Attila: A Romance. Vol. I.
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Title: Attila: A Romance. Vol. I.
Author: G. P. R. James
Release date: August 6, 2015 [eBook #49634]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Vol. I from Harvard College Library
https://books.google.com/books?id=NxQ0LzIgW1UC
2. The diphthongs ae and oe are represented by
[ae] and [oe] respectively.
ATTILA.
A ROMANCE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"THE GIPSY," "ONE IN A THOUSAND," &c, &c.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF-STREET.
1838.
TO
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, ESQ.,
THIS BOOK,
AS A FEEBLE TESTIMONY OF STRONG PERSONAL REGARD
AND SINCERE ADMIRATION,
IS DEDICATED, BY HIS FRIEND,
G. P. R. JAMES.
ADVERTISEMENT.
In giving this book to the public I have but little to explain. The
reader who takes it up may expect to find something respecting the
Princess Honoria. He will, however, find nothing. All that we know of
her history is uninteresting, except to those who love to dwell upon
the pruriencies of a degraded state of society: all that we know of
her character is disgusting to such as love purity and dignity of
mind. It would be tedious to the reader to explain why the author has
thought fit to alter several names of the persons acting prominent
parts in the story of Attila. In so doing he has consulted principally
his own ear; and in a few other deviations which he has made from the
course of that great monarch's history, he has consulted his own
convenience. In regard, however, to the change which he has
represented as taking place in the demeanour of Attila, his
abandonment of the simple habits which at first distinguished him, and
his dereliction from the calm equanimity which he displayed in his
early intercourse with the Romans, the author believes that he is
justified by the records of history as well as the course of nature.
He is inclined to think, also, that if, in regard to the facts of
Attila's death, we could display the chameleon truth, in the broad
light of day, without any of the shades and hues with which time and
circumstances have surrounded her, we should find her colour such as
he has represented it; but this, of course, must ever remain in doubt.
A T T I L A.
CHAPTER I.
A LANDSCAPE IN DALMATIA.
Music was in the air, and loveliness was spread out over the earth as
a mantle.
There was a voice of many waters--the bland musical tone of mountain
streams singing as they wend their way over the smooth round pebbles
of their hilly bed towards the sea. And the song of life, too, was
heard from every field, and every glade, and every valley; the
trilling of innumerable birds, the hum of insect myriads, the lowing
of distant cattle, winding down from the uplands to pen or fold, the
plaintive, subdued bleating of the patient sheep, the merry voice of
the light-hearted herd as he led home his flock from the hills, after
a long warm southern day in the maturity of spring. Manifold sweet
sounds--all blended into one happy harmony, softened by distance,
rendered more melodious to the heart by associations felt but not
defined, and made more touching by the soft evening hour--filled the
whole air, and spread a calm, bright, contemplative charm over the
listening senses.
The eye, too, could find the same delight as the ear, equal in depth,
similar in character; for though sweet April had sunk in the warm arms
of May, still, even in that land of the bright south, the reign of
summer had not yet begun: not a leaf, not a flower, not a blade of
grass had lost a hue under the beams of the sun, and many a balmy and
refreshing shower, during a long and humid spring, had nourished the
verdure and enlivened the bloom.
From the high round knoll upon the left, crowned with the five tall
cypresses which perhaps flourished as seedlings on that spot in the
young and palmy days of Greece, might be seen that unrivalled view
which has never yet found eye to gaze on it uncharmed--that view
which, of all prospects in the world, has greatest power, when
suddenly beheld, to make the heart beat fast, and the breath come
thick with mingled feelings of wonder and delight. On one side, at
about a mile's distance, where the ground sloped gently down towards
the sea, rose the palace of Diocletian, vast and extensive, massy
without being heavy, and equally sublime from its beauty and its
dimensions. Clear, upon the bright back-ground of the evening sky, cut
the graceful lines of the architecture; and, though a sudden break in
the outline of the frieze, with the massy form of a fallen capital
rolled forward before the steps of the magnificent portico which
fronted the sea, told that the busy, unceasing, unsparing hand of
man's great enemy had already laid upon that splendid building the
crumbling touch of ruin; yet, as, it then stood, with the setting sun
behind it, and the deep blue shadows of the evening involving all the
minute parts of the side that met the eye, the effects of decay even
added to the beauty of the object, by making the straight lines of the
architecture at once contrast and harmonize with the graceful
irregularities of nature whereby it was surrounded. Several groups of
old and stately trees, too, still more diversified the prospect on
that side; and through the pillars of the portico might be caught the
glistening line of the bright sea where it met and mingled with the
sky.
Behind, and to the right hand, stretching far away to the north, rose
mountain upon mountain, in all the fanciful forms and positions into
which those earth-born giants cast themselves in Greece, and over them
all was thrown that lustrous purple which in those lands well deserves
the name of the "magic light of evening."
Between the knoll of cypresses, however, and those far hills robed in
their golden splendour, lay a wide tract of country, gently sloping
upward in a thousand sweeping lines, with here and there an abrupt
rock or insulated mound suddenly towering above the rest, while
scattered clumps of tall old trees, rich rounded masses of forest,
villas, farms, vineyards, and olive grounds, filled up the intervening
space; and had all been as it seemed--had all those farms been
tenanted, had none of those villas been in ruins--would have presented
a scene of prosperity such as the world has never known but once.
Still decay had made no very great progress; still the land was richly
cultivated; still the population, though not dense, was sufficient;
and as the eye ran along the innumerable little promontories and
headlands of the bay, might be seen, rising up above some slight
irregularities of the ground, a part of the buildings of the small but
prosperous town of Salona. Close by the side of that knoll of
cypresses, breaking impetuously from a bank above, dashed on the
bright and sparkling Hyader; now fretting and foaming with the large
rocks amid which a part of its course was bound; now prattling
playfully with the motley pebbles which in other parts strewed its
bed; now dashing like a fierce steed all in foam where it leaped
over the crag into the sunshine; and then, where its clear blue
waters spread out uninterrupted under the cool shadow of a hill,
seeming--like time to a young and happy heart--to stand still in calm
and peaceful enjoyment, even while it was flowing away as quickly as
ever.
The eye that followed the Hyader down its course--and there was an eye
that did so--rested on the bright and glowing west, and on the
fairest, the most entrancing object of all that magic scene; for
there, stretched out beneath the setting sun, lay the gleaming waters
of the Adriatic, studded all along its shores with a thousand purple
islands which rose out of that golden sea like gems.
The air was calm and tranquil; the sky, the unrivalled deep blue sky,
which hangs over that most lovely sea, was without a cloud, varying
with one soft and equable declension from the intense purple zenith to
the warm rosy hues that glowed in the far west. The sea, also, was
smooth and peaceful, and would have seemed unbroken by a wave, had not
here and there a sudden bending line of light darted over the bosom of
the waters, and told that they were moved in the evening light by the
breath of the breeze.
Thus appeared the whole scene, when, from the opposite side of the
bay, a white sail was seen to glide forward, as if coming from Salona
towards the palace of Diocletian, or the little village of Aspalathus.
Slowly and peacefully it moved along, giving one more image of calm
and tranquil enjoyment; and while it steered upon its way, four sweet
voices, sometimes joined in chorus by several deeper tones, broke
forth from the mound of cypresses, singing:--
A HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN.
I.
"Slow, slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
Thy course of beneficence done;
As glorious go down to thy Thetis' warm breast
As when thy bright race was begun.
For all thou hast done
Since thy rising, oh sun!
May thou and thy Maker be bless'd!
Thou hast scatter'd the night from thy broad golden way,
Thou hast given us thy light through a long happy day,
Thou hast roused up the birds, thou hast waken'd the flowers.
To chant on thy path, and to perfume the hours--
Then slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
And rise again beautiful, blessing, and bless'd!
II.
"Slow, slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
Yet pause but a moment to shed
One warm look of love on the earth's dewy breast.
Ere the starr'd curtain fall round thy bed,
And to promise the time,
When, awaking sublime,
Thou shall rush all refresh'd from thy rest.
Warm hopes drop like dews from thy life-giving hand,
Teaching hearts closed in darkness like flowers to expand;
Dreams wake into joys when first touch'd by thy light,
As glow the dim waves of the sea at thy sight--
Then slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
And rise again beautiful, blessing, and bless'd!
III.
"Slow, slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
Prolonging the sweet evening hour;
Then robe again soon in the morn's golden vest,
To go forth in thy beauty and power.
Yet pause on thy way,
To the full height of day,
For thy rising and setting are bless'd!
When thou com'st after darkness to gladden our eyes,
Or departest in glory, in glory to rise,
May hope and may prayer still be woke by thy rays,
And thy going be mark'd by thanksgiving and praise![1]
Then slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
And rise again beautiful, blessing, and bless'd!"
---------------
[Footnote 1: It may not, perhaps, be unnecessary to remind the reader
that Christianity, though established in both the eastern and western
empires, was still far from universal; and even in the minds of its
most enthusiastic votaries was strangely mingled with the picturesque
superstitions of a former creed; so that the same man was often a
Christian in belief, who was pagan in many of his habits and almost
all his familiar expressions.]
---------------
CHAPTER II.
THE ACTORS IN THE SCENE.
The voices that sung were sweet, thrillingly sweet, and the music to
which the verse was wedded of that dreamy, wandering kind which
approaches more nearly to the tones of an [AE]olian harp than to any
regular composition. It was, indeed, full of a wild and delicious
melody, which was sometimes solemn and sublime, sometimes low and
plaintive, and the same general theme might be heard running through
the whole; but often the air wandered wide, like a bird upon the wing,
and caught a note or two of a gladder or more joyous character, which
brightened the general solemnity of the strain, like hope breaking in
upon a life of grief. Music had not then reached that perfection which
it has since attained; but there was a touching beauty in its fresh
simplicity which is now but seldom found. It possessed the free
unfettered charms of a graceful nature, cultivated, but not stiffened,
by art, and it still went hand in hand with the sister spirit of
poetry, in the land where both had birth.
But the hymn which had just floated on the air derived peculiar
sweetness from the fine harmony of the voices which sung it. It seemed
the varied tones of one family, where each knew every note in the
voice of the other, and modulated his own to suit it, with that spirit
of love in the breasts of all, whereof the sweetest harmony that art
can compose is but the musical image. In the chorus, however, there
joined less cultivated singers; but, nevertheless, the voices were
generally fine, and there was an enthusiastic eagerness on the tongues
that repeated--
"Then slow, mighty wanderer, sink to thy rest,
And rise again beautiful, blessing, and bless'd!"
which spoke of that happiness under the bright sun that was then
sinking slowly to the breast of ocean, which is the poetry and melody
of life.
Under the five tall cypresses, and partly reclining on the bank that
sloped to the bright Hyader, sat the group from which those sounds
proceeded. It was separated, indeed, into two distinct parts;
for--with a very short space of green turf between them and those they
served--lay stretched out in various attitudes, some raising the head
upon the hand, some reclining the chest upon the folded arms, some
supported on the elbow, eight or nine slaves of both sexes.
There was nothing, however, in the countenances of any there which
spoke of the bitterness of slavery. There were no signs in their faces
or their demeanour of the iron entering into their soul; and though,
perhaps, no portion of human nature is originally so debased, and no
condition of bondage can be rendered so gentle, that the chain will
not gall and the load will not oppress, yet the lot was then common,
and the accursed name of slave comprehended nearly, if not fully, one
half of the earth's denizens. In the faces of those who lay stretched
easily but not intrusively beside those to whom they were bound by
that inhuman tie, there might be traced a line of care--perhaps a
shade, it might be, of melancholy--gathered by long-preserved and
fruitless remembrances of scenes, and objects, and persons far away;
and on none, but the countenance of one white-teethed Nubian girl, and
a young glad boy, whose life was in the present hour, and to whose
mind the past and the future were but a vapoury cloud, was seen the
light and laughing merriment of a heart which has known no sorrows in
the past. With all the rest, contentment with their lot seemed
chastened by griefs experienced and gone by. They could smile, they
could sing when occasion called for mirth. Their minds were not
irresponsive to sights or sounds of joy; but with them it was from the
well, not the fountain, that the sweet waters of enjoyment sprung:
they sparkled not up spontaneously, but required to be drawn forth by
the hand of another.
Yet if one, remembering their bondage, turned to gaze upon the group
near which they sat, the condition of their feelings was easily
understood; for the forms and faces that were there--not in the
outward lineaments alone, but in the beaming forth of the divine
spirit, as much expressed in the air and movements of the whole body
as in the heart's interpreter, the face--told that the taskmasters
were of that kindly nobility of soul which, in after years, won for a
whole class (that did not always merit the distinction) that most
expressive name of _gentle_.
Under the cypresses, not exactly where the shade fell--for the sun,
near the horizon, had lost his meridian heat, and the western breeze
swept over the cool bright waters of the Adriatic--were seated three
women and a boy of some fourteen years of age. They were evidently of
the highest race of the land in which they lived; and had nothing else
bespoken their rank, the broad deep border of purple, of triple die,
which edged the snowy robe of the eldest of the party, would have
distinguished her as a Roman lady of patrician blood. She was scarcely
beyond the middle age; and time had treated her beauty leniently.
Somewhat of the elastic grace, and all the slight pliant outline of
early youth, was gone, but in contour and dignity much, too, had been
gained; and the eye, more calm and fixed, was as bright and lustrous,
the teeth as white and perfect, as ever. The hair, drawn up and
knotted on the crown of the head, was still full and luxuriant; but,
meandering through its dark and wavy masses, might here and there be
seen a line of silver gray; while the cheek, which had once been as
warm and glowing as the morning dawn of her own radiant land, sorrows
calmly borne, but not the less deeply felt, had rendered as pale as
the twilight of the evening just ere night reigns supreme.
Her dress was plain and unadorned, of the finest materials and the
purest hues; but the gems and ornaments then so common were altogether
absent. The consciousness of beauty, which she might once have felt,
was now altogether forgotten; its vanity she had never known. As much
grace as health, perfect symmetry of form, and noble education from
infancy could give, she displayed in every movement; but it was the
calm and matronly grace, where all is ease, and tranquillity, and
self-possession. The same placid charm reigned in the expression of
her countenance. She seemed to look with benevolence on all. Nay,
more, as if the sorrows which had reached her in her high station had
taught her that in every bosom, however well concealed, there is, or
will be, some store of grief, some memory, some regret, some
disappointment, there mingled with the gentleness of her aspect an
expression of pity, or, perhaps, its better name were sympathy, which
existed really within, and formed a tie between her heart and that of
every other human thing.
She was, indeed, to use the beautiful words of the poet, "kind as the
sun's bless'd influence."[2] Yet the bright dark eye, the proud
arching lip, and the expansive nostrils, seemed to speak of a nature
originally less calm, of days when the spirit was less subdued. Time
and grief, however, are mighty tamers of the most lion-like heart; and
it was with that look of pity, mingling with tender pleasure, that she
gazed down upon a beautiful girl of, perhaps, thirteen years of age,
who, leaning fondly on her knees, as the hymn concluded, looked up in
her face for sympathetic feelings, while the sweet sounds still
trembled on her full rosy lips.
---------------
[Footnote 2: Cowley.]
---------------
Between the matron and the girl there was little resemblance, except
inasmuch as each was beautiful; and though the lineaments, perhaps,
regarded as mere lines, took in some degree the same general form, yet
there were too many shades of difference to admit the idea that those
two fair beings stood in the dear relationship of mother and child,
although the fond, relying, clinging affection displayed in the looks
of the younger, and the tender anxiety of the matron's smile as she
gazed down upon her companion's face, argued affections no less strong
between them than such a tie might have produced.
Eudochia--for so was the younger called--offered a lovely specimen of
that sort of beauty which, however rare in Italy even now, when the
native blood of the children of the land has been mingled with that of
many of the fair-haired nations of the north, we find from the
writings of Petronius to have been not uncommon in his days. Her hair
was of a light brown, with a golden gleam upon it, as if, wherever it
bent in its rich wavy curls, it caught and shone in the bright rays of
the sun. Her eyes were of a soft hazel, though the long, sweeping
black lashes made them look darker than they were: but her skin was of
that brilliant fairness which did indeed exceed the
"Expolitum ebur indicum;"
and the rose glowed through it on the cheeks, as pure and clear as in
those lands where the veiled sun shines most soft and tenderly. Her
features were, indeed, more Greek than Roman; but her complexion
spoke, and not untruly, of a mixture in her veins of what was then
called barbarian blood by the proud children of the empire. Her mother
had been the daughter of a German prince in alliance with Rome; but
the Romans of that day had learned to envy the noble Paulinus his
success with the beautiful child of the wealthy and powerful barbarian
chief. Too short a time, indeed, had their union lasted; for though
Eudochia had drawn her first nourishment from her mother's bosom, yet,
six months after her birth, the fair wife of Paulinus had left him to
mourn her death with two motherless children. He had continued to hold
her memory in solitary affection, filling up, as is so common with
man, the vacant place left by love in the shrine of his heart with the
darker and sterner form of ambition; and while he led forward his son
Theodore in the same path, he left his daughter on the Dalmatian
shore, with one whose kindred blood and generous nature ensured to the
fair girl all a mother's tenderness and a mother's care. For her alone
the lips of Eudochia had learned to pronounce those sweetest of words,
_my mother_--for her alone had her heart learned to feel the thrill of
filial love.
The affection, however, of the Lady Flavia--for so was called the
elder of whom we have spoken--was divided. For the love of man, woman
has but one place in her heart, but maternal tenderness has many; and
the agony of Niobe was not less for every child that died than if she
had had but one. Flavia looked upon Eudochia as her child, and loved
her as such; but the two others, of whom we have said that group was
composed, were in reality her children.
Ammian, the boy, was like his mother in features and complexion, but
not in character. More of his dead father's nature had descended to
him, more of the wild and daring spirit which, sporting with perils
and dangers, contemning pain, and laughing at fear, found food for a
bright and eager imagination in scenes and circumstances which, to
others, were full of nothing but horror and dismay. His pastime, as a
boy, was to climb the mountains, and spring from rock to rock across
the yawning chasms; to stand gazing down over the dizzy side of the
precipice, and to drink in the sublimity of the scene below; to dash
through the wild waves when the southwest wind rolled them in
mountains on the shore, or to mingle with the pagan inhabitants, which
still filled many of the villages near, and to watch without taking
part in those sacrifices which were prohibited under pain of death by
the Christian emperors, but which often took place even in the open
face of day. His mother put no check upon his hazardous pleasures, for
she was Roman enough to wish that her children might never know the
name of fear. But yet her heart sometimes sunk with a chilly dread
when she witnessed his wild exploits; for though the qualities which
prompted them were those for which she had loved his father, yet she
could not forget that the same daring spirit had led that father to
death, by barbarian hands, in the wilds of Pannonia.
