Marcus’ eyes, staring and changeful blue as they faced the sky and his captors, looked fearfully on the men. They reached for him and lifted him again in their arms and slowly slipped his body in the water, maintaining hold under his armpits. Then, quickly, one pulled the gag of cloth from his mouth. But before he could shout they had pushed his head under the bitter water, and one grasped his long brown hair by the crown. Instinctively he had closed his mouth the moment the river had covered it and held his breath.
He could see his white body flowing and bending in the water like the body of one who is already dead. He could see a school of silvery fish and scaly bodies scraped his own in flight like birds. The river instantly numbed his flesh with its cold so that it had no feeling. His lungs began to strain so that he hardly felt the pain that flashed through his scalp. Then he came to himself madly. In some way he must tear himself loose from the grip in his hair. It seemed most necessary to do this, if only to avoid the ignominy of being passively drowned, though surely he would drown’ on the moment of escape. He was not a good swimmer, though Quintus had vainly tried to teach him, and had been offended at Marcus’ jest that there was no Hero waiting to greet him with loving arms. He cursed himself for his past stupidity.
His lungs swelled in protest at the inheld breath and his ears appeared to be on the point of bursting. What! Was he to die without fighting for his life at the very least? He flexed his muscles in a spasm of frightful panic; he pretended to go limp, glancing with half-shut eyes at the distorted figures of his murderers through the upper water. They were not speaking now. They were only waiting for him to die.
They had judged him as a poor and flaccid thing, so that argued that they knew of him if only by report. He made his body waver feebly in the river, as if already dead. He closed his eyes. He opened his mouth, but shut larynx against the water; the river lapped his tongue and his palate. As he had hoped and prayed, the hand that gripped his hair relaxed a little. Instantly, he wrenched his head down and forward; agonizing pain lanced through his skull as some of his hair was detached. His heart roared and thundered in his breast. He sank down into the waters, which were partly obscured by the mud torn from the hills. Then the current seized him and he was swept away.
But now he must breathe for his life’s sake. He thrust out his legs, and cramps bound them. Nevertheless, he was in such terror that he came to the surface. He could think of nothing but expelling his breath and inhaling the air of life. Th sky above him was a sheet of flame and reflected on his bluish face. He drew in a deep breath with a strangling sound. He heard a subdued yell. His murderers had seen him and he turned his head as he instinctively trod water. All four men now had seized oars and were rushing down the river toward him in their boat. He heard them cursing. He wanted to shout but knew he must spare his breath, and he was too far from the shore to be heard. The torture of his spasmodic muscles almost killed him as it was. Only by the most superhuman efforts could he keep them moving. He prayed frenziedly as he had never prayed before.
He waited until the boat was almost upon him before he let himself sink below it again. The current spun him as a wounded bird, falling, spins in the vault as it plummets to earth. He saw the murky water, felt the pounding of it against his icy flesh. Above him, he saw the shadow of the searching boat, like an avenging cloud. Forcing himself, he swam deeply away from it. His arms and legs screamed like separate entities, and he needed air again. If I live, he thought dimly, I shall become a veritable Leander!
The water was so muddy that he could no longer see the bottom of the boat, and he struggled to the surface again. To his horror his shoulder, uprising, hit the side of the boat. Then his head emerged from the river, and he drew a groaning breath.
The men, now infuriated at his escape and intent only on his death, lifted oars to smash his skull. He saw the wet blades, bloody in the light of the sunset, upheld over him. He let himself sink again. His heart labored. He could endure this little longer. Vague thoughts brushed through his mind soothingly. How easy it would be to die, to hold himself far down in the water and sleep, to escape this horror, to drift down the river—and to sleep, alone and in peace. Why should he struggle? What was life? A dream, a painful fantasy, a delusion, a weariness. He let his body drift with the hastening current, and jagged splinters of red and gold light flashed behind his closed eyelids.
Then his grandfather’s voice—that voice stilled years ago—thundered in his dulling ears. “You will die supinely, like a slave? You will not fight for life, as a Roman and a man?”
