The Last of the Legions and Other Tales of Long Ago

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  VIII

  GIANT MAXIMIN

  I: THE COMING OF GIANT MAXIMIN

  Many are the strange vicissitudes of history. Greatness has often sunkto the dust, and has tempered itself to its new surrounding. Smallnesshas risen aloft, has flourished for a time, and then has sunk once more.Rich monarchs have become poor monks, brave conquerors have lost theirmanhood, eunuchs and women have overthrown armies and kingdoms. Surelythere is no situation which the mind of man could invent which has nottaken shape and been played out upon the world stage. But of all thestrange careers and of all the wondrous happenings, stranger thanCharles in his monastery, or Justin on his throne, there stands the caseof Giant Maximin, what he attained, and how he attained it. Let me tellthe sober facts of history, tinged only by that colouring to which themore austere historians could not condescend. It is a record as well asa story.

  * * * * *

  In the heart of Thrace some ten miles north of the Rhodope mountains,there is a valley which is named Harpessus, after the stream which runsdown it. Through this valley lies the main road from the east to thewest, and along the road, returning from an expedition against theAlani, there marched, upon the fifth day of the month of June in theyear 210, a small but compact Roman army. It consisted of threelegions--the Jovian, the Cappadocian, and the men of Hercules. Ten turmaeof Gallic cavalry led the van, whilst the rear was covered by a regimentof Batavian Horse Guards, the immediate attendants of the EmperorSeptimius Severus, who had conducted the campaign in person. Thepeasants who lined the low hills which fringed the valley looked withindifference upon the long files of dusty, heavily-burdened infantry,but they broke into murmurs of delight at the gold-faced cuirasses andhigh brazen horse-hair helmets of the guardsmen, applauding theirstalwart figures, their martial bearing, and the stately black chargerswhich they rode. A soldier might know that it was the little weary menwith their short swords, their heavy pikes over their shoulders, andtheir square shields slung upon their backs, who were the real terror ofthe enemies of the Empire, but to the eyes of the wondering Thracians itwas this troop of glittering Apollos who bore Rome's victory upon theirbanners, and upheld the throne of the purple-togaed prince who rodebefore them.

  Among the scattered groups of peasants who looked on from a respectfuldistance at this military pageant, there were two men who attracted muchattention from those who stood immediately around them. The one wascommonplace enough--a little grey-headed man, with uncouth dress and aframe which was bent and warped by a long life of arduous toil,goat-driving and wood-chopping, among the mountains. It was theappearance of his youthful companion which had drawn the amazedobservation of the bystanders. In stature he was such a giant as is seenbut once or twice in each generation of mankind. Eight feet and twoinches was his measure from his sandalled sole to the topmost curls ofhis tangled hair. Yet for all his mighty stature there was nothing heavyor clumsy in the man. His huge shoulders bore no redundant flesh, andhis figure was straight and hard and supple as a young pine tree. Afrayed suit of brown leather clung close to his giant body, and a cloakof undressed sheep-skin was slung from his shoulder. His bold blue eyes,shock of yellow hair and fair skin showed that he was of Gothic ornorthern blood, and the amazed expression upon his broad frank face ashe stared at the passing troops told of a simple and uneventful life insome back valley of the Macedonian mountains.

  "I fear your mother was right when she advised that we keep you athome," said the old man anxiously. "Tree-cutting and wood-carrying willseem but dull work after such a sight as this."

  "When I see mother next it will be to put a golden torque round herneck," said the young giant. "And you, daddy; I will fill your leatherpouch with gold pieces before I have done."

  The old man looked at his son with startled eyes. "You would not leaveus, Theckla! What could we do without you?"

  "My place is down among yonder men," said the young man. "I was not bornto drive goats and carry logs, but to sell this manhood of mine in thebest market. There is my market in the Emperor's own Guard. Say nothing,daddy, for my mind is set, and if you weep now it will be to laughhereafter. I will to great Rome with the soldiers."