There was one more in the group under the cypresses, and one that must
not be passed over in silence. She, like Eudochia, was reclining by
her mother's side; but had the great Florentine sought two lovely
models from which to depict night and day, none could have been found
equal to these two beautiful girls. Ildica,[3] however, was fully two
years older than Eudochia, and those two years made a great
difference. Eudochia was a child; Ildica was no longer so. Eudochia
was the violet, but Ildica was the rose. Her form, too, spoke it;
youth was in every trace: but there was the rounded contour, the
graceful sweeping lines, which tell that nature's brightest effort to
produce beauty is full and complete. She was at that age when the
causeless blush comes frequent, and the unbidding sigh is first known;
when the cheek will sometimes glow as if with shame at the innocent
consciousness of loveliness; and her heart tells woman that she was
created for others. Through the transparent cheek of the Dalmatian
girl the eloquent blood played apparent at every word, and the long,
lustrous, deep black eyes, the very eyelids of which seemed flooded
with light, spoke of feelings within that snowy bosom which were yet
to acquire intensity and fire. And yet Ildica fancied herself still a
child. So gradual, so calm, had as yet been the transition, as their
years passed away in that remote spot without any of the cares, the
turmoils, the passions, and the follies of courts and of cities
breaking the tranquil current of their days, that she hardly knew the
two years which had effected so great a change in her being had passed
otherwise than in infancy. She had never very eagerly sought the light
sports and pastimes of Eudochia, and others of the happy age: she had
always shown a disposition to meditation and to feeling. It was not
that she wanted cheerfulness; far from it; but it was, that through
her very gayety was seen a train of deeper thought. There was a
character of greater intensity in all she did than is usual in early
youth. She loved music, she loved poetry, she loved every art; and her
mother saw her own mind reflected in that of her daughter, with a
shade, perhaps, of more passionate energy derived from the character
of her father.
---------------
[Footnote 3: The learned reader will perceive that I have changed the
last syllable of this name, for the sake of a more regular feminine
termination than the original gives, in sound at least, to an English
ear. Let me acknowledge at once, also, that I have followed the same
bold plan throughout, changing everything that did not suit my purpose.]
---------------
Thus sat they by the bright stream of the Hyader, whose clear water
served to mingle with the wine of their light evening meal, enjoying,
with sweet tranquillity of heart, the loveliness of a scene which,
remembered from his earliest days, had lured Diocletian thither, some
century before, from all the charms of power and empire, to spend his
latter hours in a remote province and a private station. Simple as
that meal was, consisting of nothing but light cakes of a fine flour,
with some dried fruits and some early strawberries, it was more
delicious to those who ate it, in that fair scene and that happy hour,
than all the innumerable dishes of a Roman supper. Still there seemed
something wanting; for--as the last stanza of the hymn was sung, and
Eudochia lay reclining on the Lady Flavia's lap, and gazing up in her
expressive face--the eyes of Ildica had followed the course of the
Hyader down towards the sea, and rested with a longing, anxious look
upon the boat that, with slow and easy motion, as the light but steady
wind impelled it over the waters, steered onward, for some time,
towards that part of the bay near which stood the little village of
Aspalathus, a sort of appendage to the palace of Diocletian. Ammian,
her brother, had remarked it too, and watched it also; but in a few
minutes its course was changed, and its prow turned towards one of the
islands. Ildica said not a word, but she bent down her eyes on the
grass, and plucked one of the purple crocuses which checkered the
green whereon she sat.
"He will not come to-day," said her brother, as if quite sure that the
same thoughts were in his bosom and his sister's at that moment; "and,
besides, he would not appear in a solitary boat like that. Ten such
boats would not have held the gorgeous train which followed him when
he came last year to take Theodore away."
"But remember, Ammian, my son," said Flavia, smiling at the eager
looks of her two children, "remember, when last he came, our cousin
Paulinus was sent to Dalmatia on the emperor's service, as count of
the offices, and now he comes but as a private man to see his
daughter. He is not one of those degraded Romans who in the present
day never travel without an army of domestics. See, the boat has
changed its course again. It did but bear up against the current of
wind between the islands. Eudochia, my sweet child, it is perhaps your
father after all."
As she spoke, the boat, catching the favourable breeze, came more
rapidly towards the land, and in a moment after was hidden from their
eyes by the wavy ground which lay between them and the Adriatic. "Run,
Aspar, run," cried Flavia to one of the slaves; "run and see where the
boat lands. Shall we return homeward, Eudochia? we may meet him
sooner."
Ildica exclaimed, "Oh, yes!" but Eudochia and Ammian reminded their
mother that they had promised to meet Paulinus on the spot where they
had parted from him, even where they then sat; and, while they waited
in the heart-beating moments of expectation, the light-footed slave
again appeared upon the upland, which he had cleared like a hunted
deer, and stood waving his hand, as if to tell that their hopes were
verified.
For a moment or two he paused, looking back towards the sea, and then,
running forward to the cypress, he said, "Yes, lady, yes! they have
reached the shore, and are coming hither. I saw them spring from the
boat to the landing-place of the palace; and while several ran up
towards the portico bearing baggage, four took the path between the
rocks which leads up hither by the field of Eusebius, the gardener."
"Was my brother there, good Aspar?" cried Eudochia, eagerly; "was my
brother there too?"
"I could not distinguish, sweet one," replied the slave; "the distance
was too long for my sight, and the sun was directly in my eyes; but
the one that came first was slight in form, and seemed more like your
brother than the Count Paulinus himself. There was the lightness of
youth, too, in his step, as he bounded up over the rocks like a fawn
towards its doe!"
Flavia smiled, and Ildica smiled too; but as she did so there was a
slight, a very slight change of colour in her cheek. It grew paler;
but it was not the paleness of either apprehension or disappointment;
it only spoke of some intense feelings busy at her heart, though what
they were she herself knew not. At that moment the slave exclaimed,
"Lo, lo! he comes!" and all eyes were turned towards the upland.
CHAPTER III.
THE MEETING.
The lower edge of the sun's broad golden disk touched, or seemed to
touch, the rippling waters of the Adriatic, and sea and sky were all
in one general glow, when the form of the expected guest rose over the
slope, and, with joyful arms outstretched towards the group under the
cypresses, he appeared clear and defined upon the bright expanse
behind him. The figure was that of a youth of eighteen or nineteen
years of age, tall for his time of life, and of that form which
promises great after strength. As he stood there, indeed, with his
figure partly concealed by the mantle which fell from his shoulders,
and with the smooth features, the unfurrowed brow, and beardless chin
of youth, turned from the searching rays of the sun, one might have
attributed to him many more years than he had in reality numbered; but
there was the bounding joy of boyhood still in his steps, as, followed
by three persons, among whom the eye of Flavia sought in vain for
Paulinus, he sprang across the sloping ground to meet so many that he
loved. To Flavia his first salute was given in the warm, the touching,
the affectionate kiss of filial love; calling her, as he did so, by
the tender name which his heart always willingly granted to her who
had watched his infancy and formed his boyhood, "My mother!" His next
glance was, certainly, to Ildica, but his words and his embrace were
given, first, to his sister Eudochia, and then even to Ammian, whom he
also called "his brother."
The words, however, were few, and the embrace short, ere he turned to
Ildica, and took her hand. But his aspect was for a moment timid and
uncertain, as if he knew not well in what words and what manner he was
to greet her. Her eye, however, was full of light; her lip smiled with
the irrepressible spirit of joy; her breath seemed to come short with
some thrilling emotion in her bosom; and Theodore, growing bolder as
her hand touched his, drew her, too, to his arms, and pressed a warmer
kiss upon her lips. To her he would not say "My _sister!_" though he
began those words which he had so often used towards her; but he
stopped short, and his lips murmured, "My--my Ildica!"
If any one marked the agitation of either of those two young and happy
beings, it was among the slaves; for Eudochia and Ammian had no eyes
as yet for the slighter indications of the heart's inmost feelings;
and Flavia, without any other observation, asked eagerly, "But where
is Paulinus? Where is your father, Theodore."
"Alas, my mother," replied the youth, "he has been disappointed, and
would not make me a sharer therein. Obliged to go into Cappadocia by
the emperor's commands, he proceeds from C[ae]sarea to escort the
Empress Eudoxia to Jerusalem. But he has promised, if fate be
propitious, to join us all here on his return. He would not let me
bear him company; but having given me the charge of some slight
business at Salona, left me to hasten hither, and wait his coming."
"Let us return homeward, then, Theodore," said the matron, "and you
shall tell us all the news wherewith your young and ever active mind
is loaded. I am sure you have not yet learned, my son, to value all
the things of the world according to their real lightness, and to
suffer what the idle multitude call great events to pass you by as
matters which have been acted over and over again a thousand times
already, and to be enacted still a million times more in the ages yet
to come. Heaven forbid that you should have acquired, since you left
us, such sorrowful wisdom! though your father writes to me that you
have become a man, whereas you left us a boy. But you linger as if you
would fain stay here."
"I ordered the boat to come round hither," replied the youth, "when I
found you were all here; and I would willingly gaze again upon all
these lovely things. I have beheld many lands, dear Ildica," he added,
turning naturally towards her with whom his heart held the nearest
communion--"I have beheld many lands since I left you all on this very
spot; Athens, the city of Constantine, Ida, and Olympus. My feet have
even trodden Tempe; and yet there is no scene so beautiful to my eyes
as that lovely sea, with Bratia, and Bubua, and Olyntha, rising like
living sapphires from its golden bosom, and those grand Autariatian
hills, leading up the soul's flight to heaven."
Without further question, they all once more laid themselves down upon
the turf; feeling that Theodore would gladly see the sun set in that
spot with which so many memories of early happiness were associated;
and for a few minutes they left him in silence to enjoy the delight of
his return. He gazed round the prospect; and it was easy to see that
it was not alone the loveliness that his eye rested on which busied
his thoughts, but that remembrance was eagerly unclasping with her
fairy touch the golden casket of the past, and displaying, one by one,
the treasured and gemlike memories of many joyful hours. As he gazed,
the last effulgent spot of the sun's orb sunk below the sea; and he
turned his look upon Ildica, on whose hand his own had accidentally
fallen. Her eyes were full of liquid light; and her cheek was glowing
as warmly as that sky from which the sun had just departed.
"And now, Theodore," said Flavia, with a smile, "tell us what tidings
you bring; and first, before one word of the wide public news, say,
what of your father? How is he in health? how fares he at the court?
Is he as much loved as ever?"
"I had forgotten," replied Theodore, "in the joy of coming back--in
the dreamlike and scarcely certain feeling of being here once more
among you all--I had forgotten everything else. Paulinus is well, my
mother; and his favour with the emperor and empress higher than ever,
though he is not loved by Chrysapheus; but he fears him not. Here,
Zeno!" he continued, addressing one of the servants who had followed
him, and who had now mingled with the slaves of Flavia--"give me the
case which I bade you bring;" and from a richly-chased silver casket
which the slave laid beside him he drew forth a string of large and
perfect pearls. "These, Eudochia," he said, throwing them over his
sister's neck, "these from the empress, for her goddaughter; and
this," he added, taking the rich collar of emeralds which lay
below--"and this from my father, Paulinus, for his dear Ildica. Many
were the messages of love," he continued, as he placed the splendid
present sent by his father in the hand of the beautiful girl whom it
was to adorn, and, with the playfulness of boyhood not yet passed
away, twined, smiling, the links of emeralds round her arm--"many were
the messages of love my father bade me give to all; and to you, my
mother, I bear this letter: but let me be the first to tell you that
your possession of the palace is confirmed by the emperor, and that
the estates withheld from you by an unjust judge are restored."
"Thank you, my son, thank you," replied Flavia, opening the thread
with which the letter was bound round; "but this light is too faint to
enable me to decipher your father's epistle. Let us to the boat, my
Theodore, and so homeward; for I long to learn more of what has passed
at Byzantium, and the twilight is every moment getting a grayer hue."
The youth lingered no longer, but rose with all the rest; and while
Flavia, talking to Ammian, who often looked behind, led the way over
the upland and down the path towards the sea, Theodore followed, at
some little distance, with Eudochia clinging to his left arm, and with
his right hand clasping that of Ildica. As they went wandering onward
through the sweet-smelling copses of myrtle, which sheltered the
grounds of a neighbouring garden from the east wind, Eudochia asked a
thousand questions of her brother, and marvelled much that he had
grown so tall and strong in the short absence of nine months. Ildica
said not a word; but she listened to the tones of his voice as he
replied to his sister; she felt the touch of his hand as it held hers;
she saw the brother of her love--the more than brother--returned from
a far distance and a long absence; and a new happiness that she had
never known before filled her heart with emotions too intense for
speech. Did she know what she felt? did she investigate the nature of
the busy, tumultuous sensations that then possessed her bosom?
Neither! the absence of one with whom she had dwelt in affection from
her infancy had, indeed, taught her that there were strange feelings
in her heart, different from any that she had ever experienced before;
but, oh! sweet and happy skill of woman, she had closed her eyes
against all investigation of what those feelings were, lest she should
find anything mingling with them which might render them less blessed.
It was not for her to discover for herself that which was reserved for
another to explain.
The considerate slaves lingered somewhat farther still behind, caring
for the cups and vessels which had served the evening meal, and
listening with the wondering ears of hermits to the news brought by
their fellows from the capital of the Eastern world. Much, too, had
those slaves to tell of all the splendid scenes which were hourly
taking place in Constantinople, and the high favour and honour of
their master, Paulinus, at the imperial court. Each feeling his
importance increased by the honours and virtues of his lord, exalted
in no measured terms the power and dignity of Paulinus; and to have
heard the praises of his menials, one might believe that he excelled
in learning and in talents the greatest men of literature's most
golden days, and rivalled in the field the most renowned warriors of
either Greece or Rome. One thing, at all events, was to be gathered
from their discourse, and to be received without abatement; which was,
that he possessed the great and happy talent of making himself loved
by those who served him. Such, indeed, was his character; dignified,
but not haughty, to his equals; respectful, but not slavish, to his
superiors, he had always a kindly word or a warm smile to give to
those whom fortune had placed beneath him. He did not court
popularity; and the vulgar gratulations of the circus would have been
offensive to his ear; but to a menial or to a woman he at once unbent
the calm and philosophic reserve of his demeanour for the time of
their temporary communication; and, with a gleam of kindly warmth, he
cheered all those who approached him, as weaker or less fortunate than
himself. Such a tribute is due to a man whose innocence even was not
his friend, and who awakened jealousies even while he strove to disarm
them.
Speaking thus of their well-loved lord, the slaves followed slowly
till they approached the shore; and then, running forward to make up
for their tardiness by momentary alacrity, they officiously aided the
boatmen to push the boat close up to some gray rocks, which, shining
through the clear blue water for many a foot below the ripple that
checkered the surface, afforded a sort of natural pier for the party
to embark. Flavia and her companions took their seats in the stern,
and six or seven of the slaves placed themselves in the bow, the rest
proceeding along the shore towards the palace. Ammian, leaning over
the side in his fanciful mood, gazed down upon the small waves as they
were dashed from the path of the boat; and then, catching a rippling
gleam of yellow light tinging the crest of one of those tiny billows,
he looked up to the heavens, where, just in that spot of deep sky
towards which the streamer of the aplustrum turned, calm, and large,
and bright, rose Hesperus above the world. He gazed upon it for
several minutes with a look of rapt enjoyment, as if for the time he
had forgotten everything in the universe but that one bright solitary
star. Ildica had hitherto sat between her mother and Theodore,
listening in silence to the brief and broken tales of his late travels
which he was telling; but as a pause ensued, she fixed her eyes upon
Ammian, and watched him with a soft smile, as if she knew what was
passing in his thoughts, and waited to see what turn the fancy would
take. From time to time her eyes appealed to Theodore, and then turned
again to her brother, till at length her sweet musical voice, speaking
her pure native tongue, but slightly touched and softened by the Greek
accent, was heard breaking the momentary silence-which had fallen upon
them all.
"Sing it, Ammian," she said, speaking to his unuttered thoughts, "sing
it! Theodore will hear it well pleased. It is my mother's poetry,
written since you left us, Theodore: sing it, Ammian!"
The boy looked up into his sister's eyes with a gay smile, and then
poured suddenly forth in song a voice clear and melodious as her own.
The first two stanzas he sung alone; but at the end of the second, and
of each that succeeded, all those who knew the music took up the first
as a chorus, sending sweet harmony over the twilight waters, while the
rowers with their oars kept time to his
SONG TO THE EVENING STAR.
I.
Hesperus! Hesperus! in thy bright hand
Bearing thy torch, lit at day's parting beams,
Shed thy sweet influence o'er our dear land,
Sooth thou our slumbers and brighten our dreams.
II.
Hesperus! Hesperus! each closing flower
Yields thee the sigh of her odorous breath,
Thine, too, the nightingale's musical hour,
Thine be the offering of song and of wreath.
Hesperus! Hesperus! &c.
III.
Hesperus! Hesperus! holding thy way
Lone, but serene, 'tween the day and the night,
Guide all our hearts with the same even sway,
Soften each sorrow and calm each delight.
Hesperus! Hesperus! &c.
IV.
Hesperus! Hesperus! star of repose!
Herald of rest to the labours of day!
Through worlds and through ages, where'er thy light glows,
Honour and thanks shall attend on thy ray.
Hesperus! Hesperus! &c.
CHAPTER IV.
THE YOUNG LOVERS.