His feet brushed the stoney bottom of the river. His grandfather’s voice was all about him, imperative, full of scorn. But, I am tired, my body is numbed and dead and full of agony, his mind replied. “Arise!” cried his grandfather. He could not disobey. He moved his legs and his arms feebly, and rose sluggishly to the surface. His glaucous eyes saw that the boat was at a considerable distance. But the men had seen his wet head, as one sees the head of a seal. They swung the boat about and pursued him. Again, he waited until they were almost upon him, and again he bent his body and let himself sink.
How long could this deathly game continue until he died? The shore had appeared miles away. He had drifted and swam near the keel of the island. For one instant he had seen the quiet meadows, the tops of distant trees scarlet in the sunset, the toy white farmhouse, the inflamed hills. Never had they appeared so dear, yet never had they appeared so like a mirage. He was like one who gazes on the precious earth for the last time before retreating into the darkness of death. Surely, he could not resist the pull of the river. Even if he lived a while longer he would be swept into the main river, too far to reach any shore again.
His failing lungs demanded air. But he could hear the boat above him, the swishing of oars, though he could not see them.
“God!” his failing mind prayed. Now he must come to the surface again, even at the deadly risk of a quicker murder than drowning. The water appeared alive with rainbows, rushing and merging into each other, embracing him, heavily dragging him down. But he moved; he drifted to the surface. To his fainting surprise he saw that he was some distance from the boat. However, the men had seen him. He breathed deeply. The island was a golden ship moving away from him. Again, filling his lungs, he waited until he saw the upraised oars, then bent his head and let himself fall.
The current, hastening toward the sea, was a wall of force. He let himself be carried by it, under its roof. He began to dream, long soundless dreams. His body no longer tortured him; his lungs no longer seemed to shriek for air. He was like a wisp of cloud, floating mindlessly. He no more had any identity.
Then, there was a savage tug at his throat, a ripping along his flesh. He opened his mouth to cry out and water rushed into it, strangling him, setting him to flailing. A second later and the blessed air succeeded the water, and he was coughing and choking, but helpless to move. Something had seized him brutally, had lifted his lips horizontally above the water. It was still tugging at his neck. The back part of his head was below water, and his ears. Only his eyes and his lips and nose had emerged, so that he remained unseen in the waves.
He was so dazed, so exhausted, so dulled, that he could do nothing for a while but float like a cadaver, held by that which forced his mouth above water. He could not see; clouds moved over his eyes. He felt disembodied. The river flowed about and around him but could not take him again. He forgot his murderers; he forgot the boat and even why he was here. His body relaxed, conscious only of a cutting sensation and grip at the base of his skull, and something scratching along his flesh as if he were being flayed alive.
Then he remembered. He turned his head in the water and saw the boat, diminished and tiny now, at a long distance. It was being rowed toward the bridge, the bridge that was so small that a man could hold it in his hand. The sky was darkening to deep and misty crimson. The island was a little ship with foam at its keel. The waters had many manly voices, questioning, drumming answers, crying, chuckli
ng. And Marcus floated, helplessly, held by he knew not what.
Then, as if something had struck his mind like an impatient fist, he came alive once more. He saw that a great tree had floated down the river from some place far in the hills, and its trunk had been lodged in rocks at the bottom of the river. It was not visible from the surface. But the highest twigs had caught Marcus’ amulet as he had drifted, had lifted him so that his lips and eyes had emerged. This had saved his life; his murderers had finally been satisfied that he had drowned, for his head had not risen again. They must have waited for some time. Marcus was conscious that many long minutes had passed while he had been held, like some dead bird, at the top of the tangled tree. His cautious eye saw the boat land on the Arpinum shore, though all was cloudy dull crimson now. He saw the men pulling the boat up on the shore, little figures so far that they were scarcely longer than one of his fingers. Then they were lost and gone in the thickening fog of land and water, and he was alone with only the thousand voices of the river in his ears.
