Читать книгу The Robe - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 4

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Cornelius Capito was not in when Marcellus called at three to learn what Gaius had planned for him. This was surprising and a bit ominous too. The conspicuous absence of the Chief Legate, and his deputizing of a young understrapper to handle the case, clearly meant that Capito had no relish for an unpleasant interview with the son of his lifelong friend.

The Gallios had walked their horses for the last two miles of the journey in from Ismael’s camp where the Senator had declined to purchase the Hispanian mares at the exorbitant price demanded by the avaricious old Syrian, though it was plain to see that the day’s events had dulled his interest in the negotiation.

The Senator’s mind was fully occupied now with speculations about Cornelius. If anybody in Rome could temper the punitive assignment which Gaius intended for his son, it would be the Commander of the Praetorian Guard and Chief of the Legates who wielded an enormous power in the making of appointments.

Slipping into a reminiscent—and candidly pessimistic—mood, the elder Gallio had recited the deplorable story they both knew by heart, the dismal epic of the Praetorian Guard. Marcellus had been brought up on it. As if his son had never heard the tale before, the Senator began away back in the time when Julius Caesar had created this organization for his own security. Picked men they were, with notable records for daring deeds. As the years rolled on, the traditions of the Praetorian Guard became richer. A magnificent armory was built to house its battle trophies, and in its spacious atrium were erected bronze and marble tablets certifying to the memorable careers of its heroes. To be a member of the Praetorian Guard in those great—long since outmoded—days when courage and integrity were valuable property, was the highest honor the Empire could bestow.

Then, Gallio had continued gloomily, Augustus—whose vanity had swollen into a monstrous, stinking, cancerous growth—had begun to confer honorary memberships upon his favorites; upon Senators who slavishly approved his mistakes and weren’t above softening the royal sandal-straps with their saliva; upon certain rich men who had fattened on manipulations in foreign loot; upon wealthy slave-brokers, dealers in stolen sculpture; upon provincial revenue-collectors; upon almost anybody indeed who could minister to the diseased Augustan ego, or pour ointment on his itching avarice. And thus had passed away the glory and distinction of the Praetorian Guard. Its memberships were for sale.

For a little while, Tiberius had tried to arrest its accelerating descent into hell. Cornelius Capito, who had so often led his legion into suicidal forays that a legend had taken shape about him—for were not the gods directing a man whose life was so cheaply held and so miraculously preserved?—was summoned home to be Commander of the Praetorian Guard. Capito had not wanted the office, but had obeyed the command. With the same kind of recklessness that had won him honors on many a battle-field, he had begun to clean up the discredited institution. But it hadn’t been long until hard pressure on Tiberius made it necessary for the Emperor to caution the uncompromising warrior about his honest zeal. He mustn’t go too far in this business of cleansing the Praetorian Guard.

‘It was then,’ declaimed Gallio, ‘that brave old Capito discovered, to his dismay, why Tiberius had called him to be the Commander; simply to use his name as a deodorant!’

Marcellus had realized, at this juncture of his father’s painful reflections, that the remainder of the story would be somewhat embarrassing; for it concerned the Military Tribunes.

‘If Augustus had only been content’—the Senator was proceeding according to schedule—‘with his destruction of the Praetorian Guard! Perhaps, had he foreseen the result of his policy there, not even his rapacious greed could have induced him to work the same havoc with the Order of Tribunes. But you know what happened, my son.’

Yes—Marcellus knew. The Order of Tribunes had been honorable too. You had to be a Tribune, in deed and in truth, if you wanted to wear its insignia. Like the Praetorian Guard, it too was handsomely quartered. Tribunes, home on furlough or recovering from injuries or awaiting orders, took advantage of the library, the baths, the commissary that the Empire had provided for them. Then Augustus had decided to expand the Order of Tribunes to include all sons of Senators and influential taxpayers. You needn’t ever have shouted an order or spent a night in a tent. If your father had enough money and political weight, you could wear the uniform and receive the salute.

Marcellus liked to think that his own case was not quite so indefensible as most of them. He had not been a mere playboy. At the Academy he had given his full devotion to the history of military campaigns, strategy, and tactics. He was an accomplished athlete, expert with the javelin, a winner of many prizes for marksmanship with the bow. He handled a dueling sword with the skill of a professional gladiator.

Nor had his recreations been profitless. Aristocratic youths, eligible to the hierarchy of public offices, disdained any actual practice of the fine arts. They affected to be critics and connoisseurs of painting and sculpture, but would have experienced much embarrassment had they been caught with a brush or chisel in hand. Independent of this taboo, Marcellus had taken a serious interest in sculpture, much to the delight of his father, who—upon observing that he had a natural genius for it—had provided him with competent tutors.

But—sometimes he had been appropriately sensitive about his status as a Military Tribune when, as happened infrequently, some real Tribune showed up at the ornate club-house, bronzed and battered and bandaged, after grueling months on active duty.

However—Marcellus said to himself—it wasn’t as if he had no qualifications for military service. He was abundantly prepared to accept a commission if required to do so. Occasionally he had wished that an opportunity for such service might arise. He had never been asked to take a command. And a man would be a fool, indeed, to seek a commission. War was a swinish business, intended for bullies who liked to strut their medals and yell obscenities at their inferiors and go for weeks without a bath. He could do all this if he had to. He didn’t have to; but he had never been honestly proud of his title. Sometimes when Decimus addressed him as ‘Tribune’—which was the surly fellow’s custom on such occasions as serving him his late breakfast in bed—Marcellus was tempted to slap him, and would have done so had he a better case.

