‘Marcellus taught him about all he knows,’ Antonia remarked, gratefully, as if Diana should be thanked too for this favor.
‘He should have been a sculptor,’ said Diana, ‘instead of a soldier.’
‘Right!’ declared Antony. ‘He detests fighting!’
‘But not because he doesn’t know how to fight,’ Diana hastened to say. ‘Marcellus is known to be one of the most expert swordsmen in Rome.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Kaeso. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he had any interest in dangerous sports. He never discussed such things with us.’
‘Once I asked him if he had ever killed anybody,’ put in Antony, ‘and it made him awfully unhappy. He said he didn’t want to talk about it.’
Diana’s face had suddenly lost its animation, and Antony knew he had blundered upon a painful subject. His embarrassment increased when his father said to her, ‘Perhaps you know.’
Without raising her eyes, Diana nodded and gave a little sigh.
‘Do you like horses?’ asked Kaeso, sensing the need of a new topic.
‘Yes, sir,' replied Diana, obviously preoccupied. Glancing from one to another, she went on: ‘Perhaps we should not leave it—just that way. It wouldn't be quite fair to Marcellus. A couple of years ago he was ordered to put a man to death—and it turned out that the man was innocent of any crime, and had been held in high esteem by many people. He has grieved over it.’
‘He would!’ sympathized Antonia. There never was a more gentle or generous person; always trying to do things for other people.’
Appius Kaeso, eager to lift Diana’s depression, seemed anxious to talk about Marcellus’ popularity in Arpino. Soon he was pleased to observe that she was listening attentively, her eyes misty as he elaborated on the many kindnesses Marcellus had done, even giving him full credit for the new swimming-pool.
‘He was a crafty fellow,’ chuckled Kaeso. ‘He would trap you into doing things like that, and then pretend it was your own idea. Of course—that was to make you feel good, so you would want to do something else for the people—on your own hook.’
Antony, amazed by his father’s admissions, covertly sought the surprised eyes of his pretty mother, and gave her a slow wink that tightened her lips in a warning not to risk a comment.
‘Marcellus certainly was an unusual fellow,’ continued Kaeso. ‘It was easy to see that he had had every advantage and had lived well, but he used to go down into the melon fields and work alongside those people as if they were his own sort: and how they loved itl Every evening, out here on the green, they would gather about him and he would tell them stories about this man Jesus—from up in the Jews’ country somewhere—who went about performing all manner of strange miracles. But he must have told you about this man, Diana.’
‘Yes,’ she nodded, soberly. ‘He told me.’
‘They put him to death,’ said Antonia.
‘And Marcellus insists he came to life again,’ said Kaeso, ‘though I’m sure there was some mistake about that.’
Antony, who had dropped out of the conversation, and apparently wasn’t hearing a word of it—to judge from his wide-eyed, vacant stare—had attracted his mother’s attention. Kaeso and Diana instinctively followed her perplexed eyes.
‘What are you thinking about, boy?’ Kaeso wanted his question to sound playful.
Ignoring his father’s inquiry, Antony turned to Diana.
‘Do you know who crucified that Galilean?’ he asked, earnestly.
‘Yes,’ admitted Diana.
‘Do I know?’
Diana nodded, and Antony brought his first down hard on the table.
‘Now it all makes sense!’ he declared. ‘Marcellus killed this man who had spent his life doing kind things for needy people—and the only way he can square up for it is to spend his life that way!’ Antony’s voice was unsteady. ‘He can’t help himself! He has to make things right with this Jesus!’
Appius and Antonia speechlessly regarded their son with a new interest.
‘Yes—but that isn’t quite all, Antony,’ said Diana. ‘Marcellus thinks this man is in the world to remain forever; believes there is to be a new government ruled by men of good will; no more fighting; no more stealing—’
‘That’s a noble thought, Diana,’ interposed Kaeso. ‘Who doesn’t long for peace? Who wouldn’t be glad to see good men rule? Nothing new about that wish. Indeed—any kind of government would be better than ours! But it’s absurd to hope for such a thing, and a man as bright as Marcellus ought to know it! He is throwing his life away!’
