The Lion's Brood by Duffield Osborne (best reads of all time TXT) 📕

moon of Tanis, you will come," he murmured, holding out his arms. "We shall escape to Sicily—to Greece—to Egypt—to the far East. We shall be rich with the spoils of fools—"

A slight scraping noise came to their ears, and both started. Iddilcar sprang swiftly to the entrance of the room, but the lamp in the hall had gone out, and his eyes saw nothing in the darkness. Uncertain what to do, he looked back to where Marcia stood, pale and rigid. His voice and hands trembled as he repeated in a loud whisper:—

"You will come? You will be ready?"

"Yes," she said, "I will come;" but she did not look at him, as she spoke, only she caught the triumphant gleam of his eyes; a thousand weird lights seemed to whirl around her, and she felt herself sinking. It seemed, for a moment, as if a slave in a gray tunic was supporting her, and then all consciousness fled.

XI. THE SLAVE.

It was an hour past midnight, when Marcia first knew the agony of returning reason. The gong in the Forum had just struck. Where was she? Surely in her own apartment! How had she come there? Then, slowly, the memory of yesterday grew clear—the awful duty of to-morrow. With eyelids fast shut, as if dreading to open them to the darkness, she buried her throbbing temples beneath the rich Campanian coverlid. She could still see the eyes of Iddilcar gleaming wolfish amid his jewels; could see him standing in the doorway, as he turned from that startled rush in pursuit of what had been, doubtless, only a whisper of their imaginations. He had said he would come for her—before daybreak—and she must be ready. Later, she could approach death with suppliant hands, but now she must be ready. Her life was not her own yet. It was her country's. Later, the shade of Lucius would beckon. Surely he would forgive her for having avenged him. But how had she reached her room? Had it been Calavius or the slaves who had found her? did they suspect? Then she remembered the man who had seemed 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 had startled the priest, came to her ears. Ah, protecting gods! what was true, 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 her courage, and, thrusting down the coverlid, she opened her eyes defiantly and tried to pierce the darkness. Nothing was visible, but she knew she was not alone, and, leaning upon one elbow, she reached out, groping.

Suddenly a hand grasped hers, a strong, bony hand, gripping it tightly, and by its very energy commanding silence. It seemed strange to her that she did not scream, but then she had known that she would find some one, and had the hand been Iddilcar's, she would certainly have realized it by the loathing in her soul. For her, now, all other men had become friends. Therefore she was not frightened, did not cry out—rather it was a soothing sense of companionship that came to her—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 to those of olden times, when the Republic was young, and Romans worshipped, believing. She felt very brave—fearless.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

"I am a slave," answered a voice. "I brought you here, and I am watching."

It was a voice that, while it rang hard, yet had in it an assurance of protection—even of power, and it thrilled her as with some familiar memory. 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 the turn 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 me yesterday in the Street of the Whitened Feet."

She was silent a moment, trying hard to think; she felt the man's hand trembling, and then, suddenly realizing, she drew her own away.

"And yet you are going to-morrow with this beast—this animal!" said the voice, bitterly.

Startled again by the tone and accent, no less than by the words, she burst 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 was new 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 I drove 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—prayed for the winter—for time. And I was beautiful, and I had no love, save for the king, Orcus. So the thought came to me that by my blandishments 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 my part—that I have won? Tomorrow I go to pay the price. What matters it? 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, pierced through by javelins, and I lay with the dead heaped above me—ah! so many hours—days, perhaps—I do not know; until the slave-dealers, passing among the corpses, found me breathing, and wondered at my strength, auguring a good value. Therefore they took me, and when I was well of my wounds they brought me here—to Capua, and sold me to Pacuvius 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 the dead from Acheron."

He leaned forward, as he spoke the words, and there came to Marcia a sudden memory of two occasions when she had used the ancient saying—the colloquial "never" of Rome. Once it had bound her to Iddilcar, and once, far back, in happier times, it had parted her forever from Sergius. Tears rolled down her cheeks. A dim light seemed to be creeping into the room—very dim, but as her eyes grew dry again, she could begin to trace the outlines of her companion sitting on a low stool beside her couch. Surely those were footsteps in the hall—yes, footsteps—and the approaching light of a lamp.

Marcia's heart stood still. The slave had started from his seat and drawn far back in the darkest corner of the room; then the curtains were pushed cautiously aside, and the tall form of Iddilcar stood revealed by the light of the small, silver lamp he bore in his hand. A long, dark mantle enveloped him from head to foot.

"Come," he said, speaking sharply but in low tones; and, holding the lamp above his head, he tried to peer into the apartment. "Come; it will soon be light. Ah! you have not arisen? No matter; I have another cloak, and we must not delay. The slaves are well bribed, and Calavius sleeps soundly—forever. My horses, good horses, are in the street; a few moments and we gain the gate. The schalischim's own ring is 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 the omen."

He laughed low and harshly, and Marcia shuddered, thinking of her host lying 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 Latin nomenclature of foreign slaves. At the same time he took a step forward into the room and let the curtains fall behind him. "Come, or I shall have to order the rods to those white shoulders. That would be—"

And then a shadow seemed to glide forward from the corner half behind him. For a moment a stream of lamplight fell upon a white, set face behind the Carthaginian's shoulder—a face that was indeed from the land 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 to save her, the lamp fell from Iddilcar's hand,—and then she lay still and listened to the furious struggle that ensued, the scuffling of feet upon the marble floor, the breathing that came and went in short, quick gasps. Now it seemed that both fell together; but not in victory or defeat, for the noises told of continuing combat; no words, only the horrible sound of writhing and of hard-drawn breath.

Breaking at last from the bonds of dazed wonder, she glided from the couch, 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, and began to feel her way toward it. The grating of metal against metal came 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. The victory was still undecided, though the combatants seemed to groan with each breath they drew. At last the wick caught the spark, and the mellow light and the odour of perfumed oil began slowly to fill the room. A statuette or vase came crashing to the floor, and, raising the lamp 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 grasped something of the situation.

Iddilcar was undermost. She could see his black, curling beard that seemed matted and ragged now, while the Roman—the man who bore the face of the dead Sergius—was extended upon him, grasping, with both hands, the Carthaginian's wrists. It was the latter who held the blade that had glittered—a long Numidian dagger, but the hold upon his wrists prevented his using it, and the Roman dared not release either hand to wrench it away. There were bruises, too, on Iddilcar's face—the blows of fists; but the blood on the floor told of some other wound, doubtless the Roman's, inflicted before he could restrain the hand that dealt it. Now, neither seemed able to accomplish further injury, until the strength of one should fail; and if it was her protector's blood that was flowing?—the thought was ominous. Neither dared 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 in order. Her mind seemed to grow as strangely calm as if busied in selecting some shade of wool for her distaff. She reached down and, by a quick movement, twisted the dagger from the stiffened, weary fingers of the Carthaginian. A cry burst from him—the first since the triumphant "Ah!" that had doubtless come from his lips when he used the weapon, a few moments since. He writhed furiously, and Marcia stood, holding the dagger in her hand, hesitating rather through dread of injuring this new Sergius that had arisen to aid her.

The Roman, however, seeing himself freed from