  * * * * *

  The daily march of the heavily laden Roman legionary was fixed at twentymiles; but on this afternoon, though only half the distance had beenaccomplished, the silver trumpets blared out their welcome news that acamp was to be formed. As the men broke their ranks, the reason of theirlight march was announced by the decurions. It was the birthday of Geta,the younger son of the Emperor, and in his honour there would be gamesand a double ration of wine. But the iron discipline of the Roman armyrequired that under all circumstances certain duties should beperformed, and foremost among them that the camp should be made secure.Laying down their arms in the order of their ranks, the soldiers seizedtheir spades and axes, and worked rapidly and joyously until slopingvallum and gaping fossa girdled them round, and gave them safe refugeagainst a night attack. Then in noisy, laughing, gesticulating crowdsthey gathered in their thousands round the grassy arena where the sportswere to be held. A long green hill-side sloped down to a level plain,and on this gentle incline the army lay watching the strife of thechosen athletes who contended before them. They stretched themselves inthe glare of the sunshine, their heavy tunics thrown off, and theirnaked limbs sprawling, wine-cups and baskets of fruit and cakes circlingamongst them, enjoying rest and peace as only those can to whom it comesso rarely.

  The five-mile race was over, and had been won as usual by DecurionBrennus, the crack long-distance champion of the Herculians. Amid theyells of the Jovians, Capellus of the corps had carried off both thelong and the high jump. Big Brebix the Gaul had out-thrown the longguardsman Serenus with the fifty pound stone. Now, as the sun sanktowards the western ridge, and turned the Harpessus to a riband ofgold, they had come to the final of the wrestling, where the pliantGreek, whose name is lost in the nickname of "Python," was tried outagainst the bull-necked Lictor of the military police, a hairy Hercules,whose heavy hand had in the way of duty oppressed many of thespectators.

  As the two men, stripped save for their loincloths, approached thewrestling-ring, cheers and counter-cheers burst from their adherents,some favouring the Lictor for his Roman blood, some the Greek from theirown private grudge. And then, of a sudden, the cheering died, heads wereturned towards the slope away from the arena, men stood up and peeredand pointed, until finally, in a strange hush, the whole great assemblyhad forgotten the athletes, and were watching a single man walkingswiftly towards them down the green curve of the hill. This hugesolitary figure, with the oaken club in his hand, the shaggy fleeceflapping from his great shoulders, and the setting sun gleaming upon ahalo of golden hair, might have been the tutelary god of the fierce andbarren mountains from which he had issued. Even the Emperor rose fromhis chair and gazed with open-eyed amazement at the extraordinary beingwho approached them.

  The man, whom we already know as Theckla the Thracian, paid no heed tothe attention which he had aroused, but strode onwards, stepping aslightly as a deer, until he reached the fringe of the soldiers. Amidtheir open ranks he picked his way, sprang over the ropes which guardedthe arena, and advanced towards the Emperor, until a spear at his breastwarned him that he must go no nearer. Then he sunk upon his right kneeand called out some words in the Gothic speech.

  "Great Jupiter! Whoever saw such a body of a man!" cried the Emperor."What says he? What is amiss with the fellow? Whence comes he, and whatis his name?"

  An interpreter translated the Barbarian's answer. "He says, great Caesar,that he is of good blood, and sprung by a Gothic father from a woman ofthe Alani. He says that his name is Theckla, and that he would faincarry a sword in Caesar's service."

  The Emperor smiled. "Some post could surely be found for such a man,were it but as janitor at the Palatine Palace," said he to one of thePrefects. "I would fain see him walk even as he is through the forum. Hewould turn the heads of half
the women in Rome. Talk to him, Crassus.You know his speech."

  The Roman officer turned to the giant. "Caesar says that you are to comewith him, and he will make you the servant at his door."

  The Barbarian rose, and his fair cheeks flushed with resentment.

  "I will serve Caesar as a soldier," said he, "but I will be house-servantto no man--not even to him. If Caesar would see what manner of man I am,let him put one of his guardsmen up against me."

