V.
TEMPTATION.
The night was already far spent, and the Roman camp slept on, secure inall its grim array; silent, but for the tread of the patrols, as theypaced the streets and exchanged the watchword, post with post, or butfor the clang of sword upon greave, or shield against cuirass, as somesentry at gate, rampart or praetorium shifted his arms in weary waitingfor the day.
Far up in the heavens the moon shone silvery and serene, while here andthere upon the plain below swaying points of light seemed to move,flicker, go out, and rekindle again. No Roman watcher but knew wellthat play of moonlight upon the heads of the reedlike spears with whichthe ancient cavalry of the legion were equipped--weapons which,together with their ox-hide bucklers, were being gradually supersededby the heavier Greek accoutrements. Yes, and had not the word passedfrom the guard at the praetorian gate, how a tribune and five turmae ofthe fourth legion had ridden out on the service of the dictator?
Earlier in the night, those who listened closely had heard a low humthat seemed to pervade the air, rising and falling like the dull glowin the west that told of the fluctuant watch-fires of the hostile camp.Now the noises had died away, as in the distance, and the light thathad flashed up a few hours since hardly tinted the clouds. It is onlythe old soldier who can read the signs of a decamping foe, who knowshow the fagots must be heaped at the moment of departure, so that thedeserted fires may burn until the morning, whose quick ear catches andrecognizes the indefinite noises of a host moving in secret. All thesethings were, and old campaigners among the legionaries at the gate hadread them aright. Messenger after messenger hurried to the praetorium,and returned with word that the dictator slept, "having taken allneeded measures," and how the master-of-the-horse paced up and downbefore his tent, grinding his teeth, clenching his hands, and mutteringcurses upon patrician cowardice and imbecility.
Meanwhile, Lucius Sergius rode on through the night, with Marcus Deciusat his side, and the troop of horse trailing out across the plainbehind them.
"It is silent, master," said the decurion, but his attitude, as heleaned forward over his horse's neck, was rather of one trying to smellthan to listen. "The pulse-eaters sleep deeply." He watched Sergiusfrom under half-closed lids, waiting to be contradicted, that he mightmeasure his officer's warcraft.
Sergius smiled. "Perhaps they are even wider awake than ourselves," hesaid, drawing rein. Then, as the other nodded several times insatisfied acquiescence, he brought his horse to his haunches a stridebeyond, and added: "It was the dictator who said we should find theirlair empty, and, though I do not question his judgment, it will be wellto send on a few who shall spy out the fact, and see whether there benot Numidians lurking among the huts."
So, slowly and cautiously, they pushed forward again, with riders inadvance, until a shout gave notice that the way was indeed clear, andthey rode through the open gate of the rampart and along the silentstreet of the deserted camp.
Nothing was about them save dismantled huts, for the most part mereburrows with roofs of interlaced boughs that were now smoking amid theashes of the fires. Not a sign of disorder, nor even of the rapiditywith which so great an army had been moved; not a scale of armour leftbehind--only the insufferable stench of a barbarian camp, of offal andrefuse piled or scattered about, of dead beasts and of dead men--thesick and wounded who had yielded to sword or disease during the lastfew days.
It was with a sense of relief that the cavalcade emerged from theshadows of the huts and began to mount the rising ground beyond. Themoon, too, had grown faint, and the gray mists of the morning werelying along the lower levels. Sounds, mingled and far ahead, told ofthe presence of a marching host, and Sergius led his troop on a moreoblique course to gain the flank of the foe and lessen the chances ofdetection and ambuscade.
It was not stirring work for a soldier--the days that followed; neverattacking, always guarding against discovery and surprise, viewingslaughter and devastation that duty and weakness alike made himpowerless to prevent or punish, sending courier after courier to hisgeneral to tell of the enemies' march or of stragglers and foragers tobe crushed in the jaws of the army that enveloped the invader's rear.Thus the war passed through Apulia, over the Apennines, down into theold Samnite lands, past Beneventum that closed its gates and mournedover its devastated fields, on across the Volturnus, descending at lastinto the Falernian plain, the glory of Campania, the Paradise ofItalian wealth and luxury.
During all these days Sergius had grown thinner and browner. Littlefurrows had been ploughed between the eyes that must pierce every ridgeand thicket for the glint of javelins and the wild faces of thebridleless riders of the desert. From time to time news of devastatorscut to pieces brought a fierce joy to his heart; from time to time hedreamt he saw the eagles of the Republic hovering upon the heightsabove, ready to stoop and strike and save the allied lands from trialsgreater than they could bear; but of Marcia, scarce a waking thought.Surely the man he now was had never reclined in peaceful halls wherewomen plied the distaff and talked about love, and of how Rabuleius,the perfume-maker of the Suburra, had just received a new essence fromArabia! That old life was all a dream, perhaps the memory of a formerexistence, as the sage of Croton had taught. There was nothing real inthe world, in these days, but fear and suffering and humiliation andrevenge. Even duty had become a mere habit that should minister togreater influences.
