another
thought.
'To-morrow you will join with us in the Holy Communion. You will pass
the day in sober joy among the brethren, not one of whom but shares
your gladness and desires your welfare. And at sunrise on the day
after, you will go forth from our gates. Whether to return, I know not;
be that with the Ruler of All. If again you climb this mount, I shall
not be here to bid you welcome. Pray humbly, even as I do, that we may
meet in the life eternal.'
After Mass on the morrow, when he had joyfully partaken of the
Eucharist, Basil was bidden to the priest's room. This time it was the
prior himself who received him, and with an address which indicated the
change in the position of the penitent, now become an ordinary guest.
'Lord Basil, your follower, Deodatus, is minded to fulfil the prophecy
of his name, and tells me that it would be with your good will. Are you
content to deprive yourself of his service, that he may continue to
abide with us, and after due preparation, take the vows of our
community?'
'Content,' was the reply, 'and more than content. If ever man seemed
born for the holy life, it is he. I entreat you, reverend father, to
favour his desire.'
'Be it so. I have spoken of this matter with the lord abbot, who has
graciously given his consent. Let me now make known to you that, at
sunrise to-morrow, your attendants who have been sojourning at Casinum,
will await you by the gate of the monastery. I wish you, dear lord, a
fair journey. Let your thoughts sometimes turn to us; by us you will
ever be remembered.'
Long before the morrow's sunrise, Basil was stirring. By the light of
his little lamp, he and Deodatus conversed together, no longer as
master and servant, but as loving friends, until the bell called them
to matins. The night was chill; under a glistening moon all the valley
land was seen to be deep covered with far-spreading mist, whereamid the
mount of the monastery and the dark summits round about rose like
islands in a still, white sea. When matins and lauds were over, many of
the monks embraced and tenderly took leave of the departing guest. The
last to do so was Marcus, who led him aside and whispered:
'I see you have again put on your ring, as was right. Let me, I beg of
you, once more touch it with my lips.'
Having done so with the utmost reverence, he clasped Basil in his arms,
kissed him on either cheek, and said, amid tears:
'Lest we should never meet again, take and keep this; not for its
worth, for God knows it has little, but in memory of my love.'
The gift was a little book, a beautifully written copy of all the
verses composed by the good Marcus in honour of Benedict and of the
Sacred Mount of Casinum.
Holding it against his heart, Basil rode down into the mist.