  "By the shade of Milo this is a bold fellow!" cried the Emperor. "Howsay you, Crassus? Shall he make good his words?"

  "By your leave, Caesar," said the blunt soldier, "good swordsmen are toorare in these days that we should let them slay each other for sport.Perhaps if the Barbarian would wrestle a fall----"

  "Excellent!" cried the Emperor. "Here is the Python, and here Varus theLictor, each stripped for the bout. Have a look at them, Barbarian, andsee which you would choose. What does he say? He would take them both?Nay then he is either the king of wrestlers or the king of boasters, andwe shall soon see which. Let him have his way, and he has himself tothank if he comes out with a broken neck."

  There was some laughter when the peasant tossed his sheep-skin mantle tothe ground and, without troubling to remove his leathern tunic, advancedtowards the two wrestlers; but it became uproarious when with a quickspring he seized the Greek under one arm and the Roman under the other,holding them as in a vice. Then with a terrific effort he tore them bothfrom the ground, carried them writhing and kicking round the arena, andfinally walking up to the Emperor's throne, threw his two athletes downin front of him. Then, bowing to Caesar, the huge Barbarian withdrew, andlaid his great bulk down among the ranks of the applauding soldiers,whence he watched with stolid unconcern the conclusion of the sports.

  It was still daylight, when the last event had been decided, and thesoldiers returned to the camp. The Emperor Severus had ordered hishorse, and in the company of Crassus, his favourite prefect, rode downthe winding pathway which skirts the Harpessus, chatting over the futuredispersal of the army. They had ridden for some miles when Severus,glancing behind him, was surprised to see a huge figure which trottedlightly along at the very heels of his horse.

  "Surely this is Mercury as well as Hercules that we have found among theThracian mountains," said he with a smile. "Let us see how soon ourSyrian horses can out-distance him."

  The two Romans broke into a gallop, and did not draw rein until a goodmile had been covered at the full pace of their splendid chargers. Thenthey turned and looked back; but there, some distance off, still runningwith a lightness and a spring which spoke of iron muscles andinexhaustible endurance, came the great Barbarian. The Roman Emperorwaited until the athlete had come up to them.

  "Why do you follow me?" he asked.

  "It is my hope, Caesar, that I may always follow you." His flushed faceas he spoke was almost level with that of the mounted Roman.

  "By the god of war, I do not know where in all the world I could findsuch a servant!" cried the Emperor. "You shall be my own body-guard,the one nearest to me of all."

  The giant fell upon his knee. "My life and strength are yours," he said."I ask no more than to spend them for Caesar."

  Crassus had interpreted this short dialogue. He now turned to theEmperor.

  "If he is indeed to be always at your call, Caesar, it would be well togive the poor Barbarian some name which your lips can frame. Theckla isas uncouth and craggy a word as one of his native rocks."

  The Emperor pondered for a moment. "If I am to have the naming of him,"said he, "then surely I shall call him Maximus, for there is not such agiant upon earth."

  "Hark you," said the Prefect. "The Emperor has deigned to give you aRoman name, since you have come into his service. Henceforth you are nolonger Theckla, but you are Maximus. Can you say it after me?"

  "Maximin," repeated the Barbarian, trying to catch the Roman word.

  The Emperor laughed at the mincing accent. "Yes, yes, Maximin let it be.To all the world you are Maximin, the body-guard of Severus. When wehave reached Rome, we will soon see that your dress shall correspondwith your office. Meanwhile march with the guard until you have myfurther orders."

  * * * * *

  So it came about that as the Roman army resumed its march next day, andleft behind it the fair valley of the Harpessus, a huge recruit, clad inbrown leather, with a rude sheep-skin floating from his shoulders,marched beside the Imperial troop. But far away in the wooden farmhouseof a distant Macedonian valley two old country folk wept salt tears, andprayed to the gods for the safety of their boy who had turned his faceto Rome.