They had ridden in silence for a little time, after the Senator had aired his favorite grievances.

‘Once in a while,’ continued Gallio, meditatively, ‘crusty Capito—like blind Samson of the Hebrew myth—rouses to have his way. I am hopeful that he may intervene in your behalf, my son. If it is an honorable post, we will not lament even though it involves peril. I am prepared to hand you over to danger—but not to disgrace. I cannot believe that my trusted friend will fail to do his utmost for you, today. I bid you to approach him with that expectation!’

His father had seemed so confident of this outcome that the remainder of their ride had been almost enjoyable. Assured that the gruff but loyal old warrior, who had helped him into his first white toga, would see to it that no indignities were practiced on him by a petulant and vengeful Prince, Marcellus set off light-heartedly to the impressive headquarters of the Chief Legate.

Accompanied by Demetrius, who was himself a striking figure in the saddle, he rode through the increasingly crowded streets on the way to the huge circular plaza, around half of which were grouped the impressive marble buildings serving the Praetorian Guard and ranking officials of the army. To the left stretched a vast parade-ground, now literally filled with loaded camel caravans and hundreds of pack-asses.

An expedition was mobilizing, ready for departure on the long trip to Gaul. The plaza was a stirring scene! Banners fluttered. The young officers were smart in their field uniforms. The legionaries were alert, spirited, apparently eager to be on their way. Maybe an experience of this sort would be stimulating, thought Marcellus.

Unable to ride into the plaza, because of the congestion, they dismounted in the street, Marcellus handing his reins to Demetrius, and proceeding through the narrow lane toward the Praetorium. The broad corridors were filled with Centurions awaiting orders. Many of them he knew. They smiled recognition and saluted. Perhaps they surmised that he was here on some such business as their own, and it gave him a little thrill of pride. You could think what you liked about the brutishness and griminess of war, it was no small honor to be a Roman soldier—whatever your rank! He shouldered his way to the open door leading into Capito’s offices.

‘The Commander is not in,’ rasped the busy deputy. ‘He ordered me to deliver this commission to you.’

Marcellus took the heavily sealed scroll from the fellow’s hand, hesitated a moment, half-inclined to inquire whether Capito expected to return presently, decided against it; turned, and went out, down the broad steps and across the densely packed plaza. Demetrius, seeing him coming, led the horses forward and handed his master the bay mare’s bridle-reins. Their eyes met. After all, thought Marcellus, Demetrius had a right to know where we stood in this business.

‘I have not opened it yet,’ he said, tapping the scroll. ‘Let us go home.’

The Senator was waiting for him in the library.

‘Well—what did our friend Capito have for you?’ he asked, making no attempt to disguise his uneasiness.

‘He was not there. A deputy served me.’ Marcellus laid the scroll on the desk and sat down to wait while his father impatiently thrust his knife through the heavy seals. For what seemed a very long time the narrowed eyes raced the length of the pompous manifesto. Then Gallio cleared his throat, and faced his son with troubled eyes.

‘You are ordered to take command of the garrison at Minoa,’ he muttered.

‘Where’s Minoa?’

‘Minoa is a villainously dirty little port city in southern Palestine.’

‘I never heard of it,’ said Marcellus. ‘I know about our forts at Caesarea and Joppa; but—what have we at this Minoa?’

‘It is the point of departure for the old trail that leads to the Dead Sea. Most of our salt comes from there, as you probably know. The duty of our garrison at Minoa is to make that road safe for our caravans.’

‘Doesn’t sound like a very interesting job,’ commented Marcellus. ‘I was anticipating something dangerous.’

‘Well—you will not be disappointed. It is dangerous enough. The Bedouins who menace that salt trail are notoriously brutal savages. But because they are independent gangs of bandits, with hideouts in that rocky desert region, we have never undertaken a campaign to crush them. It would have required five legions.’ The Senator was speaking as if he were very well informed about Minoa, and Marcellus was listening with full attention.

‘You mean these desert brigands steal the salt from our caravans?’

‘No—not the salt. They plunder the caravans on the way in, for they have to carry supplies and money to hire laborers at the salt deposits. Many of the caravans that set out over that trail are never heard from again. But that isn’t quite all,’ the Senator continued. ‘We have not been wasting very good men in the fort at Minoa. The garrison is composed of a tough lot of rascals. More than half of them were once commissioned officers who, for rank insubordination or other irregularities, are in disfavor with the Government. The lesser half is made up of an assortment of brawlers whose politics bred discontent.’

‘I thought the Empire had a more prompt and less expensive method of dealing with objectionable people.’

‘There are some cases,’ explained the Senator, ‘in which a public trial or a private assassination might stir up a protest. In these instances, it is as effective—and more practical—to send the offender to Minoa.’

‘Why, sir—this is equivalent to exile!’ Marcellus rose, bent forward over his father’s desk, and leaned his weight on his white-knuckled fists. ‘Do you know anything more about this dreadful place?’

Gallio slowly nodded his head.