It was more than an hour after the boat had reached the landing-place,
and, fatigued with a long, bright, happy day, Ammian and Eudochia had
sought the repose of hearts at ease; while Flavia, sitting with her
daughter and Theodore in the small chamber near the great Corinthian
hall in the palace of Diocletian, busied herself with manifold
questions in regard to those friends of other years, in Constantinople
and in Rome, from whom she had voluntarily separated herself, in order
to lead her children up to years of free agency, at a distance from
the luxury and corruption of either great metropolis. The anecdotes
which he had to relate, the little traits and rumours which he had
collected concerning those whom she had once loved dearly, seemed of
greater interest to the Lady Flavia than even the news of more
personal importance which he had told her. Yet that news imported that
the cession of a portion of Illyria by Valentinian to Theodosius was
completely defined--that the dwelling in which she had found a home,
by the interest of Paulinus, was now fully transferred from the
monarch of the West, who had shown a strong disposition to despoil her
of her lands in distant provinces, to the chief of the Eastern empire,
who, on the contrary, had hitherto given her kindly aid and
protection; and that her possession of that sweet spot, near which
many of the estates of her dead husband lay, was confirmed to her by
the hand of Theodosius himself.
The lamp had been placed at her right hand, in order that she might
peruse the letter of Paulinus; but still she had not proceeded to that
task. What were the feelings which stayed her, it were difficult to
say; but the open pages lay unread by her side; and though she more
than once took them up, as if to begin, she laid them down again as
often, and asked some new question. At length, as the moonlight found
its way through the half-drawn curtains of the door, she once more
raised the letter, saying, "Well, I will read it now," and her eye
again fixed upon the first few words.
"Notwithstanding, gentle Flavia," so the epistle ran, "the desire I
had expressed to keep hidden from my son and our sweet Ildica our
hopes and purposes, yet feelings that I cannot well explain, but which
I will now attempt to depict, have induced me, sure of your consent
and approbation, to tell him, ere he left me--perhaps for the last
time--that it was my wish and hope, if his own heart seconded my
desire, that he should in his twentieth year choose the one we both so
dearly love for his bride."
Flavia raised her eyes to her daughter and the son of Paulinus, who
had, in the occupation which had just employed her, a fair excuse for
speaking in low and gentle murmurs. They had farther drawn back the
curtains, and were gazing from the door upon the moonbeams which
lighted up the great hall; and a bright, warm smile upon the mother's
face told that her own heart took kindly part in the fond feelings
which were so busy in theirs. She turned to the letter again, however,
without comment, and read on. "I am about," continued Paulinus, "to
travel through the provinces, and the will of God may require that I
shall never return. I know not why, but I have a sadness upon me. As
the sun goes down, small objects cast long shadows; and I have fancied
that I once, and only once, beheld a cold look in the eye of the
emperor towards me, a triumphant smile on the countenance of
Chrysapheus; yet if ever omens were infallible, they would be the
smiles of our enemies and the coldness of our friends. Nevertheless,
let me acknowledge all my weakness--weakness which philosophy cannot
conquer, and which it were wisdom to conceal from any other eye than
thine, oh, thou that hast been as a sister to my widowed heart, as a
mother to my orphan children. Before any evil augury could be drawn
from the looks of others, my own heart seemed to feel the coming on of
fate. There has been a shadow on my spirit, an apprehension of coming
evil, a sensation of neighbouring danger, such as domestic animals
feel when near a lion, even without seeing it."
Flavia laid down the page, murmuring, "And is it so, Paulinus? alas,
and is it so? Go forth, my children," she added, abruptly, seeing them
still standing in the doorway; "you seem as if you longed to taste the
moonlight air. Go forth! It is a grand sight to gaze upon the waters
of the Adriatic from that noble portico. It expands the heart, it
elevates the mind, it raises the soul to the God who made all things.
Go forth, then, my children, I would willingly be alone."
They needed no second bidding; for she told them to do that which had
lain as a longing at their hearts ever since she had begun to read.
Not a year before, when they had last parted, they would have waited
no command--nay, no permission; but would at once, in the unconscious
liberty of the young heart, bound forth to enjoy the scenes they
loved, in the society that they loved not less--that of each other.
But a change had come over their feelings since then, rendering all
their intercourse more sweet, a thousand times more sweet, but more
timid also. Theodore, indeed, knew why; for his father's parting
words--the solemn sanction which Paulinus had given to his future
union with Ildica, in case death should prevent a father's lips from
pronouncing the blessing at their marriage feast--had opened his eyes
to the nature of his own sensations. No sooner had the few first words
been uttered by Paulinus than he had felt at once that his love for
Ildica was more than fraternal affection; that it was different--how
different!--from that which he experienced towards Eudochia; how
different from that which he entertained towards any other human
being! With Ildica, the knowledge was more vague: it was more a
sensation than a certainty. So long as Theodore had been with her she
had gone on treating him as a brother; but with the feelings of her
heart changing towards him still, as imperceptibly, but still as
completely, as the green small berry changes to the purple grape, the
verdant bud to the expanded and to the yellow leaf. So long as he had
been with her she had felt no alteration, though it took place; but
during his absence she meditated on those things long and deeply; and
on his return she met him with not less affection, but with deep and
timid emotions, mingling a consciousness with her every look, which
was sweet to the eye that saw it, and that wished it to be so.
Theodore raised the curtain, and Ildica passed out; but ere she had
taken two steps in that grand moonlight hall, Theodore's hand clasped
hers, and he led her on through all those splendid apartments--which
have been, even in ruins, the wonder and the admiration of all after
days--to the vast colonnade, six hundred feet in length, which fronted
and overlooked the beautiful Adriatic. As they passed, in the various
apartments of the slaves and domestics were to be seen lights, and to
be heard many a gay voice laughing; and at the end of the principal
streets of the palace, for it had its streets as well as corridors,
two or three groups were seen playing in the moonlight with polished
pieces of bone, or, with loud and vehement gesticulations, disputing
about their game. Theodore almost feared that the portico itself might
be tenanted by some such party; and his heart had anticipated an hour
of lonely wandering with her he loved so eagerly, that he might not
have brooked disappointment with old and stoical patience. That
portico, however, was considered by the general inhabitants of the
palace, and those also of the neighbouring village, as in some degree
sacred ground. It was there that the great emperor, after having
conquered and reigned in glory through the prime of life, after having
satisfied the vengeful zeal of his counsellors against the Christian
sects, which now, in spite of all his persecutions, peopled the whole
land, after having made his name awful by deeds of blood not less than
by deeds of magnificence, had been accustomed to sit, self-stripped of
his power, and to gaze out, _after having been an emperor_, upon
nearly the same scene which his eyes beheld _before he was anything
but a slave_. Although little more than a century had elapsed since
the death of Diocletian, his fate and history, his acts and his
character, had been strangely distorted by tradition; and though the
peasantry had not learned to look upon him as a bad man, or to
execrate him as a tyrant, yet the extraordinary vicissitudes which he
had hewn out for himself, the vague legends of his acts during life,
and the mystery attaching to his death, surrounded his memory with a
fearful awe, which held the people of the neighbourhood aloof from the
spot for which he had shown such peculiar fondness, when night covered
the world with her dim and fanciful shades.
The portico was vacant; happy sounds rose up from the shore, where the
fishermen were lingering beside their boats; and a merry laugh, or
snatches of some light song, were heard from the neighbouring village,
sinking into the hearts of Ildica and Theodore with the power of a
charm, waking associations of sweet domestic joy, dim and undefined,
but thrilling--potent--overpowering. Oh! who can tell the many magic
avenues through which all the external things of the wide universe
find, at some time or other, means of communicating with the inmost
heart--avenues, the gates of which are shut till, at some cabalistic
word of grief, or joy, or hope, or fear, they suddenly fly open, and
we find in our bosom a thousand sweet and kindred fellowships, with
things which had never learned to touch or agitate us before.
Glad and cheerful, yet calm, were the sounds that broke occasionally
upon the listening ear of night; and grand and solemn, but still
gentle, was the scene which lay stretched beneath the risen moon; but
the sensations which were in the breasts of the two rendered those
sounds and sights a thousand fold sweeter, a thousand fold more dear;
and, in return, the gay, distant voices, and the calm, wide, moonlight
sea, seemed to draw forth and render intense, even to overwhelming, in
the souls of Theodore and Ildica,
"Into the mighty vision passing,"
the inborn joy of all the new emotions to which that day had given
life within their hearts. They paused and listened to the melody of
innocent mirth, and paused and gazed upon the bright world before
them. Ildica's hand trembled in that of Theodore, and her heart beat
quick; but he felt that she was his, and that she was agitated; and
with the gentleness of true affection, though without any definite
plan for sparing her, he took the very means of telling his first tale
of love so as to agitate as little as possible the young and tender
being, all whose deepest feelings were given to him alone.
"Hark!" he said, "hark, dear Ildica! how gay and sweet those merry
voices sound! Some lover come back from wandering like me, tells the
glad story of his journey done to the ear of her who has watched for
him in absence."
Ildica grew more calm, and raised her eyes, too, to Theodore, not
without some feeling of surprise, so different was his tone, so much
more manly were his words than when they had parted. There had been,
up to that moment, one thing, perhaps, wanting in her love towards
him--the conscious feeling of man's ascendency: she had loved with
passion deep, sincere, and ardent; but she had loved as a girl, and
looked upon him still as the companion of her early sports. His words
and tone--the words and tone of one who had mingled with, and taken
his place among men--put the last rose to the wreath. She felt that
thenceforth to him she could cling for protection--to him she could
turn for guidance and direction.
But Theodore went on. "Some lover," he said, "or perhaps some husband,
Ildica, returned from the labours of the day to home, and happiness,
and sweet domestic love! Oh, dear Ildica, since I have been away,
often have I, in wandering through different provinces, lodged in the
dwellings of traders in the towns, or in the cottages of shepherds and
labourers in the mountains and the plains; and the most beautiful, the
most blessed thing that I have ever seen has been found as often, if
not oftener, in the hut of the herd, or the house of the common
merchant, as in the marble palaces of the C[ae]sars, and within
the walls of imperial cities. Oh, that sweet domestic love! that
blessing--that bright blessing! which, like the glorious light of the
sun, shines alike on every condition and on every state, cheering,
enlivening, enlightening, all who shut it not out from their own dark
hearts by vices and by crimes. Hark, hark! dear Ildica, how those gay
voices seem to chime to my words, speaking of love, and joy, and hope!
Oh, Ildica, dear Ildica! may not such things be also for you and me?"
Ildica sunk down on the stone seat by which they had been standing,
but she left her hand still in his, and he felt it tremble. Nor did he
himself speak unmoved; for his ardent nature, and the first breaking
forth of those dear and treasured thoughts, shook his whole frame; and
scarcely daring to trust his lips with further words, he placed
himself by her side, murmuring only, "Dearest Ildica!" She answered
only with a long-drawn, agitated sigh; and, gliding his arm round her
soft waist, he drew her gently to his bosom.
"Oh, Theodore, is not this wrong?" she asked, but without attempting
to free herself from his embrace.
"Wrong, my Ildica? wrong, my beloved?" he exclaimed: "oh, no! God
forbid that I should ever seek to make you do or feel aught that is
evil! No, no, dearest, my father's blessing will attend our union; he
has promised, he has given it: our dear mother's consent was spoken to
him long ago!"
"Indeed!" cried Ildica.
"Yes, indeed," he said, pressing her again closer to his bosom, from
which she had partly raised herself as she spoke. "Yes, indeed,
Ildica! Joyful did my father's words sound in my ear, as he told me
that, if I could win your love, I might hope for your hand. Nothing
now is wanting to my happiness but one dear word from my Ildica's
sweet lips. Oh, speak it, beloved! Speak it; and say you will be
mine." She could not find voice to utter the deep feelings of her
heart; but her cheek sunk glowing upon his shoulder, and their lips
met in the first dear, long, thrilling kiss of happy and acknowledged
love.
CHAPTER V.
THE DISASTER.
From a dream of happiness such as mortal beings know but once on this
side of the grave--a dream of happiness in which all the brightest,
noblest, most joyful feelings of the fresh, unsullied, unexhausted
heart of youth burst forth, like the streams of the Nile, from a
thousand beautiful sources, Ildica and Theodore woke at length, and
prepared to return to the side of her mother, to make her a sharer in
their joy, and tell her how blessed, how supremely blessed they felt.
Clinging close together in attitudes of tenderness, from which Attic
sculptors might have learned yet another grace, they rose and moved
along the portico. They moved, however, but slowly, lingering still
for some fond word, some affectionate caress, or pausing in the scene,
hallowed for ever in their eyes by the first spoken words of love, to
gaze over it again and again between the colossal pillars of the
portico. Over that scene, however, had by this time come a change--one
of those sudden, inexplicable alterations not uncommon in southern
climates. The moon, which by this time had wandered on far enough to
warn them that the crowded moments had flown quickly away, was still
hanging over the Adriatic, and pouring forth that glorious flood of
light which makes the stars all "veil their ineffectual fires;" but
the sky was no longer without clouds, and catching the light upon
their rounded but not fleecy edges, the large heavy masses of electric
vapour swept slow over the lower part of the sky, between the bright
orb and the islands that slept beneath her beams. Theodore and Ildica
paused to mark them, as slowly contorting itself into hard and
struggling forms, one particular mass lay writhing upon the horizon,
like some giant Titan wrestling with agony on his bed of torture. At
the same time the breeze, which was balmy, though calm, during the
evening, became oppressively hot, with a faint phosphoric smell in the
air, and a deep silence seemed to spread over the whole world. The
cigala was still, the voices on the shore had ceased, the merry laugh
no longer resounded from the open cottage door, and the nightingale,
which had prolonged her song after all the rest was silent, ceased
also, and left a solemn hush over the whole universe.
"What strange forms that cloud is taking," said Theodore, called even
from the thoughts of his own happiness by the sudden alteration of the
scene: "and how quiet everything is. Doubtless, there will be a storm
to-night. Alas! for those who are upon the treacherous sea."
"But your father," said Ildica; "he goes by land, Theodore. Is it not
so?"
"Not so, dearest," replied Theodore; "he visits first Antioch, and
then proceeds by land; but it is not for him I fear, as I heard of his
landing while I was on the journey hither; but those strange clouds
and the heat of the air must surely augur thunder to-night; and I saw
a whole fleet of boats this morning at Tragurium, ready to put to
sea."
"It is indeed warm," said Ildica; "I feel almost faint with the heat.
Had we lived a few centuries ago, Theodore, we might have drawn evil
auguries for ourselves and for the fate of our affections from those
hard clouds, and the dull and almost mournful silence which has fallen
over the world."
"Out upon auguries, my beloved," he replied; "we hold a better faith,
and place our trust in God, who made our hearts and formed us for each
other. We will confide in him, my Ildica; and for those who do so,
signs and portents are but proofs of his power, which should
strengthen, not shake our faith."
As he spoke he turned to lead her into the palace; but at that moment
the low, sad howling of a dog broke the stillness of the night; and a
figure, the face of which was turned from the moonlight, but which
Ildica at once recognised as her mother, appeared at the end of the
colonnade, and advanced towards them. Ildica and Theodore hastened to
meet her, and each took and kissed one of her fair hands. "Give us
your blessing, oh my mother!" said the youth; "we have been very
happy. I have told Ildica how I love her. I have told her what hopes
my father has given me; and she has promised to share my lot and make
my home joyful."
"Bless you, my children, bless you!" replied Flavia, while Ildica hid
her face on her mother's bosom, and Theodore again pressed his lips
upon her hand. "Ye are young lovers, indeed; but still my blessing be
upon you; and oh! may God grant that in the course of that love which
is made to render us happy, you may be more fortunate than the parents
of either! Your father, Theodore, and I have both lost those we loved
as fondly as you love one another; but may better fate be yours, my
children! may you never lose each other; but go on in the same warm
affections through a long life, and death scarcely separate you, till
we all meet again in heaven."
Flavia raised her eyes towards the sky, and for a moment remained in
silence, though her lips still moved. The next instant, however, she
added, "I came out to seek you, not because I thought you long absent,
nor because I had any cause of fear; but I know not how or why it is I
have a painful, apprehensive anxiety hangs upon me to-night, which
will not let me rest. Perhaps it is the sultry heat of the atmosphere;
the air has grown very oppressive; even the animals seem to feel it.
Your sister's dog, Theodore, would not rest in her usual place by my
feet, but ran out through the curtains; and Aspar told me as I passed
that it had fled to the garden. How the cattle, too, are lowing in the
village stalls! Do you not hear them? Does the wind come from Bratia?"
"Nearly," replied Theodore; "but cast away melancholy, my dear mother.
Oh! that Ildica and I could give you a share of our happiness!"
"You do! you do, dear youth!" replied Flavia; "I do share in your
happiness; and this melancholy will pass away again. Those who have
known much grief are subject to such thick-coming fancies; and the
first touch of deep sorrow brushes off the bloom of hope, crushes the
firm confidence of the heart, and leaves shrinking apprehension to
tremble at every breath; but let us in; there is a storm coming on."
As she spoke there was a low melancholy sound came rushing over the
waters of the Adriatic; the clouds, which had before passed so slow
and silently along, seemed now agitated by some unknown cause, and
rushed in dark black volumes over the moon; while here and there, amid
the clefts and rents of their dark canopy, looked out a calm bright
star. But still the mourning sound increased; and the bending branches
of the olives down below told that the breath of the tempest was
already felt. The next instant, ere the lovers and Flavia could escape
from the colonnade, the blast of the hurricane struck the building and
shook the massy structure to its foundations. Behind the shelter of a
pillar the two women escaped; but Theodore, strong and active as he
was, found himself dashed forward against the wall of the palace;
while leaves, and flowers, and broken boughs of trees were whirled
about in the air, and strewed the marble pavement of the portico. It
lasted but for a moment, however, dying away as it came, with a low
moan; while a few large drops of rain followed, as if the punished
demon of the storm fulfilled his allotted task of destruction with
tears and with regret.
"Flavia! Ildica! you are not hurt!" cried Theodore, springing towards
them.
"No! no!" replied Flavia; "we are safe; though it was a fearful gale.
But let us in, Theodore; it may return. Hark! Good God! what is this?"
