XI.
THE SLAVE.
It was an hour past midnight, when Marcia first knew the agony ofreturning reason. The gong in the Forum had just struck. Where wasshe? Surely in her own apartment! How had she come there? Then,slowly, the memory of yesterday grew clear--the awful duty ofto-morrow. With eyelids fast shut, as if dreading to open them to thedarkness, she buried her throbbing temples beneath the rich Campaniancoverlid. She could still see the eyes of Iddilcar gleaming wolfishamid his jewels; could see him standing in the doorway, as he turnedfrom that startled rush in pursuit of what had been, doubtless, only awhisper of their imaginations. He had said he would come forher--before daybreak--and she must be ready. Later, she could approachdeath with suppliant hands, but now she must be ready. Her life wasnot her own yet. It was her country's. Later, the shade of Luciuswould beckon. Surely he would forgive her for having avenged him. Buthow had she reached her room? Had it been Calavius or the slaves whohad found her? did they suspect? Then she remembered the man who hadseemed to catch her as she fell. Where could Iddilcar have been then?Had he hurried away? probably enough. Again a slight scratching noise,as of some one softly changing his position,--like the sound which hadstartled the priest, came to her ears. Ah, protecting gods! what wastrue, and what but dreams? Her whole life was passing before her,phantasmagorial and unreal. Surely some one was present! She _felt_it. Had Iddilcar come already? The horror of the thought gave hercourage, and, thrusting down the coverlid, she opened her eyesdefiantly and tried to pierce the darkness. Nothing was visible, butshe knew she was not alone, and, leaning upon one elbow, she reachedout, groping.
Suddenly a hand grasped hers, a strong, bony hand, gripping it tightly,and by its very energy commanding silence. It seemed strange to herthat she did not scream, but then she had known that she would findsome one, and had the hand been Iddilcar's, she would certainly haverealized it by the loathing in her soul. For her, now, all other menhad become friends. Therefore she was not frightened, did not cryout--rather it was a soothing sense of companionship that came toher--almost of reliance. Why had this man come?--perhaps to help her;surely not to injure. Who was he? man or god? Gods had appeared tothose of olden times, when the Republic was young, and Romansworshipped, believing. She felt very brave--fearless.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
"I am a slave," answered a voice. "I brought you here, and I amwatching."
It was a voice that, while it rang hard, yet had in it an assurance ofprotection--even of power, and it thrilled her as with some familiarmemory. Nevertheless she could not place its owner in the household.Calavius had many slaves; a few of them had been free-born, and some,perhaps, might even have known a measure of social standing, before theturn of war or of financial fortunes had lost them to home and position.
"Who are you?" she asked again.
"I am a new servant," said the other. "Pacuvius Calavius bought meyesterday in the Street of the Whitened Feet."
She was silent a moment, trying hard to think; she felt the man's handtrembling, and then, suddenly realizing, she drew her own away.
"And yet you are going to-morrow with this beast--this animal!" saidthe voice, bitterly.
Startled again by the tone and accent, no less than by the words, sheburst out:--
"Ah! why do you say that?--but you do not know, and I cannot tell you.Yes, you are right. I am going away to-morrow. I am--a courtesan.What then?"
"By the gods! no!" he cried, and she heard him spring to his feet.Then, lowering his voice, "If I thought _that_, I would kill you."
"You would only forestall my own blow," she said quietly, and there wasnew silence.
At last he spoke again.
"Tell me all of this matter. You are safe. I am a Roman."
"A Roman--and a slave?"
"And a slave. Tell me the truth quickly."
The voice sounded weak and hollow now, but still strangely familiar.She began her story, speaking in a low monotone.
"I am Marcia, daughter of Titus Manlius Torquatus. I loved, and yet Idrove my lover from me, and he was killed on the black day of Cannae.Then the Senate feared lest the enemy should advance to Rome--prayedfor the winter--for time. And I was beautiful, and I had no love, savefor the king, Orcus. So the thought came to me that by myblandishments I might win power with these people, and, by power,delay, and, by delay, safety for Rome--and revenge for my lord, Lucius.Therefore I journeyed to Capua. You see that I have played mypart--that I have won? Tomorrow I go to pay the price. What mattersit? Then I can die."
He had listened in silence; only she heard his breath coming hard, and,a moment after she had finished, he spoke:--
"No--you cannot die--not thus. _I_ have died--once, yet I live.Listen! I, like the lover you tell of, was slain at Cannae, piercedthrough by javelins, and I lay with the dead heaped above me--ah! somany hours--days, perhaps--I do not know; until the slave-dealers,passing among the corpses, found me breathing, and wondered at mystrength, auguring a good value. Therefore they took me, and when Iwas well of my wounds they brought me here--to Capua, and sold me toPacuvius Calavius--to whom may the gods give the death of a traitor!Lo! now, let it be for a warning that Orcus does indeed send back thedead from Acheron."
He leaned forward, as he spoke the words, and there came to Marcia asudden memory of two occasions when she had used the ancientsaying--the colloquial "never" of Rome. Once it had bound her toIddilcar, and once, far back, in happier times, it had parted herforever from Sergius. Tears rolled down her cheeks. A dim lightseemed to be creeping into the room--very dim, but as her eyes grew dryagain, she could begin to trace the outlines of her companion sittingon a low stool beside her couch. Surely those were footsteps in thehall--yes, footsteps--and the approaching light of a lamp.