‘I know all about it, my son. For many years, one of my special duties in the Senate—together with four of my colleagues—has been the supervision of that fort.’ He paused, and began slowly rising to his feet, his deep-lined face livid with anger. ‘I believe that was why Gaius Drusus Agrippa—’ The Senator savagely ground the hated name to bits with his teeth. ‘He planned this for my son—because he knew—that I would know—what you were going into.’ Raising his arms high, and shaking his fists in rage, Gallio shouted, ‘Now I would that I were religious! I would beseech some god to damn his soul!’

Cornelia Vipsania Gallio, who always slightly accented her middle name—though she was only a stepdaughter to the divorced spouse of Emperor Tiberius—might have been socially important had she made the necessary effort.

If mere wishing on Cornelia’s part could have induced her husband to ingratiate himself with the Crown, Marcus Lucan Gallio could have belonged to the inner circle, and any favor he desired for himself or his family might have been granted; or if Cornelia herself had gone to the bother of fawning upon the insufferable old Julia, the Gallio household might have reached that happy elevation by this shorter route. But Cornelia lacked the necessary energy.

She was an exquisite creature, even in her middle forties; a person of considerable culture, a gracious hostess, an affectionate wife, an indulgent mother, and probably the laziest woman in the whole Roman Empire. It was said that sometimes slaves would serve the Gallio establishment for months before discovering that their mistress was not an invalid.

Cornelia had her breakfast in bed at noon, lounged in her rooms or in the sunny garden all afternoon, drowsed over the classics, apathetically swept her slim fingers across the strings of her pandura; and was waited on, hand and foot, by everybody in the house. And everybody loved her, too, for she was kind and easy to please. Moreover, she never gave orders—except for her personal comfort. The slaves—under the competent and loyal supervision of Marcipor; and the diligent, if somewhat surly, dictatorship of Decimus in the culinary department—managed the institution unaided by her counsel and untroubled by her criticism. She was by nature an optimist, possibly because fretting was laborious. On rare occasions, she was briefly baffled by unhappy events, and at such times she wept quietly—and recovered.

Yesterday, however, something had seriously disturbed her habitual tranquillity. The Senator had made a speech. Paula Gallus, calling in the late afternoon, had told her. Paula had been considerably upset.

Cornelia was not surprised by the report that her famous husband was pessimistic in regard to the current administration of Roman government, for he was accustomed to walking the floor of her bedchamber while delivering opinions of this nature; but she was shocked to learn that Marcus had given the Senate the full benefit of his accumulated dissatisfactions. Cornelia had no need to ask Paula why she was so concerned. Paula didn’t want Senator Gallio to get himself into trouble with the Crown. In the first place, it would be awkward for Diana to continue her close friendship with Lucia if the latter’s eminent parent persisted in baiting Prince Gaius. And, too, was there not a long-standing conspiracy between Paula and Cornelia to encourage an alliance of their houses whenever Diana and Marcellus should become romantically aware of each other?

Paula had not hinted at these considerations when informing Cornelia that the Senator was cutting an impressive figure on some pretty thin ice, but she had gone so far as to remind her long-time friend that Prince Gaius—while notably unskillful at everything else—was amazingly resourceful and ingenious when it came to devising reprisals for his critics.

‘But what can I do about it?’ Cornelia had moaned languidly. ‘Surely you’re not hoping that I will rebuke him. My husband would not like to have people telling him what he may say in the Senate.’

‘Not even his wife?’ Paula arched her patrician brows.

‘Especially his wife,’ rejoined Cornelia. ‘We have a tacit understanding that Marcus is to attend to his profession without my assistance. My responsibility is to manage his home.’

Paula had grinned dryly; and, shortly after, had taken her departure, leaving behind her a distressing dilemma. Cornelia wished that the Senator could be a little less candid. He was such an amiable man when he wanted to be. Of course, Gaius was a waster and a fool; but—after all—he was the Prince Regent, and you didn’t have to call him names in public assemblies. First thing you knew, they’d all be blacklisted. Paula Gallus was far too prudent to let Diana become involved in their scrapes. If the situation became serious, they wouldn’t be seeing much more of Diana. That would be a great grief to Lucia. And it might affect the future of Marcellus, too. It was precious little attention he had paid to the high-spirited young Diana, but Cornelia was still hopeful.

Sometimes she worried, for a moment or two, about Marcellus. One of her most enjoyable dreams posed her son on a beautiful white horse, leading a victorious army through the streets, dignifiedly acknowledging the plaudits of a multitude no man could number. To be sure, you didn’t head that sort of parade unless you had risked some perils; but Marcellus had never been a coward. All he needed was a chance to show what kind of stuff he was made of. He would probably never get that chance now. Cornelia cried bitterly; and because there was no one else to talk to about it, she bared her heart to Lucia. And Lucia, shocked by her mother’s unprecedented display of emotion, had tried to console her.

But today, Cornelia had quite disposed of her anxiety; not because the reason for it had been in any way relieved, but because she was temperamentally incapable of concentrating diligently upon anything—not even upon a threatened catastrophe.

About four o’clock (Cornelia was in her luxurious sitting-room, gently combing her shaggy terrier) the Senator entered and without speaking dropped wearily into a chair, frowning darkly.