Well might she so exclaim. The wind had gone by; even its murmur had
ceased; when suddenly there rose a roar from the earth as if ten
thousand war-chariots had met in the shock of battle. The lightning
burst forth from the clouds, and flashed along amid the innumerable
dark gigantic pillars of the colonnade, lighting the whole of its vast
extent with the blue and ghastly glare; the thunder rolled from the
zenith to the horizon with a peal which would have deafened the ear to
the loudest voice. But the lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled,
scarcely seen or heard; for below, around, was a more dreadful
visitation still. The earth shook beneath their feet; the pavement
rose and fell like the waves of the sea; the enormous columns tottered
and reeled; the walls of massive stone bent to and fro; while the roar
of the earthquake and the echoing of the thunder were rendered more
terrific by the crash of falling building, and the shrieks both from
the interior of the palace and the more distant village. Theodore cast
his arms round Ildica and her mother; and, staggering along, hurried
them down the steps across the level in front of the palace, and out
of danger of its shaken walls. It was the impulse of the moment which
made him act, and Flavia yield; but she paused ere they were many
steps from the building, exclaiming, "My children! Theodore, my
children! Your sister and Ammian! I must go back."
"And I will go too!" said Ildica, in a voice so calm that it made her
lover turn suddenly to gaze upon her, who seemed to have lost the
timid girl in the first moment of danger and horror.
"No, no!" he exclaimed. "Dear mother, hear me! There will be a second
shock doubtless, but it will be some minutes ere it comes. Hasten with
Ildica beyond the Golden Gate and up the side of the hill, out of
reach of all buildings! I will seek Ammian and Eudochia, and join you
in a moment. Fly, fly, dear mother! I leave in your charge what I
value more than life. Save her!"
Flavia hesitated; but that moment a slave with a torch rushed out into
the portico seeking them, while the motion of the ground subsided, and
all became still. It was the swift runner, Aspar, who came up, crying,
"Fly, lady! fly, dear mistress! the worst shock is never first; fly to
the hills, fly!"
"Away with them, Aspar, beyond the Golden Gate," cried Theodore,
breaking from them; "I will join you instantly! Away, away!"
Thus saying, he darted from them, rushed through the portico, and
crossed the side avenue, while the wild clamour from the principal
street of the palace echoed through the long halls and galleries; and
the deep darkness in which that part of the building was plunged
rendered the distant sound of wailing and of terror more frightful.
On, on he went, though fragments of stone and cement obstructed his
way, and crumbled under his feet, showing that even the first shock
had been severe enough to shake that strong and massive fabric through
every part. But Theodore still hurried forward, till, at length, in
his haste, as he passed the spot where he and Ildica had seen the
slaves playing on the pavement, he stumbled over a large soft body,
and, stooping down, he felt with horror beneath his touch the yet warm
form of a man, with the newly-fallen capital of a neighbouring column
lying with crushing weight upon his loins. The long hair floating on
his shoulders showed Theodore that the unhappy being had been a slave;
but still the instinctive benevolence of the youthful heart made him
pause a moment to ascertain if life were extinct. He spoke, but not a
tone answered; he lifted the hand, in which life's soft warmth yet
lingered; but not even a convulsive movement of the fingers told that
one spark of the immortal fire still glowed in the mortal body. All
was motionless, insensible, lifeless; and Theodore hurried on.
The gates of the Cyzicene hall were open; the glare of lights and the
sound of voices came from within; and Theodore instantly entered, as
the shortest way to the apartments occupied by Flavia and her
household. Never, perhaps, did terror in all its forms present itself
more awfully than in that grand and splendid chamber. There, as a
general point of meeting, had collected eighty or ninety of the slaves
and domestics of both sexes. Fear had not yet had time to subside; and
with pale and haggard faces, livid lips, and wide anxious eyes they
remained, some clinging to the columns which had so lately been
shaken like reeds; some kneeling in the midst, and uttering the
confused and terrified prayer; some cast down upon the pavement in
utter self-abandonment; some hiding their eyes in their garments, as
if they could shut out the approaching horrors that they feared to
witness; some gazing wildly up to the roof, which they expected
momently to fall upon them. Large fragments of the beautiful paintings
which had covered the walls were now seen dashed about upon the floor;
and a wide rent in the solid masonry over the door showed how insecure
was the shelter which those terrified beings had sought from the night
of the earthquake.
In the midst stood, gathered together in the hour of danger, three
dusky Numidians, with a servant from the neighbouring Pentopolis, who,
in happier times, had been too near akin to the dark Africans to live
with them in amity, but who now clung to them for support; while a
gigantic slave from the Porphyry mountains, one of the few who looked
the unusual dangers of the night in the face with calm determination,
was seen in the front, crushing out under his large foot a torch which
one of his more terrified companions had let fall. There were two or
three others who stood near, and, with arms folded on their chests,
and dark brows full of stern resolution, gazed towards the door, as if
waiting what horror was to come next.
In the hands of some of the bolder slaves were the torches which gave
light to the hall; and the moment Theodore entered, one started from
the group, exclaiming, in tones of eager--ay, and affectionate
inquiry--though they were but slaves, "The Lady Flavia? Where is the
Lady Flavia? Where is the Lady Flavia?"
He spoke as an old servant might speak to a boy he had known from
infancy; but Theodore was no longer a boy; for the last nine months
and the last few hours together had made him a man in mind as well as
in body, and he replied with that prompt tone of commanding courage
which won instant obedience.
"She is safe," he cried, gazing round him. "Up, up, all of you! Lie
not there in prostrate terror, herding together like sheep beneath the
lightning. Up, if you would save your lives! Up, and away! You with
the torches go before them! Out beyond the Golden Gate you will find
your mistress and Aspar. Keep close to the walls till you are in the
open field! Another shock is coming, and the parapets and capitals
fall first, but fall far out from the buildings. Crowd not together
so, and crush each other in the doorway! Out, coward! would you kill
your fellows to save your own miserable life? So! quietly--but
speedily. You, Cremera! and you, and you, Marton, come with me! You
are brave and honest, and love your lady. Snatch up whatever jewels
and valuable things you see, and follow quick! Where is Eudochia?
Where my brother Ammian?
"Her chamber is within the Lady Flavia's!" said the Arab Cremera; and,
darting through the lesser doorway, Theodore hastened thither,
followed by the three he had called, and one or two others, gathering
up caskets, and scrinia, and gold, and jewels, as they hurried through
the more private apartments of the palace. A sound of murmuring voices
was before him as he came near the chamber of Flavia; but, dashing
aside the curtain, he rushed in.
Kneeling upon the floor, as she had risen from her bed in terror, with
her bright hair flowing in waving lines over her shoulders, her hands
clasped, and her eyes raised to heaven as her lips trembled with
prayer, was Eudochia; while beside her, fainting with terror, lay the
negro girl who had sat beside the Hyader, lately so gay and
thoughtless. Near her stood Ammian, whose first impulse had been to
seek her; but in whose dark imaginative eyes, instead of terror, shone
a strange and almost sportive fire, as if his excited fancy felt a
degree of pleasure even in a scene so full of danger and of horror.
Nevertheless, he was eagerly entreating his fair _sister_, as he
called her, to conquer her terrors, and to fly with him to seek
their mother, exclaiming, "Come, come, Eudochia, you shall pray
to-morrow--or to-night, if you like it better, when once you are
somewhere safe. Your prayers will go to heaven in but tattered
garments, if they have to force their way through yon rift in the
roof. Come, come! Oh, here is Theodore! Where are my mother and
Ildica?"
"Both safe!" replied Theodore. "But this is no hour for sport,
Ammian;" and, without question, he caught up his sister in his arms.
"You take the casket from Cremera, Ammian!" he continued. "Let him
take yon poor girl! Hark, there is a rushing sound! Quick, quick, it
is coming again! On before, Ammian. On before, to the Golden Gate!"
Eudochia clung to his breast, and, hurrying on with a step of light,
he bore her through the many chambers of the building, till, turning
through the great hall called the Atrium, he entered one of the
transverse streets, and paused a moment to listen if the sound
continued. All, however, was still and dark, except where the murmur
of voices and the rush of feet were heard from a distant spot, and
where a number of torches appeared gathered together near the
beautiful octagonal temple of Jupiter, or where from the apartments
occupied by the old and incapable conservator of the palace were seen
issuing forth two or three slaves with lights, and a solitary priest
bearing the consecrated vessels of the temple, which had already been
converted to a Christian church.
Onward, in the same direction, Theodore now bore the fair light form
of his sister; but ere he had reached the end of the street, another
awful phenomenon took place. From the midst of the intense, deep,
black expanse which the sky now presented, burst forth an immense
globe of fire, lighting with a fearful splendour the gigantic masses,
columns, and towers of the palace; showing the neighbouring hills and
woods beyond the gates, and even displaying the heavy piles of
mountains that lay towering up towards the north. No thunder
accompanied the meteor; and its progress through the sky was only
marked by a sound as of a strong but equal wind, till suddenly it
burst and dispersed with a tremendous crash, leaving all in deeper
darkness than before.
The sight had made the multitude pause and fall upon their knees
before the church; and as Theodore approached he heard a voice
exclaiming, "Let us die here! We may as well end our days here as in
the open fields! Let us die here!"
But, to his surprise, the next moment the calm sweet tones of the Lady
Flavia struck his ear, replying to the words which she had heard too.
"No, my friends! no!" she said, in a voice which had no terror in its
sound, but was all calm but energetic tenderness. "No! it is our duty
to God, to ourselves, to our brethren, to our children, to take the
means of safety which are at hand. Let us fly quick from among these
buildings, which another shock may cast down to crush us. There may be
dangers even beyond the walls, but here are certain perils. Let us go
forth; I came back but to seek my children! Lo, they have come in
safety, and let us now depart. Oh, delay not, pause not, for the
hesitation of terror more often points the dart and sharpens the sword
that slays us, than the rashness of courage. Come, my friends, let us
come. God will protect us; let us take the means he gives. Come, my
Theodore, come. Ammian, you look as your father used to look when he
went forth to battle. Should not such a face as that shame terror, my
friends? Come, I pray ye, come!"
Even as she spoke, the same hollow rushing sound was again heard; the
steps on which she stood, above the rest, shook beneath her, and
Ammian, seizing her hand, hurried forward. Clouds of dust rose up into
the air, shrieks of terror burst from the very lips that had so lately
proposed to remain and die there, and every one now rushed towards the
gate. But their steps were staggering and unequal, for the solid earth
was again shaken, the buildings and the columns were seen tottering
and bending by the light of the torches, the crash of falling masses
blended with the roar of the earthquake, part of the frieze of the
temple was dashed into the midst of the group of slaves, who were
flying on before their mistress, and one among them was struck down.
"Stop!" said the voice of Flavia; "let us not leave any one we can
save. Hold the torch here!" But it was in vain. The man was crushed
like a trodden worm!
"God receive thy spirit to his mercy, through Christ!" cried the
priest; and they rushed on, while still the earthquake seemed to roll
the ground in waves beneath their feet, and their eyes grew dim and
dizzy with the drunken rocking of the enormous buildings, through the
midst of which they passed. The gate, though not far, seemed to take
an age to reach, and joyful was the heart of every one as they drew
near. But just as they were about to go forth, the struggling of the
feverish earth appeared to reach its height; and one of those colossal
flanking towers, which seemed destined to outlast a thousand
generations, swayed to and fro like a young heart sorely tempted
between virtue and crime, and then fell overthrown, with a sound like
thunder across the very path of the fugitives. It left a chasm where
it had stood, however; and through that rugged breach the terrified
multitude took their way, stumbling and falling over the convulsed and
quivering masses of stone.
Glad, glad were all bosoms when those walls were passed; and though
still the ground heaved beneath their feet, though the roar continued,
and the very trees were heard to crack and shiver as they passed
along, yet all felt that some hope of safety was gained; though when
they looked around, and saw the black and tangible darkness that
covered the whole earth, and hid every object except that on which the
occasional torchlight fell--when they gazed, I say, into that dull and
vacant, unreplying blank, and heard the hollow roaring voice of the
earthquake around, below, above, well might their hearts still sink,
and well might many a one among them think that the predicted day of
general dissolution had at length arrived.
Still carrying his sister in his arms, Theodore had followed Flavia
and Ammian through the broken walls; and it was not till their feet
trod the more secure ground beyond that he asked, "Where is Ildica, my
mother?"
"Here at hand, upon the hill, my noble Theodore," she answered.
"Eudochia now is safe," she added; "leave her with me, and give our
dear Ildica tidings of our escape, for she promised not to quit the
spot where I left her till my return. Yon faint spot of light upon the
old tumulus--that is Aspar's torch."
Theodore placed his sister on her feet beside Flavia, and hurried on.
He had no light with him; the heavens and the earth were all in
darkness, and the roar of the last shock still rang, though more
faintly, in the air. Yet, ere he had arrived within the feeble and
indistinct glare of the slave's torch, the quickened ear of love and
apprehension had caught the sound, and recognised the tread of his
coming feet; and in a moment Ildica was in his arms, and her fair face
buried on his throbbing bosom.[4]
---------------
[Footnote 4: In "The Story of Azimantium," which I published about six
years ago in Blackwood's Magazine, and which has since been
re-published in "The Desultory Man," I gave very nearly the same
account of this great earthquake with that here given. The actors and
the scene are different; but the principal facts, being founded on
historical truth, are the same.]
---------------
CHAPTER VI.
THE EVIL TIDINGS.
The horrors of that night had not yet ended; for from the third hour
after sunset till day had fully dawned, the fever of the earth raged
with unabated fury. A melancholy and a ghastly group was it that soon
crowned the hill where Flavia had left her daughter, when at length
all those who had escaped with her from the palace were collected
together round the torches. Not one half of those, indeed, who dwelt
in that magnificent building, to which the earthquake gave the first
severe blow, had assembled in the train of the Roman lady; but during
the pause of nearly an hour which succeeded the second shock, many
pale and terrified beings, some wounded and bruised with the falling
masses, some nearly deprived of reason by their fears, wandered up
from the palace and the neighbouring village, guided by the lights
upon the hill, and with wild exclamations and bemoanings of their fate
added something to the horrors of the moment.
Gradually the brief-spoken or almost silent awe subsided during that
long interval of calm; and many who had been waiting with sinking
hearts for the coming of a third shock began to talk together in low
whispers, and even to fancy that the hour of peril had passed by.
Gradually, too, serving to encourage such thoughts, the clouds rolled
away; the stars looked out calm and bright, and the moon was seen just
sinking into the Adriatic, but with a red and angry glow over her
face, in general so calm and mild. Hope began to waken once again in
all bosoms; and one, more rash than the rest, a fisherman from
Aspalathus, ventured down the hill, declaring that he would go and see
what had befallen his boat.
The minutes seemed hours; but very few had elapsed after his
departure, ere the fierce rushing sound of the destroyer was again
heard; again the earth reeled and shook, and yawned and heaved up, and
burst like bubbles from a seething caldron; and lightning, without a
cloud, played round the hills and over the waves. The terrified
multitude clung together, and the sick faintness of despair seemed to
defy all augmentation, when the voice of the fisherman was heard,
exclaiming, as he hastened back up the hill, "Fly farther, to the
mountains! fly farther up! the sea is rising over the land; the boats
are driven into the market-place; the palace will soon be covered! Fly
farther, and fly quickly, if you would save your lives!"
"Why should we fly?" cried the same voice which had before urged the
multitude to stay and await death below; and at the same time a tall,
gaunt man, with long streaming gray hair, and large, wild, melancholy
eyes, pushed himself forward into the torchlight. "Why should we fly?"
he cried; "and whither can we go to hide us from the wrath of God? Lo,
I tell you, and it shall come to pass, that no sun shall ever rise
again upon this earth, except the Sun of Righteousness. The last day,
the last great day, is at hand, and in vain ye say to the mountains,
'Fall upon us; and to the hills, Cover us, in the great and terrible
day of the Lord.' Make ready your hearts, and prepare your souls, for
verily ye are called to judgment, and the Son of Man is coming, in
clouds and glory, to separate the sheep from the goats."
His words, his solemn gestures, his wild and enthusiastic look,
supported by his reputed sanctity of life, plunged the people in
deeper despair; but Flavia again interposed, and with sweet and
gentle, yet dignified and commanding eloquence, she won the people to
hear, to yield, and to obey her. Lighted by a single torch, for those
they had brought had burnt so far that it became necessary to spare
them, the melancholy procession wound up the road which led over the
mountains towards Titurum. After travelling for at least a mile, with
a continual ascent, they again paused; and in order both to give new
courage to the sinking hearts of those who accompanied her, and to
prevent the enthusiast Mizetus from adding to their terrors, the lady
besought the good priests of the palace church to guide them in
praying to the Almighty in their hour of peril.
The old man had not spoken since they left the city; but the mild
words of the Roman lady seemed to wake him from the stupor of anguish
and terror into which he had fallen. Called upon to find words of
consolation for the flock committed to his charge, he applied them
first to his own heart, and instantly remembering the hopes and
promises of a pure and exalted faith, he broke forth in a strain of
powerful eloquence, now directing the people to put their trust in
that Almighty arm which can save in the time of the most awful
danger; now raising his voice in prayer to God, mingling adoration
with petition, and offering at once the sacrifice of faith and
supplication.
The people gathered round, slaves and freemen together, lifting their
pale faces and anxious eyes by the dull torchlight to the countenance
of the priest. They gained confidence and courage, however, at his
words; and when he began his prayer, they kneeled around upon the
still shaking earth, and rose again with hearts full of trust, calmed
and strengthened by devotion. None had stood aloof, not even those who
had hitherto remained firm to their ancient idolatry. In that hour of
horror, they felt the need of some higher hope and more abiding trust,
and they kneeled with the rest to that more mighty God whom hitherto
they had not known.
Ere they rose, a light and grateful wind sprang up from the mountains;
and with hope once more awakened, in a still dark and superstitious
age, even so slight a change as that was received as a favourable
presage. Many there were who regarded it as a sign that their prayers
were heard; and when at length the calm gray dawn began to look from
the eastern hills upon the wearied and anxious groups below, though
the earth still shook, from time to time, with a convulsive shudder,
the sight of the blessed light of returning day seemed to take the
worst apprehension from their overloaded hearts, and many an eye shed
tears of joy to see again those rays which they had feared were
obscured for ever.
Rashness generally follows terror allayed; and scarcely had the sun
fully risen, when numbers, anxious for friends whom they saw not--or,
perhaps, with more sordid motives--began to hasten away towards the
village and the palace. But the earth still shook, and Flavia, with
her family and servants, still remained upon the hill, after striving
anxiously to persuade the rest to wait till all was again completely
still. Her reasoning was in vain, however, and troop after troop went
off; but scarcely was the day an hour old, when another severe shock
was felt, and many who had escaped the dangers of that fearful night
were crushed or maimed in the ruins of the dwellings to which they had
returned. That shock was the last, as it was the longest, which was
felt; and when it subsided, all remained quiet; and though the ground
was seen yawning in various places, though parts even of the mountains
had slipped from their places, and rocks lay overthrown in the
valleys; though the courses of the streams had been altered, and the
whole face of the land was changed, yet it soon became evident that
the earthquake was over, and mourning was all that remained--mourning
unmingled with fear.