‘Maybe not!’ protested Antony. ‘Maybe this Jesus didn’t throw his life away! If we’re ever to have a better world—well—it has to begin sometime—somewhere—hasn’t it? Maybe it has begun now! What do you think, Diana?’
‘I—don’t—know, Antony.’ Diana put both hands over her eyes and shook her head. ‘All I know is—I wish it hadn’t happened.’
***
When three weeks had passed uneventfully, Diana began to wonder whether it might not now be safe for her to proceed to Rome. Perhaps the young Emperor had forgotten his grievance and had given up searching for her. Kaeso was not so optimistic.
‘Little Boots has been much occupied,’ he said. ‘What with the funeral of old Tiberius, his own coronation, and the festal week, he hasn’t had much time to think about anything else. Moreover, his legionaries have all been on duty in the processions and at the games. But he will not forget you. Better wait a little while longer.’
Antonia had slipped an arm around Diana affectionately.
‘You can see that Appius wants to keep you here, dear, as long as possible—and so do Antony and I.’
Diana knew that. Their hospitality had been boundless. She had come to love Antonia, and young Antony’s attitude toward her had been but little short of worship.
‘You have all been so kind,’ she said. ‘But my mother will be dreadfully worried. Naturally they would go first to her seeking information about me. All she knows is that I escaped from Capri in a little boat. I can’t even send her a message, for the guards would trace it back to Arpino.’
Sometimes in the evening Demetrius, who was working in the vineyard and lodging with Vobiscus, would come to inquire. Diana would tell him to be patient, but she knew he was consumed with restlessness and anxious to rejoin Marcellus.
One night at dinner, Kaeso had seemed so preoccupied that Diana felt something had happened. When they returned to the atrium, Vobiscus was found waiting with a note for her. It had been hastily written—in Greek. Demetrius was just leaving for Rome, hoping to find his master.
‘My presence here only adds to your danger,’ he wrote. ‘Kaeso approves my going. He has been most generous. Follow his advice. Do not try to communicate with your home. I shall see your mother if possible.’
Vobiscus had tarried near the open doorway to the peristyle, and Diana went to him. Had Demetrius left on foot—or was he driving the donkey?
‘He rode one of the master’s fast horses,’ said Vobiscus, ‘and wore an outfit of the master’s clothing.’
Diana rejoined the family seated about the fountain. Their voices were low. She felt they had been discussing her problem.
‘You were very kind to Demetrius,’ she said, softly. ‘I hope you know how deeply I appreciate what you have done for him—and for me—and Marcellus.’
Kaeso flipped a negligent gesture, but his eyes were troubled.
‘The Greek was not safe here,’ he said, soberly, indeed, nobody is any longer safe anywhere! Two of our carters returned this afternoon from Rome. The city is in disorder. Drunken mobs of vandals have been looting the shops and assaulting respectable citizens. The Emperor pretends to believe that the Christians have a hand in it, and they are being thrown into prison and whipped.’
The color left Diana’s cheeks.
‘I wonder how Marcellus is faring,’ she said. ‘He would do so little to protect himself.’
‘Our men say
that the search for your Greek has become active again,’ said Kaeso—‘and for you, too, Diana. It appears that Demetrius is wanted on an old charge of having assaulted a Tribune. He is to be taken, dead or alive. As for you, the Emperor pretends to be concerned about your safety. The rumor is that the Greek slave made off with you, and Caligula wants you to be found.’
‘Poor Demetrius!’ murmured Diana. 'What chance will he have, with so many looking for him?’
‘Well—he knows his life is worth nothing if they catch him,’ said Kaeso, grimly. ‘He will make them earn their reward: you may be sure of that!’
‘Was he armed?’ wondered Diana.
‘Nothing but a dagger,’ said Kaeso.
‘Appius is posting sentries at elevated points on our two highways,’ said Antonia. ‘The sight of legionaries approaching will be their signal to speed back here and report.’
‘When they were here before,’ said Kaeso, ‘they searched the villa thoroughly, but never so much as turned their heads to inquire among the laborers. They would not expect to find the daughter of Legate Gallus working in a vineyard.’
‘Why—that is just the place for me, then!’ exclaimed Diana.