‘Tired?’ asked Cornelia, tenderly. ‘Of course you are. That long ride. And you were disappointed with the Hispanian horses, I think. What was the matter with them?’

‘Marcellus has been ordered into service,’ growled Gallio, abruptly.

Cornelia pushed the dog off her lap and leaned forward interestedly.

‘But that is as it should be, don’t you think? We had expected that it might happen some day. Perhaps we should be glad. Will it take him far away?’

‘Yes.’ The Senator nodded impressively. ‘Far away. He has been ordered to command the fort at Minoa.’

‘Command! How very nice for him! Minoa! Our son is to be the commander—of the Roman fort—at Minoa! We shall be proud!’

‘No!’ Gallio shook his white head. ‘No! We shall not be proud! Minoa, my dear, is where we send men to be well rid of them. They have little to do there but quarrel. They are a mob of mutinous cutthroats. We frequently have to appoint a new commander.’ He paused for a long, moody moment. ‘This time the Senate Committee on affairs at Minoa was not consulted about the appointment. Our son had his orders directly from Gaius.’

This was too much even for the well-balanced Cornelia. She broke into a storm of weeping; noisily hysterical weeping; her fingers digging frantically into the glossy black hair that had tumbled about her shapely shoulders; moaning painful and incoherent reproaches that gradually became intelligible. Racked with sobs, Cornelia amazed them both by crying out, ‘Why did you do it, Marcus? Oh—why did you have to bring this tragedy upon our son? Was it so important that you should denounce Gaius—at such a cost to Marcellus—and all of us? Oh—I wish I could have died before this day!’

Gallio bowed his head in his hands and made no effort to share the blame with Marcellus. His son was in plenty of trouble without the added burden of a rebuke from his overwrought mother.

‘Where is he?’ she asked, thickly, trying to compose herself. ‘I must see him.’

‘Packing his kit, I think,’ muttered Gallio. ‘He is ordered to leave at once. A galley will take him to Ostia where a ship sails tomorrow.’

‘A ship? What ship? If he must go, why cannot he travel in a manner consistent with his rank? Surely he can charter or buy a vessel, and sail in comfort as becomes a Tribune.’

‘There is no time for that, my dear. They are leaving tonight.’

‘They? Marcellus—and who else?’

‘Demetrius.’

‘Well—the gods be thanked for that much!’ Cornelia broke out again into tempestuous weeping. ‘Why doesn’t Marcellus come to see me?’ she sobbed.

‘He will, in a little while,’ said Gallio. ‘He wanted me to tell you about it first. And I hope you will meet him in the spirit of a courageous Roman matron.’ The Senator’s tone was almost severe now. ‘Our son has received some very unhappy tidings. He is bearing them manfully, calmly, according to our best traditions. But I do not think he could bear to see his mother destroy herself in his presence.’

‘Destroy myself!’ Cornelia, stunned by the words, faced him with anguished eyes. ‘You know I could never do a thing like that—no matter what happened to us!’

‘One does not have to swallow poison or hug a dagger, my dear, to commit suicide. One can kill oneself and remain alive physically.’ Gallio rose, took her hand, and drew Cornelia to her feet. ‘Dry your tears now, my love,’ he said gently. ‘When Marcellus comes, let him continue to be proud of you. There may be some trying days ahead for our son. Perhaps the memory of an intrepid mother will rearm him when he is low in spirit.’

‘I shall try, Marcus.’ Cornelia clung to him hungrily. It had been a long time since they had needed each other so urgently.

After Marcellus had spent a half-hour alone with his mother—an ordeal he had dreaded—his next engagement was with his sister. Father had informed Lucia, and she had sent word by Tertia that she would be waiting for him in the pergola whenever it was convenient for him to come.

But first he must return to his rooms with the silk pillow his mother had insisted on giving him. It would be one more thing for Demetrius to add to their already cumbersome impedimenta, but it seemed heartless to refuse the present, particularly in view of the fine fortitude with which she had accepted their mutual misfortune. She had been tearful, but there had been no painful break-up of her emotional discipline.

Marcellus found the luggage packed and strapped for the journey, but Demetrius was nowhere to be found. Marcipor, who had appeared in the doorway to see if he might be of service, was queried; and replied, with some reluctance and obvious perplexity, that he had seen Demetrius on his horse, galloping furiously down the driveway, fully an hour ago. Marcellus accepted this information without betraying his amazement. It was quite possible that the Greek had belatedly discovered the lack of some equipment necessary to their trip, and had set off for it minus the permission to do so. It was inconceivable that Demetrius would take advantage of this opportunity to make a dash for freedom. No, decided Marcellus, it wouldn’t be that. But the incident needed explanation, for if Demetrius had gone for additional supplies he would not have strapped the luggage until his return.

Lucia was leaning against the balustrade, gazing toward the Tiber where little sails reflected final flashes of almost horizontal sunshine, and galleys moved so sluggishly they would have seemed not to be in motion at all but for the rhythmic dip of the long oars. One galley, a little larger than the others, was headed toward a wharf. Lucia cupped her hands about her eyes and was so intent upon the sinister black hulk that she did not hear Marcellus coming.

He joined her without words, and circled her girlish waist tenderly. She slipped her arm about him, but did not turn her head.

‘Might that be your galley?’ she asked, pointing. ‘It has three banks, I think, and a very high prow. Isn’t that the kind that meets ships at Ostia?’