There was mourning in the hearts of all; and yet how many a glad
embrace, how many a tender and affectionate caress, how many a prayer
and thanksgiving, expressed the gratitude, the joy, the love, which
filled the bosoms of Flavia and her family. How many an earnest and a
wistful glance at the faces of each other told that, in the anguish of
that long horrible night, selfish fear had been superseded by
apprehensions of a nobler kind!
Bright and beautiful, calm and serene the day rose up over that scene
of desolation and ruin, smiling as if to give comfort and consolation
to the smitten earth; but still Flavia lingered on the hills,
unwilling to trust her children or her domestics amid the ruins of the
palace till she should be well assured that safety might be found
within its walls. As the sun grew hot, however, she removed to the
edge of a small wood of tall ilexes which hung upon the edge of the
mountain road, though many of the finest trees had been uprooted and
thrown down either by the wind or the earthquake; and having placed
herself beneath the shade, with her children round her, several of the
slaves ran hither and thither, to seek some food whereof to offer
their well-loved mistress the morning's meal. Each returned with
something; but each had some sad tale to tell of the ravages that were
to be traced in the direction in which he had gone. Milk, and wine,
and early fruits had been found in abundance among the various
cottages in the neighbourhood, and a meal, plentiful, but simple as
that of the night before, was spread upon the grass beneath the trees.
The earth was still, the air was fresh and sweet, and the birds had
begun again their melody, forgetting in song, like the happy heart of
youth, the blow of calamity as soon as it had passed away. All tended
to sooth and to reassure; and the heart of Ammian, which, even during
the terrible scenes of the past night, had not lost its bold and
fearless daring, now broke out in light and wild fancies. He would
know the causes of the earthquake; and when he found that neither his
mother nor Theodore could give a satisfactory reply to all his many
questions--as who in that age could have furnished any on such a
theme?--he let his imagination run wild in conjectures; and many a
bright poetical theory he formed, and many a wild and baseless
hypothesis he raised, sporting with all the dread images of the past
like a child playing with the weapons of deadly strife gathered from a
field of battle.
Then he urged his mother to return quickly to the palace, in order, as
he said, to see what old Ocean had been doing there during their
absence. With Theodore, Flavia held more rational intercourse, taking
counsel with him as to what course she had to pursue, and expressing
an apprehension lest the palace, left totally unguarded, might be
plundered during her absence and that of the old imperial conservator,
who remained with them, his senses still bewildered with all the
terrors he had gone through. Theodore, however, showed her that the
faithful slaves who had followed him through the building had brought
away all the valuable jewels, caskets, and gold which they had found;
and for the rest, he offered to return himself, with the conservator
and some of the slaves, and provide for the preservation of the palace
and all that it contained.
"Go you with the rest to Salona, dearest mother," he said; "some
dwellings must there have been preserved; and among the merchants and
traders which it contains you will always find shelter and assistance
for gold. Shaken as the palace has been, many parts may yet be
standing which will soon fall, and your presence would only be
dangerous, and embarrass us in ascertaining the state of the building.
I will accompany you part of the way to Salona, and then turn round by
the heathen cemetery towards Aspalathus and the palace."
Ildica listened, and her look seemed to say that she would fain
accompany him; for hers was one of those hearts which would rather,
far rather, take part in the danger and the grief of those they love
than share even their happiest hours. But she said nothing; for she
knew that her wishes ought not to be granted, and she would neither
put her mother nor her lover to the pain of opposing her even by a
word.
Eudochia, however, in the inconsiderate apprehensiveness of girlhood,
clung to her brother, and besought him not to go; but Theodore soon
pacified her, assuring her that he would not venture rashly where
danger was apparent; and, after a few more words, orders were given to
the domestics, and Flavia rose to proceed towards Salona. Weariness,
indeed, was in all limbs; and with slow and heavy steps, those who had
remained with Flavia on the uplands took their way along a road, which
wound for some distance over the ridge of hills nearest to the sea,
and then descended, separating into two branches, the one leading to
the town of Salona, the other to Aspalathus and the neighbouring
palace. The latter branch, with a steep declivity, wound down the
hill, bordered on either hand by a long row of tall dark cypresses,
which reached from the northern gate of the palace to a cemetery on
the side of the hill. In that burial-ground, surrounded by a low wall
not two feet high--thus built that all who passed might gaze upon the
records of mortality within--lay crowded a multitude of tombs,
checkered with groups of dull funereal trees. There reposed the
remains of all who had died in the vicinity since Dalmatia had become
a Roman province, and the frequent _Siste, viator!_ called the eye,
and recorded the vain attempt to teach mankind wisdom and moderation
from the common lot of all.
It was near this burial-place, just where the roads parted, that
Theodore paused, and, after a few minutes' conference with the old
officer of the palace, selected several of the slaves to accompany him
on his way. But just as he was about to depart, the eye of Ildica
rested upon a cloud of dust that rose from the point where the road
towards Salona became first visible, emerging from a thick grove at
the distance of perhaps half a mile from the spot where they then
stood.
"Look! look!" she said; "here are people coming up from the
city--perhaps to give us assistance; and I trust they may bring a
chariot or a litter, for my mother is pale and weary, and Eudochia is
faint also."
"And you are weary, too, my Ildica!" said her mother. "But look!
Theodore, look! Do you not see armour and helmets glittering through
the dust in the sun? It seems a turma of cavalry or more, for the line
is long. Stay with us, my dear son, till we see what we have here: let
us turn into this field opposite the cemetery while they pass by."
Her words were instantly obeyed as commands; and, winding on with a
slow equal march, a small body of horse, followed by a number of
stragglers on foot, ascended the hill, and then, without pause or
question, took the way on towards Aspalathus. In a moment after,
however, at a quicker pace, as if to overtake them, and followed by a
number of soldiers and attendants, came a superior person, who paused
on seeing the group seated in the neighbouring meadow, and sent a
messenger to ask if much mischief had occurred at the palace in
consequence of the earthquake, and whether the Lady Flavia were safe.
"She is well, and present," replied Flavia to the messenger: "who is
it that sends?"
"The military tribune, Marcian," replied the attendant, and Theodore
instantly sprang up, exclaiming, "My father's dear and noble friend!"
and without other comment he ran down the field. As soon as the
tribune beheld him he leaped from his horse and pressed him in his
arms, and after a few brief words gave some orders to his attendants,
and advanced with Theodore to the spot where Flavia sat.
He was a man already in the middle stage of life, tall and powerful in
frame, and of mild, but firm and serious countenance. He was not,
perhaps, what would generally be reputed handsome, but his features
were good; and there was the fire of genius in his large dark eye, the
consciousness of energy on his broad square brow. Dignity was in his
aspect and his whole demeanour; and, as he saluted the Lady Flavia,
lamented with her the events of the preceding night, and inquired in
tones of deep interest into all the perils through which she and her
family had passed, there was that calm and graceful suavity in his
deportment which inexpressibly won and struck every one who listened.
Nevertheless, there was a cloud, as if of some deep melancholy, hung
upon his brow; and when Flavia informed him of her purpose of
proceeding to Salona, he shook his head mournfully, saying, "You had
better not, lady! I think you had better not! It is a melancholy
place," he added, a moment after; "much shaken and ruined, and a great
number of people have lost their lives there. I fear that accounts
from other parts of the empire will be sad indeed."
There was something gloomy and thoughtful in the manner of the tribune
that surprised and somewhat alarmed the Roman lady; for so much
habitual self-command had the soldiers of the empire, that it was rare
to see any one, especially of such rank and renown as Marcian, display
upon the occasion of any misfortune like the earthquake, the natural
feelings which were not the less busy at their hearts. The marble
exterior of the old republicans was much affected by all who sought to
distinguish themselves in the Roman armies; and Marcian was famed for
a temperate but unyielding firmness, which admitted not the semblance
of grief or apprehension.
"Think you, then," she asked, "that we had better return to the
palace? A report reached us in the night that the sea had nearly
covered it."
Marcian paused for several minutes, as if meditating what were best to
do, and then replied, "Lady, I will send to see the condition of the
palace, and in the mean time bid them pitch me a tent here to give you
a shelter from the sun. We have provisions with us too, and can offer
you a meal, such as, perhaps, this great disaster may not have left at
Aspalathus."
"I thank you," replied Flavia; "we have already eaten. We found no
want of food among the cottages upon the hills."
But Marcian pressed upon them his hospitality so earnestly, that
Flavia yielded, feeling that there was something more beneath his
grave and thoughtful air than he suffered at first to appear; and
while the tent was being raised by his attendants, he sent a messenger
to the palace, with orders for such minute examination as showed that
the day would be high ere he could return. Food already dressed was
soon spread out under the tent; and one or two vessels of wine were
produced, with several rich cups and vases, carved with the exquisite
workmanship of an earlier age, and shining with many a precious stone.
With grave suavity the tribune did the honours of the meal, and spoke
much, and of many things, but with a wandering and discursive spirit,
as if his mind was forcing itself to the task, and seeking more
largely the aid of imagination than might have been the case had the
heart been itself at ease.
"How magnificent are those cypresses!" he said, looking towards the
long avenue which led down the hill; "I never beheld finer, except,
perhaps, some that grow on the hill above Byzantium. But those stand
solitary, as if to mark the tomb of some warrior who has died afar
from his own land; these sweep down in a long row, like a line of
departed monarchs seen in the shady grandeur of tradition. There they
stood, centuries before Diocletian laid the first stone of his palace;
there they stand now, when his history is almost forgotten; there they
will stand, when we are as he is. Well are they placed between the
palace and the sepulchre--those witnesses of the mortality of ages.
The common lot of man! why should any one shrink from the common lot
of man! Why should we look with hope to this world's future, or turn
back our eyes with lingering grief to the past, or nurse bright hopes
of such young beings as these," and he laid his hand upon the head of
Ammian, "or mourn with bitter regret for those who have changed the
thorny couch of mortal life for the calm bed of the tomb? Give me a
cup of wine!"
"A prodigy! a prodigy!" cried one of the slaves, running into the
tent; "an omen! an omen! Tribune, the eagle, which has hovered over us
all the way from Salona, has settled on the pole of the tent!"
"Get ye gone!" replied Marcian; "what have I to do with omens? I may
have the heart without the wings of the eagle. Out upon ambition! and
yet this very Diocletian, who founded the palace hard by, was a slave
before he was an emperor. But he loathed, resigned, and refused to
resume the power which he had acquired and proved. That eagle haunts
me: twice has it hovered for hours over me while sleeping in the open
field, and now it settles on my tent. These are strange accidents, and
yet nothing more than accidents. Who should dream of ambition with
those tombs before his eyes? Give me some wine!"
The attendant who stood near handed the goblet, which he had held
ready filled for some minutes, to his master; and Marcian,[5] yet but
half a Christian, turned and poured some of the wine upon the ground.
"To the dead!" he said, looking mournfully round him, "to the dead!"
and his eyes fixed full and sadly, upon Theodore.
---------------
[Footnote 5: He was at this time probably an Arian; but there is
reason to believe that his family had long held their ancient
religion, against all the decrees of the Christian emperors.]
---------------
The youth started suddenly on his feet, and grasped the tribune's
hand, exclaiming: "My father! I adjure thee tell me! What of my
father?"
Marcian threw his arms round the slighter form of his young friend,
speaking some words in a low tone. Flavia rose and gazed eagerly in
the face of the tribune, who shook his head mournfully as his reply;
and Theodore hid his face in his mantle, while Eudochia burst into
wild and weeping lamentations. Ildica's dark eyes overflowed in
silence; and though Flavia let not one drop roll over the jetty
fringes of her eyelids, her pale cheek grew paler, and her lip
quivered with intense emotion. Marcian said no more, but gazed down
sternly upon the hilt of his sword; and the only words that were
uttered for some time were: "Alas, Paulinus!" which broke from the lip
of Ammian.
CHAPTER VII.
THE DEPARTURE.
It was a long and dreary pause; but at length the stern and virtuous
soldier, who, ere many more years had passed, seated himself without
crime or bloodshed in the chair of the C[ae]sars, laid his hand upon
the arm of Theodore, with a firm but kindly pressure which spoke at
once to a heart full of high feelings and of noble energies, and
roused it from the dull stupor of sudden grief.
"Oh! Marcian," exclaimed the youth, "this is an unexpected stroke! So
short a while since I saw him depart full of vigour, and life, and
happiness. So short, so common a journey--so easy--so safe! How, tell
me how this has befallen? Was it by sickness, or accident, or war with
some rebel, or in the chase of some wild beast?"
"Alas, no!" replied Marcian; "it was by none of these, my son. Nor
would I wound your young heart afresh by telling how it did take
place, were it not absolutely necessary for you to know your father's
fate, in order that you may gain an augury or a warning of your own,
and timely prevent it."
"The emperor," cried Flavia, "the emperor has destroyed his faithful
friend: Paulinus saw it before he went. Every line of his last letter
breathes the anticipation of his coming fate. He saw it in the gloomy
brow of Theodosius; he saw it in the smile of Chrysapheus; he felt
that he was going, never to return. Say, tribune, say! was it not the
emperor's deed?"
"Even so!" replied Marcian. "By the order of him whom he had served
with unequalled fidelity and truth--the friend of his schoolboy hours,
the companion of his high and noble studies--by the hands of those he
thought his friends--hands that had been plighted to him in affection,
and raised with his in battle--at his own social board, and in the
hour of confiding tranquillity--was slain Paulinus, leaving not a
nobler or a better behind."
Theodore again shed tears, but Flavia asked eagerly, "The cause,
tribune! What was the cause--or rather, what the pretext for
cause--reasonable cause there could be none for dooming to death one
of the purest, noblest, least ambitious men that the world has ever
yet seen."
"The cause was jealousy, lady," replied Marcian; "a cause that leads
men ever to wild and madlike actions. In the gardens of the C[ae]sars,
near their eastern capital, is a solitary tree, which bears fruit
rarely; but when it does, produces an apple like that which hung in
the garden of the children of Hesperus--small in size, golden in
colour, and ambrosial to the taste. Paulinus had bestowed on Eudoxia a
book, containing poems of Sappho, which no other manuscript can
produce; and the empress, in return, had sportively promised her
husband's friend the rarest thing that she could find to bestow. The
tree of which I spoke had in the past autumn produced but one apple,
and that was sent, on the entrance of the new year, by Theodosius to
Eudoxia. She, in thoughtless innocence, sent it as the rarest of all
things to Paulinus, and Chrysapheus took good heed that the fact
should reach the emperor's ears, distorted to his purpose. Fury seized
upon the heart of Theodosius; but the base eunuch had sufficient skill
and power to make him conceal his suspicions and his hatred, for
Chrysapheus well knew that an open accusation might produce a bold and
successful defence. Paulinus was sent to C[ae]sarea; and there,
unheard, without trial, and without justice, was put to death!"
"Tyrant!" muttered Theodore. "Base, ungrateful tyrant!"
"Let your indignation swallow up your grief, my Theodore!" replied
Marcian; "but let it not injure your country. Great as it is, great as
it well may be, still greater will it become when you hear that
Valens, your father's bosom friend, has been since sacrificed for no
other crime than his love for Paulinus; that several of your household
slaves have been slain by the emperor's orders; and that all the
wealth of Paulinus has been bestowed upon Chrysapheus!"
Theodore again started up, exclaiming--"I swear by all my hopes, and
by my father's spirit--"
But Marcian caught his arm. "Swear nothing against your country, my
son," he cried: "Theodore, we have need of every Roman!"
"Hear me! hear me!" cried Theodore. "Naught against my country. No,
never, let the temptation be what it may, will I draw the sword
against Rome. So help me the God in whom I trust! But should ever the
time come when this hand can reach a tyrant, or a tyrant's minister,
it shall doom him to death as remorselessly as he has doomed my noble
father;" and having spoken, he cast himself down, and again covered
his face in his mantle.
Never, perhaps, through all the long tragic record of human woes and
suffering which the past, the sad and solemn past, holds in its
melancholy treasury--never was there yet a scene in which the dark
feeling of desolation penetrated more deeply into every bosom, than in
the one which surrounded the tribune Marcian. The horrors, the
fatigues, the destruction of the preceding night, had laid every heart
prostrate in the general calamity; and when the blow of individual
grief fell heavy upon all alike, it seemed to crush and trample out in
every breast the last warm kindly hopes--the last bright delusions of
our phantasm-like existence.
Flavia gazed on her children and on the orphans in deep melancholy;
while Theodore, with his face buried in his robe, sat apart, and
Eudochia hid her streaming eyes upon her adoptive mother's lap.
Ildica, with clasped hands, and cheeks down which the large bright
tears rolled slow, now gazed upon her young and mourning lover; now
turned an inquiring, anxious, longing glance towards Marcian; who, on
his part, again, with knitted brow and downcast eyes, sat in the
midst, stifling emotions which struggled hard against control. Even
the slaves of Flavia and Paulinus, among whom the news had spread,
gathered round the open tent, and, standing wrapped up in their dark
penul[ae], gazed with mournful and sympathizing looks upon the sad
group beneath its shade; while, mingled among them, here and there,
were seen some of the stout soldiers who had accompanied the tribune,
evidently sharing, notwithstanding all their own habits of danger and
suffering, and their frequent familiarity with death itself, in the
grief of the young and hapless beings before them.
One only of the party seemed occupied with other thoughts, and yet the
seeming belied him. Ammian, reclining by the side of the little sandy
path which crossed the meadow where they sat, seemed busy, in his
usual abstracted manner, in tracing figures on the dust. One of the
soldiers moved across to see what he was employed in, and by that
action drew the attention of Marcian, whose eyes turned thither too;
when, to his surprise, he beheld written in the Greek character upon
the sand--
"Death to all tyrants! The blood of the guilty for the blood of the
innocent! Vengeance for Paulinus!"
Rising at once, he set his foot upon the writing ere the slower
soldier could decipher what it meant; and then, raising his finger to
Ammian, he said, with emphasis, "Beware!"