The river was a heavy green here, smoking with mist. Marcus’ body began to smart unendurably. The dead twigs and branches of the top of the tree had torn his skin, and no doubt he was bleeding. His arms felt like iron, but he forced them to move, to grasp the blessed tree. He clutched it, relieving the tug on his neck of the chained amulet. He wound his legs about a branch. He waited, and rested. Now the water no longer seemed cold as circulation returned to his body. Then his heart shivered once more.
He was so very far from the island. Twilight was falling rapidly. Only a smudge of reddened light illuminated the west. Stars were creeping out, and the edge of a rounded moon. The water lifted and dropped him, and the tree wavered.
“Be reasonable,” he said aloud in a thin voice. “You cannot remain here. You will die of exposure. What then is left for a sensible man? He will swim to the island. Oh? It is impossible? But God saved you, therefore it is not impossible.”
Noë ben Joel had said that nothing was impossible with God. God had preserved him, therefore he must labor with the hand of God, in gratitude. Nevertheless, it demanded all his courage to disentangle the chain of his amulet from the saving twigs. His fingers seemed three times the size of normal fingers; they groped thickly and heavily. At last he was free, but he again embraced the branch. A curious fish nudged his toes and nibbled at them. The darkness came down on the waters like a cloak. He must go now, or be lost in the night forever.
He turned on his side and moved away from the tree toward the island. He was a poor swimmer, and he was swimming against the current. But Quintus had taught him how to float; he remembered how indulgently he had resisted the lessons and considered how stupid his resistance had been. All that a man saw and learned and heard was valuable, no matter how much he had deprecated it, had undervalued its importance. Marcus, when he was exhausted, floated, and regarded the passionate blaze of the stars. Never had he felt so close to God. No longer did he feel insignificant, hidden in his insignificance from the eye of the Eternal. God had desired his continued existence; therefore, there was a reason.
He swam doggedly, in increasing darkness. He was only a man, of no importance. He had been set upon, however, by men who had deemed him dangerous for some mysterious reasons. Had they mistaken him for someone else? No. One of them had mentioned his name, mockingly. It was a great mystery.
He was enormously tired. The current resembled a limitless wall which he must climb. What had Noë said of God, in his letter? “God, the Father.” “Father,” prayed Marcus, “help me, as you saved me.” For an instant he remembered that even the sons of the gods did not dare address their progenitors as “father.” It was blasphemy. Yet Marcus prayed, “Father, uphold me with Your Hand. Bear me upon it.”
The stars dazzled him; the moon-edge bewildered him. All seemed to swing in circles. Silver light raced fleetingly on the river. Forms, created from the mist, strode the water, light in the folds of their garments, light on their heads. They moved on the river, bent on mystic missions, unaware of the man weakly striving. There was a swiftness to their movements, as if they were bearing momentous tidings, and preparing a way.
He could not believe it, but he was upheld by something more than water. A rock. A heavier darkness was before him. No, he could not believe it, but he must accept it. He was near the shore of the island.
Warm salt tears ran over his wet face. He walked the shallow waters and reached the beautiful dry land. He fell upon it, kissing the earth, rubbing his outstretched hands on the warm soil, smelling the fragrance of bruised grass and herbs. It surely was too early for jasmine, but he had the illusion that he could inhale it, sweet and comforting and pervading. Joy overpowered him, like a shattering wave. He could not have enough of embracing the blessed earth.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
He must have slept a little in his crushing weariness, for he came to consciousness with a profound start. The edged moon was higher over his head. He contemplated it for a while, too broken to move, then he stirred his arms, stiffened them, got up on his hands and knees, shaking his head like a wounded dog. The night wind was merciless on his naked flesh. Nevertheless, he began to consider.
His assailants now considered him dead. They had taken care to give his death the appearance of accident. They had not harmed the other dwellers on the island, Eunice and her husband, Athos, and their newborn infant, nor the slaves who worked in the fields. They had not set fire to the farmhouse. Their only object had been himself. Marcus remembered the magnificent ring on the finger of one of the hooded men. He would remember it forever as it had glittered in the sunlight. Someday he would discover that man by that ring.