  II: THE RISE OF GIANT MAXIMIN

  Exactly twenty-five years had passed since the day that Theckla the hugeThracian peasant had turned into Maximin the Roman guardsman. They hadnot been good years for Rome. Gone for ever were the great Imperial daysof the Hadrians and the Trajans. Gone also the golden age of the twoAntonines, when the highest were for once the most worthy and mostwise. It had been an epoch of weak and cruel men. Severus, the swarthyAfrican, a stark grim man had died in far away York, after fighting allthe winter with the Caledonian Highlanders--a race who have ever sinceworn the martial garb of the Romans. His son, known only by hisslighting nickname of Caracalla, had reigned during six years of insanelust and cruelty, before the knife of an angry soldier avenged thedignity of the Roman name. The nonentity Macrinus had filled thedangerous throne for a single year before he also met a bloody end, andmade room for the most grotesque of all monarchs, the unspeakableHeliogabalus with his foul mind and his painted face. He in turn was cutto pieces by the soldiers; and Severus Alexander, a gentle youth, scarceseventeen years of age, had been thrust into his place. For thirteenyears now he had ruled, striving with some success to put some virtueand stability into the rotting Empire, but raising many fierce enemiesas he did so--enemies whom he had not the strength nor the wit to holdin check.

  And Giant Maximin--what of him? He had carried his eight feet of manhoodthrough the lowlands of Scotland and the passes of the Grampians. Hehad seen Severus pass away, and had soldiered with his son. He hadfought in Armenia, in Dacia, and in Germany. They had made him acenturion upon the field when with his hands he plucked out one by onethe stockades of a northern village, and so cleared a path for thestormers. His strength had been the jest and the admiration of thesoldiers. Legends about him had spread through the army, and were thecommon gossip round the camp fires--of his duel with the German axe-manon the Island of the Rhine, and of the blow with his fist that broke theleg of a Scythian's horse. Gradually he had won his way upwards, untilnow, after quarter of a century's service, he was tribune of the fourthlegion and superintendent of recruits for the whole army. The youngsoldier who had come under the glare of Maximin's eyes, or had beenlifted up with one huge hand while he was cuffed by the other, had hisfirst lesson from him in the discipline of the service.

  It was nightfall in the camp of the fourth legion upon the Gallic shoreof the Rhine. Across the moonlit water, amid the thick forests whichstretched away to the dim horizon, lay the wild untamed German tribes.Down on the river bank the light gleamed upon the helmets of the Romansentinels who kept guard along the river. Far away a red point rose andfell in the darkness--a watch-fire of the enemy upon the further shore.

  Outside his tent, beside some smouldering logs, Giant Maximin wasseated, a dozen of his officers around him. He had changed much sincethe day when we first met him in the Valley of the Harpessus. His hugeframe was as erect as ever, and there was no sign of diminution of hisstrength. But he had aged none the less. The yellow tangle of hair wasgone, worn down by the ever-pressing helmet. The fresh young face wasdrawn and hardened, with austere lines wrought by trouble and privation.The nose was more hawk-like, the eyes more cunning, the expression morecynical and more sinister. In his youth, a child would have run to hisarms. Now it would shrink screaming from his gaze. That was whattwenty-five years with the eagles had done for Theckla the Thrac
ianpeasant.

  He was listening now--for he was a man of few words--to the chatter ofhis centurions. One of them, Balbus the Sicilian, had been to the maincamp at Mainz, only four miles away, and had seen the Emperor Alexanderarrive that very day from Rome. The rest were eager at the news, for itwas a time of unrest, and the rumour of great changes was in the air.

  "How many had he with him?" asked Labienus, a black-browed veteran fromthe south of Gaul. "I'll wager a month's pay that he was not so trustfulas to come alone among his faithful legions."

  "He had no great force," replied Balbus. "Ten or twelve cohorts of thePraetorians and a handful of horse."