The boy looked up in his face, and answered calmly, "I will beware,
most noble Marcian!" But there was meaning in his eyes, and Marcian
chose not to urge his wild and daring spirit further.
Seating himself again by Flavia's side, the tribune, with the calm
gentleness of a compassionate heart, endeavoured to sooth the pain
which it had been his bitter task to inflict; and when he had, in a
degree, succeeded in gaining attention, he gave some orders to the
soldiers, and spoke some words to the slaves, which caused them to
retire from the vicinity of the tent.
"Listen to me, Theodore," he said; "listen to me, noble lady! Grief
has had its part; other duties call for your consideration. I would
fain ask you, sweet Flavia, whither you now propose to turn your
steps; what plan you now propose to follow?"
"We proposed," replied Flavia, after a moment's hesitation, "to go
forward to Salona; there to wait, if we could find a refuge, till the
palace was again rendered habitable, or till we could send those
things which may be necessary to our own villa upon the mountains. I
have not dwelt in it since my husband's death, but if it be necessary
I can conquer memory."
"To Salona!" replied Marcian, musing; "to Salona! It is true, you
could easily fly thence in case of necessity to Ravenna; but
Valentinian, if report has informed me rightly, loves you not, and
might avenge himself by giving you up to Theodosius!"
Flavia gazed earnestly in the tribune's countenance, as the new and
painful conviction of fresh dangers broke upon her. "More sorrows!"
she said, "more, more, to be endured! Think you, then, noble Marcian,
that we are in danger at Salona? Think you, then, that Theodosius will
extend his persecution even to us, innocent as we are?"
"He has already slain one as innocent as any of us, lady," replied the
tribune, "and he has given up to the sword one friend and many of the
slaves of him who is gone. Do you believe, then, that he will spare
the cousin of one whom he hated--a cousin who was loved as a sister?
Can you trust to his stopping short with the father, and not carrying
on his vengeance to the son?"
"Oh that I were in his palace!" cried Theodore: "oh that I were in his
hall, and before his throne!"
But Flavia answered more calmly: "Tell us all our danger, tribune.
Give your kind and generous advice. You are known as wise and good, as
well as brave and skilful. We will give our actions into your hands
for guidance. You shall shape our course as you think fit."
"Lady," replied Marcian in a tone which, notwithstanding all his
command over himself, showed how much his heart was moved,--"lady, I
loved Paulinus as a brother. He was wise and eloquent, learned and
brave, and I am but the son of a common soldier, nurtured in camps,
and educated in the rude field. Yet between my heart and his there
were common feelings; and in the course of our various lives we
chained our souls together by mutual benefits: may his shade find
Elysium! When I heard of what had befallen, my first thought was of my
friend's children. My cohort was in Dalmatia, my time of command
approaching; and though I had been called to the capital by the
imperial mandate, I prepared to come hither with all speed. While I so
prepared, I heard of the death of Valens and his slaves, and doubted
not that the cup might next pass to me. I presented myself before the
emperor to know at once my doom; but he contented himself with
commanding me to come hither, and lead the troops instantly into
Thrace. Another cohort under the command of Strator, the bitter enemy
of Paulinus, is ordered hither instantly to regulate--such is the
pretext--the line of frontier with the messengers of Valentinian.
Lady, I fear me there may be other purposes to execute; and I have
hastened, without pause or rest, to bring you tidings which, sad as
they are, might have been crowned with bitterer still if I had not
been the messenger--to bring you such tidings, and to take counsel
with you for your safety. My opinion, indeed, my advice, is little
worthy of your having; but still, let us consult together, and--as far
as my duty as a soldier and a Roman will permit--let me be a brother
to the Lady Flavia, a father to my dead friend's orphans."
"Your advice will be as wise as your heart is kind," replied Flavia.
"Oh give it us, my friend! give it to us fully and openly. We will be
guided by it, unless there be reasons against it, which even you
yourself shall approve. If safety be not to be found in Illyricum,
whither would you have us go?
"To the extreme limits of the empire!" replied Marcian. "What matters
it to you what the land be called which you inhabit for a few short
years? what matters it if the north wind blow somewhat more coldly
than in this golden land? if winter wear a ruder aspect, and the
flowers and fruits linger for the summer sun ere they bloom and
ripen?"
"What matters it, indeed!" said Flavia. "We love this scene,
tribune--well and dearly do we love this glorious scene--but we love
it more from the tender memories that have been attached to it, than
even for its sunny splendour and its face of beauty. But now the
thunder which has stricken us has turned the sweet and fruity wine
which filled our cup to sour and hateful dregs. Another land will be
brighter in our sight. Freedom from a tyrant's neighbourhood shall
supply the place of beauties that we leave behind; the absence of
objects that recall our griefs shall compensate for those that once
awoke our joys; peace shall be our atmosphere of balm, security our
sunshine. What say you, Theodore?
"Let us go, my mother," replied the youth: "where you and Ildica,
Ammian and Eudochia, are with me, shall be my country. The tyrant has
smitten down one object of my love, but he is powerless over my
capability of loving: that which was parted is now all concentrated.
You will go with me, my Ildica, is it not so? and my father's
blessing--the blessing of the dead--shall follow, and comfort us in
exile. But whither would you direct our course, noble Marcian?"
"Towards the banks of the Danube," he replied. "There, at the extreme
verge of the imperial territory, the power of Theodosius waxes weak,
and is exercised with difficulty. There, too, if mad and persevering
jealousy drive him still to seek your hurt, ten steps place you beyond
his reach, where the feeble and degenerate C[ae]sar dare not stretch a
hand to grasp you: your father's brother dwells at Margus, bishop of
the place."
Theodore's countenance fell. "He was indeed the brother of my father's
blood," he answered, "but was never the brother of his love. Grasping,
avaricious, crafty, I have heard my father say that Eugenius has the
talents, but not the virtues, of a Roman."
"Yet with him," replied Marcian, "are you sure of a safer asylum than
with any one else. Even at this moment he is at enmity with the court
of Theodosius, and bears a mortal hatred to Chrysapheus, who had
wronged him, abandoned him, and, notwithstanding the pleading of your
father in his behalf, would have willingly given him up to the
barbarians. With him you will find safety, I must not say you will
find vengeance--but it may be so."
"Let us go!" cried Theodore; "let us go, my mother! The gold and
jewels which, unwitting of all this, I made the Numidians carry forth
last night, will render the journey lighter to you, dear mother; and
if my uncle, careful of his wealth, refuse to give me support, I will
find means to win it for myself."
"Fear not for that," replied Marcian; "your father's wealth, Theodore,
is gone, but his estates are yours; and even Theodosius dares not
openly take from you that which no law has sentenced you to lose.
Strange that he who unquestioned takes a life unjustly should not have
power to seize your land, and yet it is so. Now, lady, let me send
once more to the palace, and bid them bring forth all that your
treasury contains. Take with you all your moveable wealth; for if you
do not so guard yourself, it will fall into hands which render no
account. I will bid them, too, bring forth whatever litters and
carriages they find, to bear you less weary on the way; and ere two
days be over, I will follow, and rejoining you, protect you from harm,
till, on the frontiers of M[oe]sia, I must leave you and march on. At
all events, my presence and my troops will ensure your safety so far;
and even after that, I shall be interposed between you and your
enemies, so that no messenger of evil can pass without my learning his
purpose, delaying his journey, and giving you timely tidings. Speed,
however, matters much, and now I would have you set forth without a
day's delay."
Flavia sought not to procrastinate; for though many a clinging memory
attached her to those scenes by the fine filmy ties of associations,
which even the sharp edge of grief could not cut, yet the safety of
Theodore, the happiness of her own child, the enfranchisement from a
state of society, where virtue was no safeguard and justice afforded
no shield, were objects too dear and high to be risked by delay. Few
and melancholy were the words that now passed, but the orders of
Marcian were promptly obeyed; and though he would suffer neither
Flavia nor Theodore to return, even for an hour, to the palace,
knowing far more of the cruel orders which Theodosius had already
given against them than he chose to communicate, yet a number of their
domestics were sent thither with his soldiers to remove all that
belonged to either family in the building.
Ere the sun had passed the meridian more than an hour, all who had
been sent had returned, and many and curious were the objects which
now surrounded that sad group by the side of the cemetery. A number of
mules and horses were there; the black charger which had carried
Paulinus in his last victory over the Alani, and which had never been
ridden since by any one but himself; the white horses which drew the
low carriage called _pilentum_, wherein Flavia was accustomed to drive
along the margin of the sea; litters with their silver feet, and
covered chairs of gold and ivory; rich caskets; leathern bags of gold
and silver coin; and large quantities of silks and fine linens (then
become general, but still considered costly,) made up into packages of
convenient sizes for carrying on the shoulders of the slaves, or
placing on the beasts of burden, together with cups and vases of gold,
silver, and precious stones; and slaves of all complexions and of
every different feature. Everything, in short, which was usually
collected in a wealthy and powerful Roman house, at that luxurious and
extravagant period, was there scattered round in glittering profusion,
giving that group the appearance of some caravan from Ophir or from
Tyre reposing on its journey. Some confusion and some delay took
place, though everything was arranged as quickly as possible, while
Flavia looked on in calm sadness, and Theodore gazed upon the scene
with burning indignation unquenched by grief, making his lip still
quiver and his bright eye flash.
At length all was prepared, and, with a few words of heartfelt thanks
to Marcian, the lady placed herself with Ildica in one of the
_lectul[ae]_ or litters, Eudochia and her chief attendant reclined in
another. Ammian sprang upon a small Thracian horse, and Theodore
mounted his father's charger. The noble beast, wild with unwearied
strength, reared high and snorted fiercely, as he felt the light
weight of the young Roman; but Theodore with skill and power soon
curbed him to his will, and patted his proud neck, while a tear, given
to the memory of him who was gone, wetted his eyelids. The whole party
then moved on, winding back again along the path which they had
trodden that very morning.
Their way lay over the hills, and for an hour they moved on, ascending
gently, but without stopping, till at length, on the highest spot of
the inferior acclivity, which lies at the foot of the higher
mountains, Flavia bade the bearers stop, and gazed out of the litter
upon the scene which she was quitting perhaps for ever. There it lay,
robed in the same splendid sunshine which had adorned it on the
preceding day. To the eyes which looked upon it not a change was to be
seen. The palace, the village, the distant town of Salona, the
beautiful bay, the golden islands which are scattered along the coast,
the liquid sapphire in which they seemed to float, were all sleeping
beneath the wanderers' glance in the drowsy heat of midday, looking
calm and tranquil, as if nature herself imitated the hypocrisy of man,
and covered with deceitful smiles the desolation which reigned within
her bosom. The measured round of the sun had scarcely been
accomplished, since those who now stood upon the hill-top, fugitives
from their dear domestic hearths, had met together after separation,
and had gazed over that same lovely prospect from the clump of
cypresses which now lay beneath their eyes. Scarcely had one round of
the sun been accomplished since, standing there, they had gazed upon
that pageant-like scene of beauty, and had felt all its fair features
reflected from the clear bright mirror of the happy heart. Scarcely
had one round been accomplished since every splendid object that the
eye could find, and every sweet sound that the ear could catch, in a
spot, and a moment when all was music and brightness, had seemed but
an image, a type, a prophecy of joys, and happiness, and successes yet
to come; and yet in that brief space an earthquake had rent and torn
that enchanted land, and had scattered ruin, desolation, and death
over its fair calm face: in that brief space, from the bosoms of those
who gazed upon it had been torn the bright joys of youth and
inexperience; had been scattered the dear hopes and warm imaginings of
innocent expectation; had been riven one of the dearest ties of human
existence, the great band of the loving and the loved; for not one in
that sad family but felt that the unjust fate of Paulinus had given a
chilly coldness to their hearts--no, not one from the youngest to the
oldest. The young felt that the fresh bloom was gone for ever from the
Hesperian fruit; the elder that the cropped flower of hope, which had
again been beginning to blossom, had been once more crushed down, and
never could bloom again.
Between their fate and the scene they gazed upon there seemed some
fanciful affinity; each felt it, each lingered with fond regret to
gather into one glance all the thousand lovely and beloved sights;
each sighed as they gazed and thought of the "_For ever!_" and at
length, even from Flavia's eyes, broke forth the long-repressed tears.
The slaves stood round and sympathized with those who mourned. Many a
dark eye and many a rough cheek was moistened with the drops of kindly
feeling, till at length the lady wiped her tears away, and, waving her
hand towards the valleys on the other side, said, "Let us go on!"
Again they began to move, when the voices of two slaves broke forth in
a mournful song, which they had probably often sung in their own
remote land.
SLAVE'S SONG.
I.
"We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth;
Our life's but a race to the death from the birth;
We pause not to gather the flowers as they grow,
The goal is before us, and on we must go!
We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth."
II.
"Fair scenes of our childhood, dear homes of our youth,
Memorials of innocence, virtue, and truth,
The land of our birth, the dear mother that bore--
We leave ye behind us, we see you no more!
We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth."
III.
"The joys that we tasted we taste not again;
Each hour has its burden, each day has its pain;
No moment in flying, but hurries us past
Some sight, sound, or feeling more dear than the last!
We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth."
IV.
"We leave ye behind us, and others shall come
To tread in our footsteps, from cradle to tomb;
Still gazing back fondly, with lingering eyes,
Where behind them the bright land of memory lies!
We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth."
V.
"The sound of Time's pinion, as fast he doth fly,
Is echoed from each mortal breast by a sigh;
What if there be fruits? they ungather'd must grow,
For fate is behind us, and on we must go!
We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth."
VI.
"We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth.
Hopes, joys, and endearments, sport, pleasure, and mirth,
Like a tempest-driven ship, sailing by some bright shore,
Time hurries us onward--we see you no more!
We leave ye behind us, sweet things of the earth."
CHAPTER VIII.
THE STRANGER.
It was in the calends of June, and yet the day had very few of the
attributes of summer. The grey rain came down heavily from the dull
leaden sky, the wind rushed in fierce gusts from the northeast, the
stream of the Danube rolled dark and rapidly, and a melancholy murmur
rose up from its waters while they hurried on to the gloomy Euxine, as
if in reply to the sad and wailing voice of the breeze. The only thing
that spoke the season of the year was the vivid verdure of the wide
green pastures, and the rich blossoms that hung upon the frequent
trees. Along the banks of the dark river, accompanied only by two
freedmen on horseback, rode Theodore, the son of Paulinus, dressed in
the deep mourning tunic and mantle of dark grey, with no ornament of
any kind upon his person except at the hilt of his sword. The same
black charger bore him with which he had departed from Dalmatia; and
pressing the noble beast onward, he cast his eyes frequently to the
opposite bank of the river.
At length he suddenly drew in his bridle, exclaiming: "There is a
raft, and if we can but make them hear we shall be secure. Dismount,
Cremera; run to the margin, and shout loudly for the boatmen."
The dark Arab, who, though rendered free by Flavia after the
earthquake, at Theodore's request, still followed the fortunes of the
young Roman with love elevated by liberty, sprang eagerly to the
ground to obey; but, to the surprise of all, ere he had led down his
horse to the shore, the raft, which they had seen moored to the
opposite bank, was put in motion by two men who had been sitting near,
under the shelter of the wood, that was there thick and tall. Onward
it came, skilfully piloted across the stream, till it approached the
shore, on which Theodore and his two followers now stood ready to
embark.
At the distance of twenty or thirty cubits, however, the raft paused,
and those who steered it gazed upon the young Roman and his attendants
with apparent doubt and surprise. Theodore pressed them to come on;
and then, perceiving that they were barbarians from the north, he
spoke to them in one of those dialects which feelings connected with
his mother's memory had made him learn and preserve, even amid the gay
amusements and deeper studies which had since had their share of his
time. She it was who had first taught his infant tongue to pronounce
those sounds so difficult for a Roman to utter: she it was who had
used those northern words towards her boy, in the early language of
affection and tenderness; and though she had died at a period of his
life when the wax on the tablets of memory is soft, and impressions
are too easily effaced, he had never forgotten the accents that he had
so dearly loved. But now, that knowledge proved not a little
serviceable. The barbarians looked up in surprise; and when he told
them, in a language they understood, to bring near their raft with
speed, as delay might be dangerous to him, they hastened to approach
the shore, and suffered him to lead his unwilling horse upon the
fluctuating and unsteady raft.
One of the attendants followed; but the boatmen seemed to doubt
whether their rude passage-boat would sustain the third man and horse;
though the large trunks of trees whereof it was composed were further
supported by skins blown out like bladders. Theodore, however, would
not leave one behind; and, though sinking deep in the water, the raft
still bore them all up.
Floating heavily upon the rushing stream, it reached the other bank of
the Danube, and a piece of gold repaid the service of the boatmen; but
though, when the foot of Theodore touched the barbaric land, he felt
the thrill of security and freedom at his heart, yet, as he mounted
his horse and gazed upon the scene before him, he paused with a
sensation of doubt and awe. The bank of the river where he stood was
clothed with smooth green turf; but both farther up and lower down the
stream might be seen high rocks; and at the distance of about a
hundred yards from the margin rose up dark, tall, and gloomy, the
forest covering the primeval earth. The proximity of those mighty
trees prevented the eye from discovering aught beyond them, except
where the ground sloped down towards the west; but there, even, no
promise of a more open country was given: for over the first forest
line, at its lowest point, might be seen a wide extent of dark gray
wood, rounded, and waving with an interminable ocean of leaves and
branches.
The desolate aspect of the wilderness fell chill upon the heart of the
young Roman; and though his resolution to pursue his way on that side
of the river was not to be shaken, yet many a difficulty and a danger,
he too well knew, lay before him. Through some part of that wood, he
was aware, had been cut a military road, when the Romans had been
indeed the sovereigns of the world; but since that time centuries had
passed, and the inhabitants of the country had changed: a thousand
uncivilized tribes filled the land which the people of the imperial
city had once possessed; and all her magnificent works had been
destroyed or neglected beyond the mere frontier of the diminished
empire. Theodore paused, and gazed upon that dark and gloomy wood,
uncertain by what path he should direct his steps, and without
remarking the keen and eager eyes with which the two barbarian
ferrymen examined him from head to foot.