Was anyone watching the farmhouse to be certain that he had not, after all, escaped the death planned for him? No. Too much time had elapsed; he had not appeared; the night had protected him. Then, all at once he heard a faint calling, the glimmer of a distant lantern. It was Athos’ voice he heard, and the voices of the searching slaves. There was despair and hopelessness in their faint shouts. So, they had discovered his clothing on the bank of the river. He wanted to shout in reply, but restrained himself in the very vague event that there was a watcher. However, the slaves would be armed, or at least Athos would have a dagger. Slowly, as silently as he could, he crept on his hands and knees through the flowering bushes and rising grass toward the lantern, keeping his eye upon it as a man watches a lighthouse. The voices came nearer; the lantern flashed from side to side.
Now, it was very close, and he could see it glancing from shoulder and hip and hand. He called in a subdued voice, “Athos.” The men halted. He called again, “Do not raise your voices, in the name of the gods!”
They murmured joyfully among themselves, knowing him to be safe. But they came cautiously in his direction, their instincts alive, their eyes watchful, searching for him. He crouched on the grass, then lifted his hand and the light of the lantern brushed it. Athos came running to him at once, breaking away from the others.
“Put down your lantern, and leave it,” said Marcus. Athos obeyed instantly. Like a tracking animal, he came to Marcus, fell on his knees and embraced him, saying tearfully, “Master, Master! We thought you were dead, that you had drowned!”
“Hush,” said Marcus, and raised his head to listen. Athos listened also. The frail moonlight glimmered on his melancholy barbarian’s face.
Marcus found it difficult to speak, out of his exhaustion. “I was set upon by those who wished to kill me as if it were an accident, and I had died in the river,” he said. “You must not question me more. The less you know the safer you will be. I must return to Rome at once. My presence is a deadly danger to all of you. If it were known that I had lived and had returned to the house, they would bar the door and set the house in flames, and all would perish. Therefore, I must go.” He paused to pant.
“Master! We will find them and kill them!” Athos cried.
“You cannot find them. They planned this well. You must know nothing. Are
you armed? Excellent. Remain with me, and call a slave to you, so that we will be three and not two. Order the other slaves to go to the house and bring me clothing and shoes, a cloak and my sword, and the best horse, and a filled purse which they will find in my chest in my cubiculum. Have another slave prepare me provisions—”
He could say no more. He rested in Athos’ arms, and closed his eyes and tried to gather his strength. Through wavering dimness he heard Athos call the slaves and give them orders. The slave who remained threw his rough woolen cloak over Marcus’ naked and shivering body. Athos chaffed his hands, then lifted his own in horror. “Master, you are bleeding!”
“No matter,” said Marcus in a faint voice. “I am only scratched. Athos, if men come tomorrow and ask for me, tell them that I did not return from my ramblings, that you fear I am lost. For many days, then, do not enlighten Eunice, for she is a woman and may speak inadvertently. Let her believe I am dead for a while, so that her grief may seem convincing. You must consider your child, and the lives of all of you.”
“Master, you cannot ride through the night in this condition,” said Athos, tenderly wiping Marcus’ bleeding body with his tunic.
“I can. I must. There is naught else for me to do.” Marcus closed his eyes once more and rested. His heart thudded wearily in his breast. He said, “You must command the slaves to be silent, to pretend that I am dead. They can be trusted.”
“Should one speak, I shall kill him with my own hand,” said Athos, dashing away his tears. “Oh, Master, how fearful it was to find your clothing and to believe you were dead! I will burn a votive light to Neptune every night, that he preserved you from his own waters.”
“Thank Ceres that one of her trees caught me, and thank Minerva that her amulet lifted me from the river,” said Marcus. “Good. If any see the votive light they will believe you burn it in my remembrance and for my soul.”