Antonia and Appius exchanged glances.
‘Appius hesitated to suggest it,’ said Antonia.
‘It might be fun,’ said Diana.
‘Early in the morning, then,’ said Kaeso, relieved. ‘Antonia will find you suitable clothing. I wish there were some other way to hide you, Diana—but you are not safe here in the villa. It is possible that if they found you they might treat you with every consideration; but it's the Emperor’s doings—and everything he does is evil!’
***
About two hours after midnight, old Lentius—dead asleep on his pallet of straw in the corner of a vacant box-stall—came suddenly awake and rose up on both elbows to listen. Bambo, who always slept beside him, was listening sharply, too—and growling ominously.
From outside in the stable-yard came the sound of sandals and hoofs. Someone was leading a horse. Lentius took down his dim lantern from its peg and unfastened the door. Bambo scurried out with savage threats, but in an instant was barking joyfully. Lentius trudged after him, holding the lantern high.
‘No, no—Bambo!’ came a weary voice. ‘Make him shut up, Lentius. He’ll rouse the house.’
‘Demetrius!’ The bent old man peered up into a haggard face.
‘Rub this horse down, Lentius. I’ve abused him. Careful about the water. He’s very hot.’ Demetrius patted the sagging head sympathetically.
‘Bring him in here.’ Lentius led the way into his bedchamber. ‘They’ve been hunting you!’ he said, in a husky whisper, as he closed the door. ‘See here! This horse has been hurt! There’s blood all over his shoulder and down his leg!’
‘That’s mine,’ mumbled Demetrius, stripping his shoulder bare. ‘I was being pursued by three cavalrymen—out on the Via Appia—about five miles. I outdistanced two of them, but one overtook me, and nicked me with his sword while I was dragging him out of his saddle. Find me some water, Lentius, and a bandage.’
The old slave examined the deep cut and drew a hissing breath through his lips.
‘That’s a bad one!’ he muttered. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Your tunic is soaked. Look at your sandall You’d better lie down over there!’
‘I believe I will,’ said Demetrius, weakly, tumbling down on the pallet. Lentius was hovering over him with a basin of water and a sponge. Bambo sniffed inquisitively and turned away to lick the horse’s foreleg. ‘Lentius—has Tribune Marcellus been here lately?’
Lentius stopped laving the wound—and stared.
‘The Tribune! Hadn’t you heard? He’s been dead—these three months or more! Drowned himself in the sea—poor young master!’
‘Lentius, you were fond of the young master, and he liked you. ‘I’m going to trust you with a secret. Now—you’re not to repeat this to anybody! Understand? The Tribune is alive—here in Rome.’
‘No!’ exulted the old man. ‘Why doesn’t he come home?’
‘He will—some day. Lentius—I wonder if you could wake up Marcipor without tearing the house down.’
‘It would be easier to awaken Decimus. He is on the first floor.’
‘I don’t want Decimus. Here—let me up. I’ll go myself.’ Demetrius made an effort to rise, but slumped down again, i’m weaker than I thought,’ he admitted. ‘See if you can get Marcipor. Throw something into his room, and when he comes to the window tell him you want him. Don’t speak my name. And ask him to bring some bandages. This isn’t going to do any good. Give that horse another drink of water now. Go away—Bambo!’
Marcipor arrived presently, much excited and out of breath, trailed by old Lentius.
‘You’re badly hurt, my sonl’ he murmured. ‘We must send for the physician.’
‘No, Marcipor,’ objected Demetrius, i’d rather take my chances with this sword-wound than risk having my head cut off.... Lentius, if you have another vacant stall, take this friendly horse away and clean him up. And you might take the dog, too. Marcipor will look after me.’
Reluctantly, old Lentius led out the tired horse, Bambo following dutifully. Marcipor fastened the door and knelt down in the straw close to Demetrius. He began bandaging the cut.
‘You’re in danger!’ he said, in a trembling voice.
‘Not for the moment. Tell me, Marcipor—what’s the news? Have you seen anything of Marcellus?’
‘He is in the Catacombs.’
‘Weird place to hide!’
‘Not so bad as you’d think. The Christians have been stocking it with provisions for months. More than a hundred men down there now; the ones who have been identified and are being hunted.’