At length, as he still stood scanning the forest, one of them asked
some question of the Arab Cremera; but it was couched in the language
of the Alani, and Cremera could neither comprehend nor answer. The
barbarian then advanced to the side of the young Roman's horse, and
said, in a mild and sympathizing voice, "Are you not he who was
expected?"
"I am not," replied Theodore, in the same language. "I am a Roman; but
I seek to go to Margus by the barbarian bank of the river."
"You will find it both difficult and dangerous," answered the other,
"even if you already know this land; and if you do not know it, the
lizard which climbs the rocks and trees, and glides through the
smallest space upon its onward way, might as well try to travel upon
the water. Besides, you know not whether you are welcome in the land."
"My mother was daughter of Evaric, king of the Alani of Gaul," replied
Theodore; "and wherever the land is tenanted by that nation I shall be
welcome."
The man kissed the edge of his mantle, saying, "Be you welcome!" and
Theodore continued: "Can you give me no one to guide me on my way?"
"I will see, I will see!" replied the other; and he ran swiftly up
into the wood.
Ere he had been long absent he reappeared, followed by a young man,
clad in coarse clothing and common fur, who expressed himself willing,
for a small reward, to undertake the task of guiding the stranger on
his way; and though, by his stature and complexion, very different
from those of the tall and fair Alani, Theodore discovered at once
that he was of some other tribe, and found, also, that he could only
speak a few brief sentences of their language, the young Roman was,
nevertheless, glad to put himself under the guidance of any one who
knew the country well. With the few words that he could command of the
language which Theodore had been speaking, the guide told him that it
would be a journey of two days from that spot to Margus, and that
houses where they could find refreshment and repose would be few; but
still Theodore determined to pursue his way, and the guide was at once
promised the hire that he demanded.
He made the young Roman stay while he caught and mounted a small
shaggy horse which had been straying in the wood, round a hut which
was just to be distinguished upon the upland, through the bolls of the
tall trees. No sooner had he sprung upon his beast, however, than the
whole nature of the barbarian seemed changed. Where he had been slow
and limping in his gait, he became quick and active; and setting off
at full speed through the forest, he pursued paths along which it was
scarcely possible for Theodore and his companions to follow him; so
narrow were they, so tangled, so insecure for any horse unaccustomed
to those intricate wilds.
Still poured down the rain; and as they galloped on through those dim
vistas and sudden breaks, the white mist rolled in volumes among the
trees, and each footfall of the horses produced a cloud from the
marshy grass. At length, towards the evening, the sun, some three
hours past his meridian, began to break through the heavy clouds, and
streamed down the glades of the forest, while the light vapours rolled
away, and the birds sang sweetly from the woody coverts around. In
another hour three small tents of skins were seen; and, pausing there
for a short space, the guide procured some food for the horses and
milk for the riders. The people of the tents looked wild and fierce,
and spoke the dialect of the Huns, which was unintelligible to all
ears but that of the guide. They showed no curiosity in regard to the
strangers' appearance, but they evinced that avidity which is the
peculiar vice of frontier tribes.
At the end of less than an hour the guide pointed to the sun and to
the horses; and Theodore, mounting, once more followed him on his way.
Night fell ere they again saw a human abode; but at length they halted
before a tall tower of hewn stone, which had, in former years, been a
Roman fort, built as a defence against the very barbarians who now
possessed the land. The guide tried the gateway; but finding it fast,
shouted loudly for admission. He then paused to listen if any reply
were made; and while he did so, Theodore heard afar the melancholy
roaring of the Danube.
At length some grim faces and wild fur-clad forms presented themselves
at the gate, and Theodore and his followers were led into what had
been the chamber of the guard. There was no want of hospitality--nay,
nor of courtesy of heart--shown by the rude tenants of that half
ruined building, to the young stranger who sought the shelter of the
roof that had become theirs. They lighted a fire in the midst of the
hall to dry his still damp garments; they brought forth their stock of
fruit and milk, and even some of the delicacies obtained from the
neighbouring country. Broiled fish was speedily added; and while the
men, by speaking gestures, pressed him to his food, the women touched
his mantle, and seemed by their smiles to marvel at its fineness.
Though their appearance was rude, and no comeliness of form or feature
won by external beauty that confidence which is so often refused to
homely truth, yet Theodore read in their looks that he was secure, and
lay himself down upon a bed of skins to seek that repose which he so
much needed. The freedmen lay at his feet; and all was soon silence
within those crumbling walls: but sleep, the bosom friend of youth and
happiness, grows timorous as a sacred bird after the first fell grasp
of grief. All that he had gone through within the last sad month, all
that weighed upon his mind even then, came back in the visions of the
night, and three times roused the young Roman from his light and
troubled slumbers. The first time all was still, and the light of the
blazing fire of pine flickered over the dark forms that lay sleeping
around. The next time when he woke two figures were standing between
him and the light; but one soon turned away and left the chamber,
while the other, who remained, cast some fagots on the embers, and
again lay himself down to rest. The slumber that succeeded was deeper,
heavier, more tranquil; and when he again awoke, daylight was
streaming in from above. Almost all the Huns whom he had seen the
night before had left the chamber, and one, whom he had not hitherto
beheld, stood with his arms folded on his chest, gazing upon him as he
lay stretched in the morning light.
Between Theodore and the barbarian, however, awakened, watchful, and
prepared, with his spear grasped in his hand, sat the faithful
Cremera, his giant limbs and swelling muscles all ready to start into
defence of his master on the slightest appearance of danger; but the
eyes of the Hun seemed not even to see the slave, so intently were
those small but searching orbs turned upon the countenance of the
young Roman. Even when he woke and looked up, the Hun withdrew not
that steadfast gaze; but seemed to contemplate, with eager curiosity,
the same features which he had beheld silent and cold in sleep now
wakening up into warm and speaking life.
Theodore returned the glance for a moment without rising, and, as he
lay, scanned the person of the Hun. He was shorter than the ordinary
height of the Romans; but his breadth across the shoulders was
gigantic, with thin flanks and long muscular arms. His features were
by no means handsome, and his complexion was a pale dark brown; but
yet there was something in that countenance remarkable, striking, not
displeasing. The small black eyes had an inexpressible brilliancy; the
forehead, surmounted with thin gray hair, was broad, high, and
majestic; and the firm immoveable bend of the almost beardless lips
spoke that decision and strength of character which, when displayed,
either in good or evil, commands a separate portion of respect. His
dress was nearly the same as that of the other barbarians whom
Theodore had already encountered, consisting of dark gray cloth and
skins; but the cloth was somewhat finer in texture, and the skins had
a smooth and glossy softness, which showed the young Roman that the
man who stood before him was superior to the rest of those by whom he
was surrounded. Nor had it, indeed, required the slight superiority of
his garb to teach Theodore that he beheld no ordinary man. It has been
asserted, and it may be so, that from some hidden source of sympathy,
some instinctive prescience, we always feel peculiar sensations on
first meeting with one who is destined greatly to influence or control
our fate through life; and whether such be the case or not, certain it
is that through the breast of Theodore, the moment his eyes rested on
the Hun, passed a thrill, not of fear, nor of awe, nor even of
surprise, but of strange and mingled emotions, such as he had never
known before; and, as I have said, he continued in the same recumbent
attitude, gazing firmly in the face of one who gazed so steadfastly at
him.
After a short pause, however, the Hun spoke, addressing him in the
tongue of the Alani. "Though that bed," he said, in a low, deep-toned
voice, every word of which was as distinct and clear as if spoken by a
Stentor--"though that bed must be but a hard one for the soft limbs of
a Roman, thou seemest too fond of it for such a youth as thou art."
"Thou art mistaken, barbarian," replied Theodore, springing on his
feet; "the Romans, who can lie on silken couches when they find them,
do not think the ground neither too cold nor too hard when necessary
to use it for a bed. I was weary with long journeying for many days;
otherwise the crowing cock is my awakener."
"Thou speakest the Alan tongue well," said the Hun, gazing at him from
head to foot; "and thou art in colour and in size like a northman.
Say, art thou really a Roman?"
"I am," replied Theodore; "but my mother was the daughter of Evaric--"
"King of the Alani," interrupted the Hun: "then thy father was
Paulinus, count of the offices. We have met," he added, musing; "we
have met; he is a valiant man: where is he now?"
"In the grave," replied Theodore.
The Hun started; and, after a moment's pause, replied, "I grieve for
him; he was a valiant man: how did he die?"
"It matters not," answered Theodore; "he is dead. And now, barbarian,
I would fain speed on my way, for I would be at Margus as early as may
be. Where is my guide?"
"To Margus!" said the Hun: "know you that the priest of that city--the
bishop as they call him--has offended Attila the King? know you that
Attila has demanded him from Theodosius as a slave, to set his foot
upon his neck, and trample on him?"
"I have heard such rumours as I came hither," replied Theodore; "but
it matters not to me what quarrel there may be between my uncle and
the barbarian chief. Attila will find it hard to trample on the
brother of Paulinus."
"Ay! so he is Paulinus' brother!" cried the Hun; "I do remember now he
_is_ his brother: but if thou bearest tidings from Theodosius to thine
uncle, tell him to put no faith in the arms of men who know not how to
use them; to trust not in those who daily break their promises. Tell
him that he who bade you thus speak knows full well Attila the King;
and that he will as soon abandon his prey as the hungry vulture. Your
guide is gone; but follow me; I will show you the way to Margus."
A number of barbarians were collected in the lower part of the tower
and in the open space round it; but without a word they suffered
Theodore and his freedmen, with their new guide, to proceed to a tree
under which four horses stood prepared. All passed in silence; no one
stood forward to assist; no one advanced to require recompense from
the young stranger. The Hun who accompanied him sprang on his own
horse at one bound, and then sat as if of a piece with the animal;
while Theodore drew forth a coin of gold, and beckoned forward the
barbarian who had acted the foremost part, on the preceding night, in
offering him the rites of hospitality. The man looked wistfully at the
gold piece which Theodore held out towards him, and then at the face
of his superior, who sat beside the young Roman. The horseman,
however, bowed his head, and the other instantly took the money,
uttering a number of words which Theodore did not understand, but
construed into thanks. Turning their bridles then towards the Danube,
the journey towards Margus was recommenced, the Hun leading the way at
a slow pace.
"You ride not so swiftly as our guide of yesterday," said Theodore,
after proceeding for a few minutes, with the impatience of youth and
anxiety urging him on; "remember, I would be at Margus ere nightfall."
"'Tis a three hours' journey," said the other, calmly: "you are
impatient, youth. I would fain spare the beast thou ridest; for, were
it as the gods willed it to be, it would be a noble creature, and thou
hast ridden it too long and too hard yesterday for a creature so sleek
and pampered."
"Despise it not, Hun!" said Theodore, as he saw the keen bright eye of
his companion running over the charger's limbs; "despise it not. It
has carried my father through a bloody field of battle, and has borne
me through a long and painful journey, after which it may well show
some signs of weariness; therefore despise it not, though it be unlike
the rugged brute which thou ridest thyself."
"I do not despise it," rejoined the Hun. "In former times its soft and
silken coat, its delicate limbs and weighty body, might have provoked
my scorn; but I have learned to know that all things have their uses,
and to despise nothing but vicious luxury, effeminacy, and cowardice.
I see no reason why there should not be tribes who fight, and tribes
who cultivate the land: each may be useful; and so with your horse and
mine. Mine will carry me with a swiftness, and to a distance, and for
a length of time, impossible to yours; will bear weather, and food,
and cold, under which yours would die; but, very likely, in the shock
of battle yours would bear down mine--if I did not prevent it--and,
perhaps, might perform feats that mine could never learn. It is only
when I see man debase himself to carve images, and paint pictures, and
work gold, and spend years in making a dwelling to cover his miserable
head, and lie upon the feathers of birds, and cover himself with the
woven excrements of a worm, that I now feel disgust. Gems, and jewels,
and cups of gold and silver, may be wrought by other nations, and may
be used by us; but it is the part of bold and brave men to take them
from those who are weak and effeminate enough to make them."
"I cannot argue with you, barbarian," replied Theodore; "my mind
wanders unto other things: but I have heard my father say that all the
graces and elegances of social life are the true touchstone of the
noble heart. Those who are inclined by nature to evil will become
effeminate and corrupt under their influence; while those who are
brave and virtuous only gain thence a higher point of virtue and a
nobler motive for daring. The diamond, when we throw it in the fire,
loses nothing but the dirt and dust it may have gathered, and comes
out clearer than before. A barbarian fights because he has nothing to
lose but life, which has many miseries and few enjoyments; a Roman,
because he has a duty to perform, although a thousand ties of refined
pleasures and multiplied enjoyments bind him to the life he risks."
"Therefore is it that the Romans fight so feebly," replied the Hun;
but as he saw the colour mounting in the cheek of Theodore, he added,
"Be not angry, youth: my words shall not offend your ear in a land
which thou hast sought, trusting to our hospitality. Thy father might
well speak as thou sayst he did, for he was one of those that showed
his own words true."
"Thou doest my father justice, my country wrong," replied Theodore;
"but the day may come, Hun--the day may come when Romans, rousing
themselves from the sleep into which they have fallen, may teach those
who now mistake idleness for cowardice, who take the love of repose
and peace for timidity, that the lion yet lives, though his roar has
not been heard for years."
A grim smile hung for a moment on the lip of the barbarian, and then
passed away; but he replied nothing directly to the tart answer of his
young companion. At length, as they rode along by the rushing Danube,
winding their way once more between the forests and the river, he
pointed first to the one and then to the other bank, saying, "Lo,
Roman civilization--Scythian rudeness! and yet, as thou sayst, the
time may come--nay, it may be near, when the trial will take place, of
which country produces, which habits nourish, the boldest hearts and
strongest hands. But setting that apart, I say, give me the forest and
the wild meadow, and the simple hut or tent of skins, truth, justice,
freedom: for it is my belief that simplicity and honesty are one;
luxury and falsehood are not to be divided. Look at this forest," he
continued, after a brief pause; "it seems almost impervious, yet thou
hast found a way through it; and at the foot of the hill which we are
now mounting you will find a paved road, leading into the heart of the
land. It was constructed by thy ancestors, nearly in a line with the
famous vallum Romanum; and if at any time need or fancy should make
thee wish to see the nations which live beyond this woody barrier,
follow that road, and ask for Onegisus, the friend of Attila the King.
Thou shalt find safety, friends, and protection. But see! we are at
the top of the hill, and I must leave thee. Yonder, on the other side
of the stream, where the blue mist is rolling up the mountain, lies
Margus. Lo! its many towers! Thou canst not miss the way. Now Mars
protect thee!"
CHAPTER IX.
THE BISHOP OF MARGUS.
The two sides of that mountain were like the prospect laid out beneath
the eyes of man when, in the midst of life, he pauses to survey the
past and to scrutinize the future. Dark and gloomy, on the one hand,
stretched masses impervious to the eye, wrapped in uncertain mists and
vague, undefined confusion, where nothing was known, nothing was sure,
but that there lay ruin, chill neglect, and desolation, even unto
those regions where the Cimmerian darkness of the grave covered and
confounded all. On the other hand, stretching out like the sweet
memories that lie along the path of youth, was seen a fair and
beautiful land, with the Danube rushing on through the midst towards
Margus: valley and hill, fragments of the Dacian forests, but broken
by broad cultivated plains, a watch-tower here and there; then, within
their guardian line, a farm, a villa, gardens, and pasturages, with
the towers and walls of Margus at about eight miles' distance; and
beyond, but to the right, the Mons Aureus rising, like a pile of lapis
lazuli, in blue majestic splendour to the sky.
Theodore paused to gaze; and feelings, mingled, intense, and even
painful, woke in his bosom at the sight of those fair scenes from
which he might so soon be driven, contrasted with that dark and gloomy
land which might prove his only refuge.
He turned, however, after a moment's silence, to ask the Hun if he
could, in truth, prefer the one to the other; but the barbarian had
left him without further leave-taking, and his dark form was seen
riding rapidly towards the thickest part of the forest. Theodore still
remained gazing over the prospect; but, as he did so, he thought he
heard a distant shout of many voices rising up from the woods behind
him; and, fearful of any interruption in his course, he hurried on
upon the road which lay open before him.
Increasing tokens of civilization now met his eye at every step as he
proceeded; and shortly before he reached the shore, at the nearest
point to the city, he beheld more than one ferryboat, no longer a mere
raft, supported by inflated skins, but barks, provided expressly for
the purpose, and offering every convenience at which the mature art of
the Romans had yet arrived. Without question, the young Roman and his
followers were admitted into one of the boats, and in a few minutes
were landed on the other side of the Danube, in the midst of all that
hurry, bustle, and luxurious activity which marked the precincts of a
Roman city, even in a remote province, and in the immediate vicinity
of those barbarian allies who were soon destined to overwhelm all
those soft and splendid scenes in blood and ashes.
The Roman dress and air of Theodore and his two freedmen enabled them
to pass on unquestioned through the gates; where a few soldiers, with
their spears cast idly down, their helmets laid aside, and their
swords unbraced, sat gaming in the sun, offering a sad but striking
picture of the decay of that discipline which had once so speedily
won, and had so long preserved, the dominion of the world. Gayly and
tunefully carolled the flower-girl, as she tripped along with her
basketful of wreaths and garlands for the festal hall or the flowing
wine-cup; loudly shouted, with the ready cyathus in his hand, the
seller of hot wine in the Thermopolium; eagerly argued the lawyer and
the suiter as they hurried along to the tribunal of the duumvir; gayly
laughed the boys, as, followed by a slave bearing their books, they
hastened homeward from the school. Splendid dresses, fair faces,
magnificent shops, and chariots with tires of gold and silver, litters
with cushions stuffed with the flowers of the new-blown rose, met the
eye of Theodore in every direction; and as he looked on all this
luxury and magnificence, and compared it with the scenes he had just
quitted, he could not help asking himself, "And is this Margus? Is
this the city daily threatened by barbarian enemies? Is this the
extreme point of civilization, upon the very verge of woods, and
wilds, and hordes of savage Scythians?"
At the end of a wide open space, towards the centre of the town, rose
one of those beautiful peristyles--less light, but perhaps more
imposing, than the Greek--whereof so many had been constructed under
Hadrian. Within it appeared a massy temple, formerly dedicated to
Jupiter, but now consecrated to that purer faith destined to remain
unsullied through everlasting ages, notwithstanding the faults, the
follies, and the vices of some of its ministers.