Marcia's heart stood still. The slave had started from his seat anddrawn far back in the darkest corner of the room; then the curtainswere pushed cautiously aside, and the tall form of Iddilcar stoodrevealed by the light of the small, silver lamp he bore in his hand. Along, dark mantle enveloped him from head to foot.
"Come," he said, speaking sharply but in low tones; and, holding thelamp above his head, he tried to peer into the apartment. "Come; itwill soon be light. Ah! you have not arisen? No matter; I haveanother cloak, and we must not delay. The slaves are well bribed, andCalavius sleeps soundly--forever. My horses, good horses, are in thestreet; a few moments and we gain the gate. The schalischim's own ringis on my finger, and the seal of the Great Council shall win us egress._You_ are my slave: that is how you shall go with me--and I accept theomen."
He laughed low and harshly, and Marcia shuddered, thinking of her hostlying slain--by his false slaves?--by the order of Hannibal?--no,rather by the hand or plotting of this wretch who now called her,"slave."
"Come, come quickly, Romanus," he said, mimicking the Latinnomenclature of foreign slaves. At the same time he took a stepforward into the room and let the curtains fall behind him. "Come, orI shall have to order the rods to those white shoulders. That wouldbe--"
And then a shadow seemed to glide forward from the corner half behindhim. For a moment a stream of lamplight fell upon a white, set facebehind the Carthaginian's shoulder--a face that was indeed from theland of the four rivers; an arm was lashed around the priest's neck,and, while Marcia stared spellbound at the shade that had come back tosave her, the lamp fell from Iddilcar's hand,--and then she lay stilland listened to the furious struggle that ensued, the scuffling of feetupon the marble floor, the breathing that came and went in short, quickgasps. Now it seemed that both fell together; but not in victory ordefeat, for the noises told of continuing combat; no words, only thehorrible sound of writhing and of hard-drawn breath.
Breaking at last from the bonds of dazed wonder, she glided from thecouch, groping for the fallen lamp. She must _see_. She must _know_.Then she remembered the room-lamp that stood on a stand by the bed, andbegan to feel her way toward it. The
grating of metal against metalcame to her ears, followed by a low exclamation and a sharp "Ah!"gasped exultantly; then came the sound of two fierce blows.
She had found the lamp now, and was trying to strike a light. Thevictory was still undecided, though the combatants seemed to groan witheach breath they drew. At last the wick caught the spark, and themellow light and the odour of perfumed oil began slowly to fill theroom. A statuette or vase came crashing to the floor, and, raising thelamp high above her head, she threw its light upon the struggling men.For a moment she could make out nothing except a dark mass at her feet.Then she caught the glitter of a weapon, and at last her eyes graspedsomething of the situation.
Iddilcar was undermost. She could see his black, curling beard thatseemed matted and ragged now, while the Roman--the man who bore theface of the dead Sergius--was extended upon him, grasping, with bothhands, the Carthaginian's wrists. It was the latter who held the bladethat had glittered--a long Numidian dagger, but the hold upon hiswrists prevented his using it, and the Roman dared not release eitherhand to wrench it away. There were bruises, too, on Iddilcar'sface--the blows of fists; but the blood on the floor told of some otherwound, doubtless the Roman's, inflicted before he could restrain thehand that dealt it. Now, neither seemed able to accomplish furtherinjury, until the strength of one should fail; and if it was herprotector's blood that was flowing?--the thought was ominous. Neitherdared to cry out, for the aid that might come was too doubtful, and,besides, they needed to husband all the air their lungs could gain.
Marcia saw these things and thought them clearly, quickly, and inorder. Her mind seemed to grow as strangely calm as if busied inselecting some shade of wool for her distaff. She reached down and, bya quick movement, twisted the dagger from the stiffened, weary fingersof the Carthaginian. A cry burst from him--the first since thetriumphant "Ah!" that had doubtless come from his lips when he used theweapon, a few moments since. He writhed furiously, and Marcia stood,holding the dagger in her hand, hesitating rather through dread ofinjuring this new Sergius that had arisen to aid her.
The Roman, however, seeing himself freed from the necessity of guardingagainst the sharp point that had menaced him, now suddenly released thewrists of his adversary, and, grasping him by the throat, he lifted hishead several times, and struck it violently against the pavement. TheCarthaginian groaned, and his hold relaxed for a moment. Then, tearinghimself free, and with one hand still gripping the throat of theprostrate man, the Roman raised his body, and, turning toward Marcia,reached out for the dagger. With eyes fixed wonderingly on his, shegave it to him, as if only half conscious of her act.
Again the scene changed. Less helpless than he had seemed, and withstaring eyes, before which death danced, Iddilcar gathered all hisremaining strength for one last, despairing effort, wrenched himselfloose, and staggered to his feet.
Then Marcia saw Sergius, for she knew now it was indeed he, saw himthrow himself forward on his knees, and, catching Iddilcar about thehips, plunge the blade into his side.
The priest shrieked once, as he felt the point, and struggled furiouslyto escape, raining blows upon the other's head and shoulders. Againthe long dagger rose and fell, piercing the man's entrails. Gods!would he never fall?--and still he maintained his footing, but now hishands beat only the air, and his struggles became agonized writhings.Sergius' grip about his hips had never loosened, and the dagger roseand fell a third time. Iddilcar groaned long and deeply and sank downin a heap, carrying his slayer with him.