  "Then indeed his head is in the lion's mouth," cried Sulpicius, ahot-headed youth from the African Pentapolis. "How was he received?"

  "Coldly enough. There was scarce a shout as he came down the line."

  "They are ripe for mischief," said Labienus. "And who can wonder, whenit is we soldiers who uphold the Empire upon our spears, while the lazycitizens at Rome reap all of our sowing. Why cannot a soldier have whatthe soldier gains? So long as they throw us our denarius a day, theythink that they have done with us."

  "Aye," croaked a grumbling old greybeard. "Our limbs, our blood, ourlives--what do they care so long as the Barbarians are held off, andthey are left in peace to their feastings and their circus? Free bread,free wine, free games--everything for the loafer at Rome. For us thefrontier guard and a soldier's fare."

  Maximin gave a deep laugh. "Old Plancus talks like that," said he; "butwe know that for all the world he would not change his steel plate for acitizen's gown. You've earned the kennel, old hound, if you wish it. Goand gnaw your bone and growl in peace."

  "Nay, I am too old for change. I will follow the eagle till I die. Andyet I had rather die in serving a soldier master than a long-gownedSyrian who comes of a stock where the women are men and the men arewomen."

  There was a laugh from the circle of soldiers, for sedition and mutinywere rife in the camp, and even the old centurion's outbreak could notdraw a protest. Maximin raised his great mastiff head and looked atBalbus.

  "Was any name in the mouths of the soldiers?" he asked in a meaningvoice.

  There was a hush for the answer. The sigh of the wind among the pinesand the low lapping of the river swelled out louder in the silence.Balbus looked hard at his commander.

  "Two names were whispered from rank to rank," said he. "One was AsceniusPollio, the General. The other was----"

  The fiery Sulpicius sprang to his feet waving a glowing brand above hishead.

  "Maximinus!" he yelled. "Imperator Maximinus Augustus!"

  Who could tell how it came about? No one had thought of it an hourbefore. And now it sprang in an instant to full accomplishment. Theshout of the frenzied young African had scarcely rung through thedarkness when from the tents, from the watch-fires, from the sentries,the answer came pealing back: "Ave Maximinus! Ave Maximinus Augustus!"From all sides men came rushing, half-clad, wild-eyed, their eyesstaring, their mouths agape, flaming wisps of straw or flaring torchesabove their heads. The giant was caught up by scores of hands, and satenthroned upon the bull-necks of the legionaries. "To the camp!" theyyelled. "To the camp! Hail! Hail to the soldier Caesar!"

  That same night Severus Alexander, the young Syrian Emperor, walkedoutside his Praetorian camp, accompanied by his friend Licinius Probus,the Captain of the Guard. They were talking gravely of the gloomy facesand seditious bearing of the soldiers. A great foreboding of evilweighed heavily upon the Emperor's heart, and it was reflected upon thestern bearded face of his companion.

  "I like it not," said he. "It is my counsel, Caesar, that with the firstlight of morning we make our way south once more."

  "But surely," the Emperor answered, "I could not for shame turn my backupon the danger. What have they against me? How have I harmed them thatthey should forget their vows and rise upon me?"

  "They are like children who ask always for something new. You heard themurmur as you rode along the ranks. Nay, Caesar, fly to-morrow, and yourPraetorians will see that you are not pursued. There may be some loyalcohorts among the legions, and if we join forces----"

  A distant shout broke in upon their conversation--a low continued roar,like the swelling tumult of a sweeping wave. Far down the road uponwhich they stood there twinkled many moving lights, tossing and sinkingas they rapidly advanced, whilst the hoarse tumultuous bellowing brokeinto articulate words, the same tremendous words, a thousand-foldrepeated. Licinius seized the Emperor by the wrist and dragged him underthe cover of some bushes.

  "Be still, Caesar! For your life be still!" he whispered. "One word andwe are lost!"