And now it was worst of all. Campania was a conflagration from whichrose supplications and shrieks and groans, mingled with curses againstthe cowardly ally that had left her to her fate. Still the legionsheld to the high ground, and still the black pest of Numidia swepthither and thither on its errand of murder and rapine. Even to Sergiusthe plans of the dictator began to seem but "coined lead," as MarcusDecius roughly put it. Of what avail was it that the pass at Tarracinawas blocked, that he had garrisoned Casilinum in the enemies' rear andCales upon the Latin Way, and that the sea and the Volturnus and thesteep hills with their guarded passes seemed to complete the line ofcircumvallation? Could such bonds hold one so wise as Hannibal fromthe rich cities of the plain? Unless Rome would advance her standards,were not Sinuessa and Cumae, Puteoli and Neapolis, Nuceria and Teanum,and, above all, Capua, left to fight their own battle against barbarianinsolence and barbarian power? What hope to starve out an enemyestablished in such a region and amid such affluence!
Then, too, there was less work now for Sergius, even such as it was.The enemy, wheresoever he marched, was well in view from a dozen pointsheld by the dictator, and at last word came to the tribune that heshould join the camp near Casilinum. There, at least, he would havecompanionship in shame, instead of seeming to command men and beingunwilling to lead them to fight for lands which the gods themselves haddeemed worthy of their contention.
They were near Cales when the orders were brought. Could it be thedictator's intention to give battle and avenge what he had failed tosave? By midday they were mounted and threading the forest paths thatled to their comrades--paths whence, from time to time, some vista inthe woods disclosed the plain below, with here and there a column ofsmoke that made Sergius grind his teeth and clench his hands inimpotent rage. Suddenly he drew rein, for a man, dressed in thecoarse, gray tunic of a slave, had half run, half stumbled across hisway. An instant more, and the fellow was struggling in the grasp ofDecius, who had sprung to the ground.
"What now, forkbearer! what now, delight of the scourges!" cried thedecurion. "Will you delay the march of a tribune of the Republic?"
"Pity me, master, pity me and let me go!" cried the man, still strivingvainly to escape. "Surely they are close behind me--"
"Who are behind you?" asked Sergius, sternly. "Speak and lie not, foodfor Acheron!"
"They who are burning the farm."
Sergius' eyes glittered, and he leaned forward to catch the words, ashe began to gather their import.
"Speak quickly, and you shall be safe," he said, in more reassuringtones. "Whose farm is it that i
s burning? Loose him, Marcus."
Released from the hands that held him, the fugitive seemed to waver fora moment between speech and flight. Perhaps exhaustion turned thebalance, for, still panting for breath, he threw himself on his kneesbefore Sergius' bridle and gasped:--
"My master's farm--a veteran of the first war--a centurion--theNumidians."
"Where is it? How many are there?"
The man pointed down the slope up which he had scrambled.
"I did not note their numbers, lord. Perhaps a hundred--perhaps more."
As he spoke, the sky began to brighten as with fire, and Sergius,wheeling his horse, urged him downward toward the plain. Decius was byhis side in an instant, and behind them came the cavalry at a speedthat threatened to hurl them headlong to the foot of the rockydeclivity. Joy and fury shone on the faces of the men: only MarcusDecius seemed troubled and abstracted.
"We shall be with them soon, my Marcus," cried Sergius, gayly, andthen, noting the furrowed face of his first decurion: "Surely,Trasimenus has not cooled your heart. Take courage. There is no waterhere to chill you."
Decius flushed through the deep bronze of his skin.
"It is true that there is no water here, and blows might warm my blood.It was the command of the dictator that I thought of."
They had reached the level plain now. A cluster of burning buildingshardly a mile ahead marked their goal.
"And it is you, Marcus, who have been railing at those same commands?"
"I am an old soldier, my master. I growl, but I obey."
For answer, Sergius urged on his horse with knee and thong. Now theycould distinguish dark shapes gliding hither and thither around thefires, and now they burst in upon a scene as of the orgies of demons.
Utterly unsuspicious of danger, the marauders had taken no precautions.Their wiry, little horses had been turned loose about the gardens,while the riders murdered and pillaged and ravished and destroyed. Theworst was over now. Little remained of the buildings, save clay wallscovered with plaster; dead bodies were scattered here and there; thewomen and such of the slaves as had not been slaughtered, together withthe farm stock and other things of value, were gathered beyond thereach of the fires; while, bound high upon a rude cross before his ownthreshold, the master of the farm writhed amid flames that shot upwardto lick his hands and face.
Then, in an instant, the scene was changed: the Roman horsemen burstin, and, frenzied by the spectacle before them, slew madly and fast.Hither and thither they swept, wherever the dusky figures sought tofly, and the thin, reed-like lances rose and plunged and rose again,shivering and dripping, from the bodies of their victims. But fortheir well-trained steeds, who came and knelt at their masters' calls,not one of the desert horsemen could have escaped, and, as it was, amere dozen broke out from the carnage and scurried away, with theavengers in close and relentless pursuit. Marcus Decius paused amoment before the cross and studied the torn frame and blackened skinof the man who hung there. Then, with a swift movement of his lance,he transfixed the quivering body, and, hardly catching the "Jove blessthee, comrade," and the sigh with which life escaped, he dashed onafter the pursuing squadrons.
The Lion's Brood Page 6