‘That’s the kind,’ agreed Marcellus, pleased that the conversation promised to be dispassionate. ‘Perhaps that is the boat.’

Lucia slowly turned about in his arms and affectionately patted his cheeks with her soft palms. She looked up, smiling resolutely, her lips quivering a little; but she was doing very well, her brother thought. He hoped his eyes were assuring her of his approval.

‘I am so glad you are taking Demetrius,’ she said, steadily. ‘He wanted to go?’

‘Yes,’ replied Marcellus, adding after a pause, ‘Yes—he quite wanted to go.’ They stood in silence for a little while, her fingers gently toying with the knotted silk cord at the throat of his tunic.

‘All packed up?’ Lucia was certainly doing a good job, they both felt. Her voice was well under control.

‘Yes.’ Marcellus nodded with a smile that meant everything was proceeding normally, just as if they were leaving on a hunting excursion. ‘Yes, dear—all ready to go.’ There was another longer interval of silence.

‘Of course, you don’t know—yet’—said Lucia—‘when you will be coming home.’

‘No,’ said Marcellus. After a momentary hesitation he added, ‘Not yet.’

Suddenly Lucia drew a long, agonized ‘Oh!’—wrapped her arms tightly around her brother’s neck, buried her face against his breast, and shook with stifled sobs. Marcellus held her trembling body close.

‘No, no,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s see it through, precious child. It’s not easy; but—well—we must behave like Romans, you know.’

Lucia stiffened, flung back her head, and faced him with streaming eyes aflame with anger.

‘Like Romans!’ she mocked. ‘Behave like Romans! And what does a Roman ever get for being brave—and pretending it is fine—and noble—to give up everything—and make-believe it is glorious—glorious to suffer—and die—for Rome! For Rome! I hate Rome! Look what Rome has done to you—and all of us! Why can’t we live in peace? The Roman Empire—Bah! What is the Roman Empire? A great swarm of slaves! I don’t mean slaves like Tertia and Demetrius; I mean slaves like you and me—all our lives bowing and scraping and flattering; our legions looting and murdering—and for what? To make Rome the capital of the world, they say! But why should the whole world be ruled by a lunatic like old Tiberius and a drunken bully like Gaius? I hate Rome! I hate it all!’

Marcellus made no effort to arrest the torrent, thinking it more practical to let his sister wear her passion out—and have done with it. She hung limp in his arms now, her heart pounding hard.

‘Feel better?’ he asked, sympathetically. She slowly nodded against his breast. Instinctively glancing about, Marcellus saw Demetrius standing a few yards away with his face averted from them. ‘I must see what he wants,’ he murmured, relaxing his embrace. Lucia slipped from his arms and stared again at the river, unwilling to let the imperturbable Greek see her so nearly broken.

‘The daughter of Legate Gallus is here, sir,’ announced Demetrius.

‘I can’t see Diana now, Marcellus,’ put in Lucia, thickly. ‘I’ll go down through the gardens, and you talk to her.’ She raised her voice a little. ‘Bring Diana to the pergola, Demetrius.’ Without waiting for her brother’s approval, she walked rapidly toward the circular marble stairway that led to the arbors and the pool. Assuming that his master’s silence confirmed the order, Demetrius was setting off on his errand. Marcellus recalled him with a quiet word and he retraced his steps.

‘Do you suppose she knows?’ asked Marcellus, frowning.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘The daughter of Legate Gallus appears to have been weeping, sir.’

Marcellus winced and shook his head.

‘I hardly know what to say to her,’ he confided, mostly to himself, a dilemma that Demetrius made no attempt to solve. ‘But’—Marcellus sighed—‘I suppose I must see her.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Demetrius, departing on his errand.

Turning toward the balustrade, Marcellus watched his sister’s dejected figure moving slowly through the arbors, and his heart was suffused with pity. He had never seen Lucia so forlorn and undone. It was not much wonder if she had a reluctance to meet Diana in her present state of collapse. Something told him that this impending interview with Diana was likely to be difficult. He had not often been alone with her, even for a moment. This time they would not only be alone, but in circumstances extremely trying. He was uncertain what attitude he should take toward her.

She was coming now, out through the peristyle, walking with her usual effortless grace, but lacking animation. It was unlike Demetrius to send a guest to the pergola unattended, even though well aware that Diana knew the way. Damn Demetrius!—he was behaving very strangely this afternoon. Greeting Diana might be much more natural and unconstrained if he were present. Marcellus sauntered along the pavement to meet her. It was true, as Lucia had said; Diana was growing up—and she was lovelier in this pensiveness than he had ever seen her. Perhaps the bad news had taken all the adolescent bounce out of her. But, whatever might account for it, Diana had magically matured. His heart speeded a little. The elder-brotherly smile with which he was preparing to welcome her seemed inappropriate if not insincere, and as Diana neared him, his eyes were no less sober than hers.

She gave him both hands, at his unspoken invitation, and looked up from under her long lashes, winking back the tears and trying to smile. Marcellus had never faced her like this before, and the intimate contact stirred him. As he looked deeply into her dark eyes, it was almost as if he were discovering her; aware, for the first time, of her womanly contours, her finely sculptured brows, the firm but piquant chin, and the full lips—now parted with painful anxiety—disclosing even white teeth, tensely locked.