  Crouching in the darkness, they saw that wild procession pass, therushing, screaming figures, the tossing arms, the bearded, distortedfaces, now scarlet and now grey, as the brandished torches waxed orwaned. They heard the rush of many feet, the clamour of hoarse voices,the clang of metal upon metal. And then suddenly, above them all, theysaw a vision of a monstrous man, a huge bowed back, a savage face, grimhawk eyes, that looked out over the swaying shields. It was seen for aninstant in a smoke-fringed circle of fire, and then it had swept on intothe night.

  "Who is he?" stammered the Emperor, clutching at his guardsman's sleeve."They call him Caesar."

  "It is surely Maximin the Thracian peasant." In the darkness thePraetorian officer looked with strange eyes at his master.

  "It is all over, Caesar. Let us fly together to your tent."

  But even as they went a second shout had broken forth tenfold louderthan the first. If the one had been the roar of the oncoming wave, theother was the full turmoil of the tempest. Twenty thousand voices fromthe camp had broken into one wild shout which echoed through the night,until the distant Germans round their watch-fires listened in wonder andalarm.

  "Ave!" cried the voices. "Ave Maximinus Augustus!"

  High upon their bucklers stood the giant, and looked round him at thegreat floor of up-turned faces below. His own savage soul was stirred bythe clamour, but only his gleaming eyes spoke of the fire within. Hewaved his hand to the shouting soldiers as the huntsman waves to theleaping pack. They passed him up a coronet of oak leaves, and clashedtheir swords in homage as he placed it on his head. And then there camea swirl in the crowd before him, a little space was cleared, and thereknelt an officer in the Praetorian garb, blood upon his face, blood uponhis bared forearm, blood upon his naked sword. Licinius too had gonewith the tide.

  "Hail, Caesar, hail!" he cried, as he bowed his head before the giant. "Icome from Alexander. He will trouble you no more."

  III: THE FALL OF GIANT MAXIMIN

  For three years the soldier Emperor had been upon the throne. His palacehad been his tent, and his people had been the legionaries. With them hewas supreme; away from them he was nothing. He had gone with them fromone frontier to the other. He had fought against Dacians, Sarmatians,and once again against the Germans. But Rome knew nothing of him, andall her turbulence rose against a master who cared so little for her orher opinion that he never deigned to set foot within her walls. Therewere cabals and conspiracies against the absent Caesar. Then his heavyhand fell upon them, and they were cuffed, even as the young soldiershad been who passed under his discipline. He knew nothing, and cared asmuch for consuls, senates, and civil laws. His own will and the power ofthe sword were the only forces which he could understand. Of commerceand the arts he was as ignorant as when he left his Thracian home. Thewhole vast Empire was to him a huge machine for producing the money bywhich the legions were to be rewarded. Should he fail to get that money,his fellow soldiers would bear him a grudge. To watch their intereststhey had raised him upon their shields that night. If city funds had tobe plundered or temples desecrated, still the money must be got. Suchwas the point of view of Giant Maximin.

  But there came resistance, and all the fierce energy of the man, all thehardness which had given him the leadership of hard men, sprang forth toquell it. From his youth he had lived amidst slaugh
ter. Life and deathwere cheap things to him. He struck savagely at all who stood up tohim, and when they hit back, he struck more savagely still. His giantshadow lay black across the Empire from Britain to Syria. A strangesubtle vindictiveness became also apparent in him. Omnipotence ripenedevery fault and swelled it into crime. In the old days he had beenrebuked for his roughness. Now a sullen, dangerous anger rose againstthose who had rebuked him. He sat by the hour with his craggy chinbetween his hands, and his elbows resting on his knees, while herecalled all the misadventures, all the vexations of his early youth,when Roman wits had shot their little satires upon his bulk and hisignorance. He could not write, but his son Verus placed the names uponhis tablets, and they were sent to the Governor of Rome. Men who hadlong forgotten their offence were called suddenly to make most bloodyreparation.