‘They’ll be caught like hares in a trap—when the patrols discover where they are.’
‘No—it won’t be so easy as that,’ said Marcipor. ‘There are miles of confusing tunnels in that old hideout. The legionaries will not be anxious to go down single-file into that dark hole. They know the old stories about searching parties who went into the Catacombs to hunt fugitive Jews—and never found their way out.... How does it feel, Demetrius? Is that too tight?’
There was no answer. Marcipor laid his ear against Demetrius’ bared chest, listened, shook him gently, called him in a frightened voice, splashed water in his face; but without response. For an instant he stood irresolute, desperate; then ran panting toward the house, wondering whom he should call for help. Gallio, in his nightclothes, was descending the stairs as Marcipor rushed through the atrium.
‘What is the commotion about, Marcipor?’ he demanded.
‘It’s Demetrius, sir!’ cried Marcipor. ‘He is wounded—dying—out here in the stable!’
‘Have you sent for the physician?’ asked Gallio, leading the way with long strides.
‘No, sir—he did not want a physician. He is in hiding.’
‘Put one of the servants on a horse—instantly—and summon Sarpedon. And find help to carry Demetrius into the house. He shall not die in a stable—like a dog!’
Lentius was holding up the lantern for him as Gallio hurried into the stall. ‘Demetrius!’ he called. ‘Demetrius!’
The sunken eyes slowly opened and Demetrius drew a painful sigh.
‘At—your—service, sir.’ His white lips moved clumsily.
‘Attention!’ barked Gallio, surveying the wide-eyed group that had crowded about the door. Take him up carefully and bring him to the house. Put him in Marcellus’ room, Marcipor. Get him out of these soiled garments and wrap him in heated blankets.’
There was a little excitement in the stable-yard as one of the younger slaves made off at a gallop for Sarpedon. A half-dozen grooms and gardeners gathered about the straw pallet and raised it gently.
‘You should have called me at once, Marcipor!’ said Gallio, sternly, as they followed toward the house. ‘Am I then known among you to be so heartless I must not be told when a loyal serv
ant is sick unto death?’
‘It was difficult to know what to do,’ stammered Marcipor. ‘He is being hunted down. He would not have come here, sir, but he wanted to inquire about his master.’
‘Meaning me?’ Gallio halted abruptly in Marcipor’s path.
‘Meaning Marcellus, sir.’
‘But—had he not heard?’
‘He thinks Marcellus is still alive, sir.’ Marcipor’s voice was weak. ‘Demetrius believes that his master is here—in Rome.’ They moved past the slaves, shuffling along with their burden, and mounted the steps.
‘You told him the truth?’ asked Gallio, dejectedly.
‘That is the truth, sir,’ confessed Marcipor. He put out a hand to steady Gallio, whose face was working convulsively.
‘Why have I not been told this?’ he demanded, hoarsely.
‘Marcellus is a Christian, sir. They are being closely watched. He did not want to endanger the family by coming home.’
‘Where is he, Marcipor?’ Gallio was climbing the stairs, slowly, a very old man clutching at the balustrade.
‘In the Catacombs, sir,’ whispered Marcipor.
“What? My son? Down in those old caves with a rabble of brawlers and looters?’
‘Not rabble, sir!’ disputed Marcipor, recklessly. ‘Not brawlers! Not looters! They are honest men of peace—hiding from a cruel idiot who calls himself an Emperor!’
‘Quiet, Marcipor!’ commanded Gallio, in a husky whisper, as they passed the apartment of Lucia—at home for a few days while Tullus was on special duty. ‘How can we get word to my son?’
‘It will jeopardize the household, sir, if Marcellus is trailed here.’
‘Never mind that! Send for him!’
The slaves had deposited Demetrius on his bed now and were filing out of the room.
‘Hold your tongues—about this!’ warned Marcipor. He was closing the door on them when Tertia appeared, much frightened.
‘What has happened, Marcipor?’ She glanced into the room, gave a smothered cry, and dashed through the doorway, throwing herself down on her knees beside the bed. ‘Oh—what have they done to you?’ she moaned. ‘Demetrius!’
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