‘I am glad you came, Diana.’ Marcellus had wanted this to sound fraternal, but it didn’t. He was intending to add, ‘Lucia will want to see you presently’—but he didn’t; nor did he release her hands. It mystified him that she could stand still that long.

‘Are you really going—tonight?’ she asked, in a husky whisper.

Marcellus stared into her uplifted eyes, marveling that the tempestuous, teasing, unpredictable Diana had suddenly become so winsome.

‘How did you know?’ he queried. ‘Who could have told you so soon? I learned about it myself not more than three hours ago.’

‘Does it matter—how I found out?’ She hesitated, as if debating what next to say. ‘I had to come, Marcellus,’ she went on, bravely. ‘I knew you would have no time—to come to me—and say good-bye.’

‘It was very—’ He stopped on the verge of ‘kind,’ which, he felt, would be too coolly casual, and saw Diana’s eyes swimming with tears. ‘It was very dear of you,’ he said, tenderly. Marcellus clasped her hands more firmly and drew her closer. She responded, after a momentary reluctance.

‘I wouldn’t have done it, of course,’ she said, rather breathlessly—‘if the time hadn’t been so short. We’re all going to miss you.’ Then, a little unsteadily, she asked, ‘Will I hear from you, Marcellus?’ And when he did not immediately find words to express his happy surprise, she shook her head and murmured, ‘I shouldn’t have said that, I think. You will have more than enough to do. We can learn about each other through Lucia.’

‘But I shall want to write to you, dear,’ declared Marcellus, ‘and you will write to me—often—I hope. Promise!’

Diana smiled mistily, and Marcellus watched her dimples deepen—and disappear. His heart skipped a beat when she whispered, ‘You will write to me tonight? And send it back from Ostia—on the galley?’

‘Yes—Diana!’

‘Where is Lucia?’ she asked, impetuously reclaiming her hands.

‘Down in the arbors,’ said Marcellus.

Before he realized her intention, Diana had run away. At the top of the stairs she paused to wave to him. He was on the point of calling to her—to wait a moment—that he had something more to say; but the utter hopelessness of his predicament kept him silent. What more, he asked himself, did he want to say to Diana? What promise could he make to her—or exact of her? No—it was better to let this be their leave-taking. He waved her a kiss—and she vanished down the stairway. It was quite possible—quite probable, indeed—that he would never see Diana again.

Moodily, he started toward the house; then abruptly turned back to the pergola. The girls had met and were strolling, arm in arm, through the rose arbor. Perhaps he was having a final glimpse of his lovable young sister, too. There was no good reason why he should put Lucia to the additional pain of another farewell.

It surprised him to see Demetrius ascending the stairway. What errand could have taken him down to the gardens, wondered Marcellus. Perhaps he would explain without being queried. His loyal Corinthian was not acting normally today. Presently he appeared at the top of the stairs and approached with the long, military stride that Marcellus had often found difficult to match when they were out on hunting trips. Demetrius seemed very well pleased about something; better than merely pleased. He was exultant! Marcellus had never seen such an expression on his slave’s face.

‘Shall I have the dunnage taken down to the galley now, sir?’ asked Demetrius, in a voice that betrayed recent excitement.

‘Yes—if it is ready.’ Marcellus was organizing a question, but found it difficult, and decided not to pry. ‘You may wait for me at the wharf,’ he added.

‘You will have had dinner, sir?’

Marcellus nodded; then suddenly changed his mind. He had taken leave of his family, one by one. They had all borne up magnificently. It was too much to ask of them—and him—that they should undergo a repetition of this distress in one another’s presence.

‘No,’ he said, shortly. ‘I shall have my dinner on the galley. You may arrange for it.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Demetrius’ tone indicated that he quite approved of this decision.

Marcellus followed slowly toward the house. There were plenty of things he would have liked to do, if he had been given one more day. There was Tullus, for one. He must leave a note for Tullus.

Upon meeting in the arbor, Lucia and Diana had both wept, wordlessly. Then they had talked in broken sentences about the possibilities of Marcellus’ return, his sister fearing the worst, Diana wondering whether some pressure might be brought to bear on Gaius.

‘You mean’—Lucia queried—‘that perhaps my father might—’

‘No.’ Diana shook her head decisively. ‘Not your father. It would have to be done some other way.’ Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

‘Maybe your father could do something about it,’ suggested Lucia.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps he might, if he were here. But his business in Marseilles may keep him stationed there until next winter.’

‘You said good-bye to Marcellus?’ asked Lucia, after they had walked on a little way in silence. She questioned Diana’s eyes and smiled pensively as she watched the color creeping up her cheeks. Diana nodded and pressed Lucia’s arm affectionately, but made no other response.

‘How did Demetrius get down here so fast?’ she asked, impulsively. ‘He came for me, you know, telling me Marcellus was leaving and wanted to see me. Just now I passed him. Don’t tell me that slave was saying good-bye—like an equal?’

