‘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 onl 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, Tie 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 wi
th 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 mel—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 mel 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!
Chapter III
AFTER the tipsy little ship had staggered down past the Lapari Islands in the foulest weather of the year, and had tacked gingerly through the perilous Strait of Messina, a smooth sea and a favorable breeze so eased Captain Manius’ vigilance that he was available for a leisurely chat.
‘Tell me something about Minoa,’ urged Marcellus, after Manius had talked at considerable length about his many voyages: Ostia to Palermo and back, Ostia to Crete, to Alexandria, to Joppa.
Manius laughed, down deep in his whiskers.
‘You'll find, sir, that there is no such place as Minoa.’ And when Marcellus’ stare invited an explanation, the swarthy navigator gave his passenger a lesson in history, some little of which he already knew.
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