IX.
HOME.
The Appian Way was still safe, even from the chance of Numidian foray,and it was along its lava-paved level that the long convoy of sick andwounded writhed slowly northward that afternoon.
Half reclining in the rude chariot, each jolt of which brought agony tohis injured shoulder, Sergius watched, with far deeper pain than thatof body, the last troop of allied horse winding up the pass towardAllifae: the rear-guard of Rome's line of march. Then he fell tobrooding upon his fate, while the night followed the day and the daythe night, and still the dreary, groaning caravan dragged on, restingonly during the heated hours.
On, over the Liris at Minturnae, upward, over the mountains behindTarracina and descending again into the Pontine plain; through theshady groves of Arician ilex that crown the Alban Hills, down toBovillae, and then away across the Campagna to Rome--a marvel of deepcuttings through the hills,--a marvel of giant superstructures overvalleys,--the Appian, the Queen of Ways.
There were long, green ridges now, swelling from the plain and breakingaway into little rocky cliffs tufted with wild fig trees: sluggishstreams wound down from the east where, far away, loomed thesnow-tipped summits of Apennine, while toward the west the skyreflected a brighter light from the sea that glittered beneath it.
At last the eyes of the vanguard of weary wayfarers could descry,through the morning mists, the crowned cluster of hills that was to bea crown to all the world. Nearer they came and yet nearer, through thevineyards and cornfields of the Campagna--the southern Campagna teemingwith its herds of mouse-coloured cattle, whose great, stupid eyes wereonly less stupidly beautiful than those of the rustics that watchedover their grazings.
And now wounds and sickness were, for the moment, forgotten, as manpointed out to man this and that landmark of home: temples on this hilland on that; Diana on the Aventine, the hill of the people; JupiterStator on the Palatine; the grim mass of the citadel above the rock ofTarpeia; the great quadriga that surmounted the greatest fane ofall--the house of Capitoline Jove. To the right of these were theclustered oaks of the Caelian Mount, while, farthest away, but highestof all, the white banner fluttering from the heights of Janiculum toldthem that the city was still safe, still unassailed. They were passingwhere the road was bordered by its houses of the dead; tombs of thegreat families, above which the funereal cypresses bent their heads andshed peace and shade alike over the dead and the living. The hum ofthe city came to their ears, and, as the convoy drew nearer to theCapenian Gate, the throng, pouring out to meet them, grew thicker andmore dense, blocking the way until the cavalry of the escort cleared itwith their spear-butts. Then the press divided, running along on bothsides of the carriages, in two fast-filling streams whose murmursswelled into a very torrent's roar of questions and prayers for news ofthe general and the army.
"Was Hannibal beaten? Had he been slain, or was he waiting in chainsto grace the Fabian triumph? Was it true that he measured twice theheight of common men, and that a single eye blazed cyclops-like in themiddle of his forehead? How many elephants would be seen in thetriumph?"
Such and a hundred queries, equally wild, assailed the escort and theoccupants of the wagons; for this was the rabble: poor citizens,freedmen, slaves, for whom no story of Hannibal and Carthage was tooimprobable. Nevertheless Sergius imagined he could discern a spirit ofirony underlying much that he heard.
When they had reached the low eminence that, crowned by the Temple ofMars, faced the city gate, he bade the attendants help him descend fromthe army carriage, that he might wait the coming of his slaves with alitter. A messenger was soon found, and hurried off, charged withnecessary directions.
The crowd had rolled on through the gate, together with the convoy, andthe sick man was left alone save for the attendants of the temple inwhose care he had placed himself. Day by day, as he had jolted alonghis journey, he had felt the fever coming on--fever born of his injuryand the terrible strain to which he had been subjected: now it was onlynecessary to reach his home and rest. Last of his race but for twoolder sisters who had married several years since, the spacious mansionof the family of Fidenas was his alone, with its slaves and itsancestral masks and its cool courts and its outlook over the seethingForum up to the opposite heights of the Capitol. There he would findcare and comfort for the body if not for the soul.
And now the patter of running feet sounded from the pavement below.They were come, at last, with the litter, and Sergius, entering it, wasborne swiftly through the gate, on, between the tall houses that backedup against the hills, turning soon to the left into the New Way; on,past the altar of Hercules in the cattle market, past the Temple ofVesta, along the Comitia, and into the Sacred Way by the front of theCuria. Thence they swung westward to the Roman Gate, the gate in theancient Wall of the City of Romulus that fenced the Palatine alone,--astately entrance, now, to the residence portion of the city mostfavoured by the great families. Near by stood the house that markedthe ending of the journey, bustling with its slaves and bright with ahundred lamps; while the physician, an old freedman of the tribune'sfather, stood upon the threshold to greet and care for his latemaster's son.
Gravely shaking his head at the discouraging aspect of the invalid andmuttering to himself in Greek, for he was born in Rhodes, he led theway back to the great hall between the peristyle and the garden.
"Here, master," he said, "I have caused your couch to be laid, at themoment I learned of your arrival and condition. You observe, the airand light will be better than in your apartment, and the space bettercalculated for those whose duty it shall be to minister to you, untilthe divine Aesculapius and Apollo's self unite to grant success to myefforts."
"It is well, Agathocles," said Sergius, wearily, "and I thank you."
His voice seemed to die away with the last words, and a sort of stuporfell over him. Agathocles watched him closely, as he lay upon thecouch, noted the heavy breathing, and drew his brows together with adeep frown. Behind him a group of the household slaves whisperedtogether and cast frightened glances, now at their master, now at thedisciple of the healing art; for Sergius had been brought up amongthem, and the terms of their service were neither heavy nor harsh.Then the surgeon set to work examining the shoulder, nodding his headto observe that the bone had been replaced in its socket, but waxingtroubled again over the inflammation and swelling that told the storyof torn tendons and blood-vessels too long neglected, and of thehardships of the journey. Slaves were sent scurrying, in thisdirection and that, to compound lotions and spread poultices, whileAgathocles himself proceeded to the ostentatious mixing of some coolingdraught calculated to ward off, if possible, the fever that was alreadyclaiming its sway.
The Lion's Brood Page 10