‘It was rather strange,’ admitted Lucia. ‘Demetrius had never spoken to me in his life, except to acknowledge an order. I hardly knew what to make of it, Diana. He came out here, saluted with his usual formality, and delivered a little speech that sounded as if he had carefully rehearsed it. He said, “I am going away with the Tribune. I may never return. I wish to bid farewell to the sister of my master and thank her for being kind to her brother’s slave. I shall remember her goodness.” Then he took this ring out of his wallet—’

‘Ring?’ echoed Diana, incredulously. ‘Hold still. Let me look at it,’ she breathed. Lucia held up her hand, with fingers outspread, for a closer inspection in the waning light. ‘Pretty; isn’t it?’ commented Diana. ‘What is that device—a ship?’

‘Demetrius said,’ continued Lucia, ‘ “I should like to leave this with my master’s sister. If I come back, she may return it to me. If I do not come back, it shall be hers. My father gave it to my mother. It is the only possession I was able to save.” ’

‘But—how queer!’ murmured Diana. ‘What did you say to him?’

‘Well—what could I say?’ Lucia’s tone was self-defensive ‘After all—he is going away with my brother—at the risk of his own life. He’s human; isn’t he?’

‘Yes—he’s human,’ agreed Diana, impatiently. ‘Go on! What did you say?’

‘I thanked him,’ said Lucia, exasperatingly deliberate, ‘and told him I thought it was wonderful of him—and I do think it was, Diana—to let me keep his precious ring; and—and—I said I hoped they would both come home safely—and I promised to take good care of his keepsake.’

‘That was all right, I suppose,’ nodded Diana, judicially. ‘And—then what?’ They had stopped on the tiled path, and Lucia seemed a little confused.

‘Well,’ she stammered, ‘he was still standing there—and I gave him my hand.’

‘You didn’t!’ exclaimed Diana. ‘To a slave?’

‘To shake, you know,’ defended Lucia. ‘Why shouldn’t I have been willing to shake hands with Demetrius? He’s as clean as we are; certainly a lot cleaner than Bambo, who is always pawing me.’

‘That’s not the point, Lucia, whether Demetrius’ hands are cleaner than Bambo’s feet—and you know it. He is a slave, and we can’t be too careful.’ Diana’s tone was distinctly stern, until her curiosity overwhelmed her indignation. ‘So—then’—she went on, a little more gently—‘he shook hands with you.’

‘No—it was ever so much worse than that.’ Lucia grinned at the sight of Diana’s shocked eyes. ‘Demetrius took my hand, and put the ring on my finger—and then he kissed my hand—and—well—after all, Diana—he’s going away with Marcellus—maybe to die for him! What should I have done? Slap him?’

Diana laid her hands on Lucia’s shoulders and looked her squarely in the eyes.

‘So—then—after that—what happened?’

‘Wasn’t that enough?’ parried Lucia, flinching a little from Diana’s insistent search.

‘Quite!’ After a pause, she said, ‘You’re not expecting to wear that ring; are you, Lucia?’

‘No. There’s no reason why I should. It might get lost. And I don’t want to hurt Tertia.’

‘Is Tertia in love with Demetrius?’

‘Mad about him! She has been crying her eyes out, this afternoon, the poor dear.’

‘Does Demetrius know?’

‘I don’t see how he could help it.’

‘And he doesn’t care for her?’

‘Not that way. I made him promise he would say good-bye to her.’

‘Lucia—had it ever occurred to you that Demetrius has been secretly in love with you—maybe for a long time?’

‘He has never given me any reason to think so,’ replied Lucia, rather vaguely.

‘Until today, you mean,’ persisted Diana.

Lucia meditated an answer for a long moment.

‘Diana,’ she said, soberly, ‘Demetrius is a slave. That is true. That is his misfortune. He was gently bred, in a home of refinement, and brought here in chains by ruffians who weren’t fit to tie his sandals!’ Her voice trembled with suppressed anger. ‘Of course’—she went on, bitterly ironical—‘their being Romans made all the difference! Just so you’re a Roman, you don’t have to know anything—but pillage and bloodshed! Don’t you realize, Diana, that everything in the Roman Empire today that’s worth a second thought on the part of any decent person was stolen from Greece? Tell me!—how does it happen that we speak Greek, in preference to Latin? It’s because the Greeks are leagues ahead of us, mentally. There’s only one thing we do better: we’re better butchers!’

Diana frowned darkly.

With her lips close to Lucia’s ear, she said guardedly, ‘You are a fool to say such things—even to me! It’s too dangerous! Isn’t your family in enough trouble? Do you want to see all of us banished—or in prison?’

Marcellus stood alone at the rail of the afterdeck. He had not arrived at the wharf until a few minutes before the galley’s departure; and, going up to the cramped and stuffy cabin to make sure his heavy luggage had been safely stowed, was hardly aware that they were out in the river until he came down and looked about. Already the long warehouse and the docks had retreated into the gloom, and the voices sounded far away.

High up on an exclusive residential hillside, two small points of light flickered. He identified them as the brasiers at the eastern corners of the pergola. Perhaps his father was standing there at the balustrade.

Now they had passed the bend and the lights had disappeared. It was as if the first scroll of his life had now been written, read, and sealed. The pink glow that was Rome had faded and the stars were brightening. Marcellus viewed them with a strange interest. They seemed like so many unresponsive spectators; not so dull-eyed and apathetic as the Sphinx, but calmly observant, winking occasionally to relieve the strain and clear their vision. He wondered whether they were ever moved to sympathy or admiration; or if they cared, at all.