  A rebellion broke out in Africa, but was quelled by his lieutenant. Butthe mere rumour of it set Rome in a turmoil. The Senate found somethingof its ancient spirit. So did the Italian people. They would not be forever bullied by the legions. As Maximin approached from the frontier,with the sack of rebellious Rome in his mind, he was faced with everysign of a national resistance. The country-side was deserted, the farmsabandoned, the fields cleared of crops and cattle. Before him lay thewalled town of Aquileia. He flung himself fiercely upon it, but was metby as fierce a resistance. The walls could not be forced, and yet therewas no food in the country round for his legions. The men were starvingand dissatisfied. What did it matter to them who was Emperor? Maximinwas no better than themselves. Why should they call down the curse ofthe whole Empire upon their heads by upholding him? He saw their sullenfaces and their averted eyes, and he knew that the end had come.

  That night he sat with his son Verus in his tent, and he spoke softlyand gently as the youth had never heard him speak before. He had spokenthus in old days with Paullina, the boy's mother; but she had been deadthese many years, and all that was soft and gentle in the big man hadpassed away with her. Now her spirit seemed very near him, and his ownwas tempered by its presence.

  "I would have you go back to the Thracian mountains," he said. "I havetried both, boy, and I can tell you that there is no pleasure whichpower can bring which can equal the breath of the wind and the smell ofthe kine upon a summer morning. Against you they have no quarrel. Whyshould they mishandle you? Keep far from Rome and the Romans. OldEudoxus has money, and to spare. He awaits you with two horses outsidethe camp. Make for the valley of the Harpessus, lad. It was thence thatyour father came, and there you will find his kin. Buy and stock ahomestead, and keep yourself far from the paths of greatness and ofdanger. God keep you, Verus, and send you safe to Thrace."

  When his son had kissed his hand and had left him, the Emperor drew hisrobe around him and sat long in thought. In his slow brain he revolvedthe past--his early peaceful days, his years with Severus, his memoriesof Britain, his long campaigns, his strivings and battlings, all leadingto that mad night by the Rhine. His fellow soldiers had loved him then.And now he had read death in their eyes. How had he failed them? Othershe might have wronged, but they at least had no complaint against him.If he had his time again, he would think less of them and more of hispeople, he would try to win love instead of fear, he would live forpeace and not for war. If he had his time again! But there wereshuffling steps, furtive whispers, and the low rattle of arms outsidehis tent. A bearded face looked in at him, a swarthy African face thathe knew well. He laughed, and baring his arm, he took his sword from thetable beside him.

  "It is you, Sulpicius," said he. "You have not come to cry 'AveImperator Maximin!' as once by the camp fire. You are tired of me, andby the gods I am tired of you, and glad to be at the end of it. Come andhave done with it, for I am minded to see how many of you I can takewith me when I go."

  They clustered at the door of the tent, peeping over each other'sshoulders, and none wishing to be the first to close with that laughing,mocking giant. But something was pushed forward upon a spear point, andas he saw it, Maximin groaned and his sword sank to the earth.

  "You might have spared the boy," he sobbed. "He would not have hurtyou. Have done with it then, for I will gladly follow him."

  So they closed upon him and cut and stabbed and thrust, until his kneesgave way beneath him and he dropped upon the floor.

  "The tyrant is dead!" they cried. "The tyrant is dead," and from all thecamp beneath them and from the walls of the beleaguered city the joyouscry came echoing back, "He is dead, Maximin is dead!"

  * * * * *

  I sit in my study, and upon the table before me lies a denarius ofMaximin, as fresh as when the triumvir of the Temple of Juno Moneta sentit from the mint. Around it are recorded his resoundingtitles--Imperator Maximinus, Pontifex Maximus, Tribunitia potestate, andthe rest. In the centre is the impress of a great craggy head, a massivejaw, a rude fighting face, a contracted forehead. For all the pompousroll of titles it is a peasant's face, and I see him not as the Emperorof Rome, but as the great Thracian boor who strode down the hill-side onthat far-distant summer day when first the eagles beckoned him to Rome.