After a while he became conscious of the inexorable rasp of sixty oars methodically swinging with one obedience to the metallic blows of the boatswain’s hammers as he measured their slavery on his huge anvil.... Click! Clack! Click! Clack!

Home—and Life—and Love made a final, urgent tug at his spirit. He wished he might have had an hour with Tullus, his closest friend. Tullus hadn’t even heard what had happened to him. He wished he had gone back once more to see his mother. He wished he had kissed Diana. He wished he had not witnessed the devastating grief of his sister.... Click! Clack! Click! Clack!

He turned about and noticed Demetrius standing in the shadows near the ladder leading to the cabins. It was a comfort to sense the presence of his loyal slave. Marcellus decided to engage him in conversation; for the steady hammer-blows, down deep in the galley’s hull, were beginning to pound hard in his temples. He beckoned. Demetrius approached and stood at attention. Marcellus made the impatient little gesture with both hands and a shake of the head which, by long custom, had come to mean, ‘Be at ease! Be a friend!’ Demetrius relaxed his stiff posture and drifted over to the rail beside Marcellus where he silently and without obvious curiosity waited his master’s pleasure.

‘Demetrius’—Marcellus swept the sky with an all-inclusive arm—‘do you ever believe in the gods?’

‘If it is my master’s wish, I do,’ replied Demetrius, perfunctorily.

‘No, no,’ said Marcellus, testily, ‘be honest. Never mind what I believe. Tell me what you think about the gods. Do you ever pray to them?’

‘When I was a small boy, sir,’ complied Demetrius, ‘my mother taught us to invoke the gods. She was quite religious. There was a pretty statue of Priapus in our flower garden. I can still remember my mother kneeling there, on a fine spring day, with a little trowel in one hand and a basket of plants in the other. She believed that Priapus made things grow.... And my mother prayed to Athene every morning when my brothers and I followed the teacher into our schoolroom.’ He was silent for a while; and then, prodded by an encouraging nod from Marcellus, he continued: ‘My father offered libations to the gods on their feast-days, but I think that was to please my mother.’

‘This is most interesting—and touching, too,’ observed Marcellus. ‘But you haven’t quite answered my question, Demetrius. Do you believe in the gods—now?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do you mean that you don’t believe they render any service to men? Or do you doubt that the gods exist, at all?’

‘I think it better for the mind, sir, to disbelieve in their existence. The last time I prayed—it was on the day that our home was broken up. As my father was led away in chains, I knelt by my mother and we prayed to Zeus—the Father of gods and men—to protect his life. But Zeus either did not hear us; or, hearing us, had no power to aid us; or, having power to aid us, refused to do so. It is better, I think, to believe that he did not hear us than to believe that he was unable or unwilling to give aid.... That afternoon my mother went away—upon her own invitation—because she could bear no more sorrow.... I have not prayed to the gods since that day, sir. I have cursed and reviled them, on occasions; but with very little hope that they might resent my blasphemies. Cursing the gods is foolish and futile, I think.’

Marcellus chuckled grimly. This fine quality of contempt for the gods surpassed any profanity he had ever heard. Demetrius had spoken without heat. He had so little interest in the gods that he even felt it was silly to curse them.

‘You don’t believe there is any sort of supernatural intelligence in charge of the universe?’ queried Marcellus, gazing up into the sky.

‘I have no clear thought about that, sir,’ replied Demetrius, deliberately. ‘It is difficult to account for the world without believing in a Creator, but I do not want to think that the acts of men are inspired by superhuman beings. It is better, I feel, to believe that men have devised their brutish deeds without divine assistance.’

‘I am inclined to agree with you, Demetrius. It would be a great comfort, though, if—especially in an hour of bewilderment—one could nourish a reasonable hope that a benevolent Power existed—somewhere—and might be invoked.’

‘Yes, sir,’ conceded Demetrius, looking upward. ‘The stars pursue an orderly plan. I believe they are honest and sensible. I believe in the Tiber, and in the mountains, and in the sheep and cattle and horses. If there are gods in charge of them, such gods are honest and sound of mind. But if there are gods on Mount Olympus, directing human affairs, they are vicious and insane.’ Apparently feeling that he had been talking too much, Demetrius stiffened, drew himself erect, and gave the usual evidences that he was preparing to get back on his leash. But Marcellus wasn’t quite ready to let him do so.

‘Perhaps you think,’ he persisted, ‘that all humanity is crazy.’

‘I would not know, sir,’ replied Demetrius, very formally, pretending not to have observed his master’s sardonic grin.

‘Well’—hectored Marcellus—‘let’s narrow it down to the Roman Empire. Do you think the Roman Empire is an insane thing?’

‘Your slave, sir,’ answered Demetrius, stiffly, ‘believes whatever his master thinks about that.’

It was clear to Marcellus that the philosophical discussion was ended. By experience he had learned that once Demetrius resolved to crawl back into his slave status, no amount of coaxing would hale him forth. They both stood silently now, looking at the dark water swirling about the stern.

The Greek is right, thought Marcellus. That’s what ails the Roman Empire: it is mad! That’s what ails the whole world of men. Mad! If there is any Supreme Power in charge, He is mad! The stars are honest and sensible. But humanity is insane! ... Click! Clack! Click! Clack!