At the moment that the young Roman entered the forum, the mingled
crowd of worshippers was descending the steps of the temple; and above
them, between the two central pillars of the portico, clothed in his
sacerdotal robes, and with his extended hands giving his blessing to
the people, stood a tall and princely form, in which Theodore
instantly recognised the Bishop of Margus, the brother of his father.
Dismounting from his horse, the young Roman waited for a moment, until
the crowd had in some degree dispersed, and then, ascending the steps
towards the door through which his uncle had retired into the church,
he asked a presbyter, who was still lingering on the threshold, if he
could speak with the bishop.
"You will find him at his dwelling, my son," replied the presbyter:
"he has passed through the church, and has gone to his mansion, which
lies just behind it."
Theodore took the direction in which the presbyter pointed with his
hand; and, followed by Cremera and the other freedman, reached the
entrance of a splendid dwelling, round the doors of which stood a
crowd of poor clients, waiting for the daily dole of bread and wine.
Theodore found some difficulty, however, in obtaining admission to his
uncle's presence. "He is gone to divest himself of his sacred robes,"
one slave replied; "He is busy in private devotion," asserted another;
a third plainly refused to admit the stranger, unless previously
informed of his name and purpose.
"Tell the bishop," said Theodore, "that it is a Roman from
Constantinople, who brings him tidings of his friends, which it much
imports him to hear as soon as may be."
There was the accent of command in the young Roman's speech, which
made the slave hasten to obey; and in a moment after the curtain,
beneath which he had passed in order to communicate the message to the
bishop, was drawn back, and Theodore found himself in the presence of
his uncle.
The prelate gazed upon him for a moment in silence. It is probable
that at first he did not recognise the boy, whom he had not seen for
several years, in the young man that now stood before him; and yet
that faint and twilight recollection--more like the act of perception
than of remembrance--by which old impressions first break upon us,
before memory has time distinctly to trace out the particulars, caused
the shades of manifold emotions to pass over his countenance, as his
eyes remained fixed on the face of his nephew.
"Theodore!" he exclaimed at length, "Theodore! what in the name of
Heaven has brought you here at this hour, and under these
circumstances? Know you not that the barbarians demand my life to
expiate the sins of others? Know you not that they threaten to seek me
even here, and sate their vengeance in the blood of my flock, if I be
not given up to them? Know you not that the weak emperor, after having
faintly refused their horrible demand, now hesitates whether he should
yield his innocent subject, and the teacher of his people, to the
barbarous hands of his enemies? What was your father thinking of to
send you here? unless, indeed, he be bringing six legions to my aid,
and you be but the harbinger of the coming succour."
"Alas, my uncle," replied Theodore, mournfully, "no such tidings have
I to tell; nevertheless, my tidings are not few nor of little import;
but let us speak of them alone. Here there are many ears around us;
and you may perchance find it expedient to consider well what I have
to say ere you make it public."
As he spoke, he glanced his eye towards the crowd of slaves and
officers who filled the other end of the hall in which they stood; and
the bishop, who had been moved to indiscretion by the sudden
appearance of his nephew, resumed the caution, which, though a bold,
ambitious man, formed part of his natural character, and, making a
sign with his hand, said merely, "Follow me." As he spoke, he led the
way through the great hall to a small room beyond, from which a flight
of steps descended to a beautiful garden, laid out in slopes, and
adorned with many a statue and many a fountain. The curtain, drawn
back between it and the hall, exposed to the view any one who
approached on that side, while on the other the terraces lay open to
the eye, so that naught with a step less stealthy than that of Time
himself could approach unperceived.
"Here, my nephew, here," said the bishop, "our secret words will not
pass beyond our own bosoms. Tell me what brings you hither at a moment
of such earnest difficulty--at a moment when I know not whether the
base emperor may not deliver me up to the barbarian Attila. I who have
abandoned all--state, dignity, the paths of ambition and of glory--to
devote myself to the service of God and his holy church. Yet tell me,
first, how fares your father, how fares my noble brother? Why wrote he
not in answer to my letter beseeching him to use his power with
Theodosius in my behalf?"
"I come," replied Theodore--who, judging that the bishop's questions
regarding Paulinus were but formal words of no deep meaning, proceeded
at once to the point on which his uncle's curiosity was really
excited--"I come, my uncle, to seek refuge and shelter with you
against the anger of a base, weak monarch. Three days' journey behind
me is your cousin, Julia Flavia, with her children and my sister.
Persecuted by Theodosius for no fault committed, we thought that if we
could find shelter in the world it would be with my uncle at Margus."
"Safety at Margus!" cried the prelate, in truth affected by the
earnest and pleading tone in which his nephew spoke--"safety at
Margus! Oh, Theodore, Theodore! is there safety to be found on board a
sinking ship? Is there safety to be found between the opposing spears
of two hostile armies met in battle? You come to me at a time when I
know not whether the next moment may continue to afford security to
myself. You come to me at a moment when my soul is trembling--though
not with fear--no, but wavering with uncertain purposes, like a
loosened sail quivering in the blast of the tempest, uncertain to
which side it may be driven, or whether it may not be torn in
fragments from the mast. You come to me in such a moment as this for
refuge? But could not your father protect you--my great, my warlike,
my courtly, my all-powerful brother, who despised the poor-spirited
priest, and thought the robe and stole the refuge of a low ambition?
Oh, Paulinus, Paulinus! how I could have loved you! Yet what do I say,
Theodore? your dark robe! your untrimmed hair! your jewelless
garments! Tell me, boy, tell me, where is your father?"
"Alas," replied Theodore, "I have no father. He who was my father is
dead, murdered by the emperor!"
The living lightnings of fierce indignation flashed from the priest's
proud eyes; and after pausing for a moment, as if unable to give voice
to the feelings that struggled in his breast for utterance, he shook
his hand towards the sky, to which his eyes were also raised,
exclaiming, "Tyrant, thou hast sealed thy fate!" then, casting himself
down upon a couch, he drew his robe over his head, and Theodore could
hear him weep. The youth was moved; and at length he took his uncle's
hand in his, and pressed his lips upon it, saying, "I knew not that
you loved him thus."
"Yes, Theodore, yes!" replied the bishop; "I did love him, better than
he knew, better than I knew myself till this very hour. We had
different tempers, we chose opposite paths, we held opposite opinions.
That which I thought wisdom, he would misname craft; that which I held
as just, he would taunt as base. We were both, perhaps, ambitious, but
in different ways; and his ambition led him to contemn mine; and yet,
Theodore, and yet I loved him better than any other human being. When
I strove for eminence in the state which I had chosen, when I raised
my voice and made the proud to bow, the sinner to tremble, piety to
kindle into enthusiasm, and devotion to reach its highest pitch, my
first imagination was what Paulinus would think; my first hope to
tower above his low opinion. He was the object and the end of many of
my best and greatest actions: almost every thought of my life has had
some reference to him. I have disputed, opposed, quarrelled with
him--nay, even hated him, and yet belied my own heart by loving him
still!"
The bishop paused, and, crossing his arms upon his broad chest, fixed
his eyes upon the sky, and remained for several minutes in gloomy
silence, as if summoning up before the eye of memory all the visions
of the past. "Theodore," he continued at length, speaking in a
rambling, musing tone, "Theodore, I will be to you as a father. What
my fate may be, I know not; but my brother's murderer shall never
deliver me up to the power of the barbarians. Do you mark me? He shall
learn that, deprived of the just defence of my sovereign, I can defend
myself. But it matters not! You are too young for such counsels!
Paulinus, my brother, thou art dead; but thou shalt be avenged. The
cup of wrath wanted but one drop to make it overflow, and thy murder
has poured an ocean into it. Now tell me, Theodore--the Lady Flavia,
where is she? She shall be welcome to Margus. Within these walls my
power is unlimited. The people and their magistrates are equally my
flock and my servants; so that I can assure a welcome to those who
seek it. Where is Flavia? Why came she not with you?"
"Because tidings reached us every day," replied Theodore, "of
messengers sent from Constantinople, bearing orders for our
arrest--perhaps for our death. Three of these messengers, we learned,
had taken the way to Margus; and ere we could venture to trust
ourselves here, I came on to see whether the power of my uncle could
give us shelter and security."
A smile of bitter meaning gleamed over the countenance of the bishop.
"Three messengers!" he said--"three messengers, bearing orders for
your arrest or death! No later than yesterday morning, three
Byzantines--for so part of their dress bespoke them--were found, slain
by the Huns, as it appeared, near Tricornium, higher up the river.
Perchance these have been the messengers, and have delivered their
just and clement letters to the wrong hands."
"It is not unlikely," replied Theodore. "They must have been near that
town early in the morning of yesterday; for I had news of their
course, and crossed the Danube lest, with fresh horses, and perhaps a
guard from that station, they might overtake and seize me."
"They have been seized themselves," said the prelate, setting his
teeth close. "The smiter has been smitten; the messenger of death has
found death himself. But how escaped you the Huns yourself, bold
youth! For the last month they have made excursions across the river,
destroying wherever they came. How was it that you, who without
permission entered their own land, passed through them in perfect
safety?"
"In truth I know not," replied Theodore, "unless it was that I began
by speaking to the ferrymen in the Alan tongue."
"That has saved you," replied the prelate; "but now, my son, we must
not lose time. These are days of danger, when the very air is full of
winged death. We must not leave the Lady Flavia and her children one
moment longer unprotected than is needful. Tell me with what company
she travels. Ye were not, I trust, obliged to fly in such haste as to
leave all your domestics behind."
"Oh no!" replied Theodore; "the tribune Marcian, who brought us the
sad tidings of my father's fate, and warned us of our own danger, took
care that all the slaves should accompany us; and saw that all the
gold and jewels, either belonging to Flavia, or which my father had
left in Illyria, should be borne with us, to escape the greedy hands
of Theodosius. Thank God, we have enough to support us with dignity
till this storm be blown away, and the sun shines once more."
"Alas, Theodore!" replied the priest, "seldom is it with man that the
sun, once clouded, ever shines again. The bosom of nature, torn by the
tempest, soon recovers its gayety and its beauty, or, swept by the
shower, wakes up again in brighter loveliness; but the heart of man,
beaten by the storms of fate, never regains its freshness, but is
dulled and withered by every drop that falls, and revives not again
till his short day is closed. But I will send out to greet Flavia, and
bid her welcome. Glad am I that she brings with her wealth and
attendants. Not that I could not myself have supplied her with all she
might need; for, thanks be to Him who gave, my worldly wealth is
great--greater than is perhaps good for securing the treasure in
heaven. Nevertheless, all our wealth may not be more than sufficient
for the purpose that I have in view. I will send out to find her, and
bring her hither."
"Nay, my uncle," replied Theodore, "I will myself be the messenger.
She will not give herself to the guidance of any one if I do not
return. I am not weary; and an hour or two of rest would enable me,
had I but fresh horses for myself and the freedmen, to seek her at
once. This bank of the river, by the death of these messengers, is now
free, and the way is shorter."
His uncle made some opposition on the plea of his nephew's youth and
yet unconfirmed strength, but that opposition was slight, and soon
overcome. There was, indeed, an eagerness, a haste, an impetuosity, in
the bishop's whole demeanour, which betokened a keen and ambitious
mind struggling with difficulties and dangers which he feared not, but
estimated at their true value. He seemed, to the eyes of Theodore,
like a skilful swordsman contending with a multitude of enemies, with
all his energies awake and active to avoid every blow, to parry every
thrust, and to return upon his assailants their strokes with usury.
When at length he consented that his nephew should go, and gave him
into the hands of one of the officers, with directions to provide for
his repose and refreshment, what was the impression which his uncle's
conduct had made upon Theodore's mind? The bishop had been kinder than
he expected; he had evinced more affection for his father, more deep
love for that dead parent whose memory was enshrined in the heart of
Theodore, and revered as the relics of some pure and sainted martyr;
he had shown more depth of feeling, and more of the energy of talent,
than the youth had been taught to believe he could display; and yet
Theodore was not satisfied. The diamond touchstone of a pure and
innocent heart, without an analysis, without minute investigation,
detected at once the alloy which ran through the seeming gold: he saw
that there was much of goodness, he saw that there was much of power,
in his uncle's character; but there wanted the simplicity, the
mildness, the humility of the Christian priest: there were strong
feelings without strong principles, high talents without high honour,
and through all his best and brightest qualities ran a vein of
brilliant selfishness, stimulating nearly, in appearance, the more
precious things with which it mixed; but, oh! how different in
intrinsic value.
CHAPTER X.
THE TREASON.
It was night; but no bright moon compensated for the absence of the
greater orb, and the air was dark, though the sky itself shone with
all its innumerable sparks of golden light. It was one of those nights
in which the depth of the heavens becomes apparent, in which each
separate star is seen hanging distinct and apart from all the rest, a
lamp of everlasting fire in the blue profound of space. The lately
troubled waters of the Danube had become clear; and, flowing more
calmly, though in a less volume, mirrored the splendid pageantry of
heaven's resplendent host.
Within an hour, however, after the full setting of the sun had left
the earth to the dominion of the night, another light than that of the
stars was reflected from the waters of the rolling stream at the
distance of a few miles from the city of Margus. The glare of a
multitude of torches flickered over the rolling stream, and cast a
red, unpleasing light over the rocks and trees amid which the Roman
road was cut from Tricornium to Margus. That light, too, shone upon
the anxious and wearied countenances of those who, a little more than
a month before, we have seen set out from the spot where all their
happy memories were left behind them to wander forward towards lands
and fortunes that they knew not.
A change, however, had been effected in the appearance of many of that
party. Young as he was, Theodore had shown a wisdom and prudence
beyond his years; and as soon as they had lost the escort of the
tribune Marcian, on the frontiers of M[oe]sia, he had selected twenty
of the most faithful slaves, and had besought Flavia to liberate and
arm them. His pretext was that, in approaching the barbarian
countries, many dangers lay upon the way; but he did not say that even
against the authority of the emperor himself those arms might not be
used.
Belated by the length and fatiguing nature of the way, many a timid
glance was cast by Ildica and Eudochia towards the opposite bank of
the stream, where lay, shrouded in its dark woods, the strange and
dangerous country of the Huns. Many an apprehensive inquiry, too, went
from lip to lip among the women slaves that followed; and, though each
knew that the other was as ignorant of the land through which they
were passing as herself, many a time was the question asked, "How far
is it now to Margus!" meeting still with the same unsatisfactory
reply. At length Theodore, riding up from the rear of the line, where
he had remained to see that no one lingered behind, approached the
side of the lectula in which Ildica was borne, and said, to the no
small joy of all who heard him, "Lo! the arch of Trajan. To Margus is
but one short mile."
That mile was soon accomplished; and at the gates of the city they
were met by persons sent on purpose to welcome them, both by the
magistrates and by the bishop of the town. Such friendly greeting in
such a remote spot, the sight of a populous and wealthy city, the
cheerful sounds and objects which met the ear and eye in the streets,
served to revive hope in the bosoms of that weary and anxious train,
and to recall the images of warm domestic tranquillity, which had been
banished during their dreary journey of the last two days: a house had
been prepared for them not far from the dwelling of the bishop, and
they found, waiting their arrival, all those ready luxuries which the
skill and ingenuity of the most pleasure-loving nation upon earth had
devised in the most voluptuous period of the world's history. Baths
were prepared; wine-cups crowned with garlands, and delicacies from
remote lands, waited for the lip; the softest triclinia surrounded the
already spread table; and the sound of sweet music was breathing
through the atrium: odours floated on the air; lights blazed through
the halls; and when at length Flavia, Ildica, Eudochia, Theodore, and
Ammian stood in the midst of that enchanted scene--far from their
enemies, with a place of certain refuge close at hand, and the long,
weary, perilous journey accomplished behind them--feelings of joy and
thankfulness, great, irrepressible, overpowering, welled up from the
deep fountain of the heart, and, casting themselves into each other's
arms, they wept.
Many moments passed in those entrancing feelings; but when, at length,
the bishop appeared to bid them welcome to a city over which his
eloquence and powers of mind had given him greater influence than even
the representative of the imperial authority possessed, Flavia had
again resumed her calm and tranquil dignity. He would not sit down to
meat with the guests for whose entertainment he had provided so
sumptuously, affecting an abstinence which might or might not be
habitual; but he insisted upon waiting in a neighbouring chamber while
they supped, declaring that he had matter of some moment to
communicate to the Lady Flavia. Simple in her habits, and encouraging
simplicity in her children, Flavia was soon prepared to give the
prelate that private hearing which he desired. He led her accordingly
into another chamber, while Ammian sported with Eudochia; and
Theodore, seated beside Ildica, tasted once more the sweet moments of
love.
They were the only ones that they had known since the fatal night of
the earthquake, since that night which had witnessed the first union
of their hearts in the bond of spoken affection. In all their other
meetings--in every other communication which they had yet had--danger
and terror, like the drawn sword in the eastern feast, had hung above
their heads, and marred the tranquillity of their mutual hearts. Now,
however, when apprehension was drowned in hope, they felt, and oh, how
dear was the feeling! that the love, which had grown up in joy and
peace, had been increased and strengthened, brightened and perfected,
by dangers and misfortunes.
Theodore held Ildica's graceful hand in his, and gazed into those
dark, dark lustrous eyes, reading therein a reply to all the intense
and passionate love of his own ardent heart; and Ildica, seated on the
couch beside him, lifted the long sweet curtains of those gemlike orbs
to the countenance of her lover, and, with the mingled glance of
timidity and confidence, seemed to pour forth the thanks of her
fervent spirit, not only for all that he had done to sooth, to
comfort, and to protect her, but for all the unspoken thoughts of
love, the anxieties and fears concealed, the constant remembrance by
day, the frequent dreams by night, for all, in short, which her heart
told her that his had felt in the hours of pain and care through which
they had so lately passed. Low and murmured words read a comment on
those looks, and Theodore and Ildica once more knew an hour of intense
delight.
A large chamber intervened between that in which they sat and that to
which her mother had retired to hold conference with the prelate, and
the veils over both the doorways were drawn. For some time the voice
of neither speaker was heard, but at length the tones grew higher. The
low sweet murmur even of Flavia's tongue found its way to the hall
where her children waited her return, and the high but harmonious
tones of the eloquent priest sounded loud, and sustained, as if he
were using all his powers of oratory upon some great and inspiring
theme. No distinct words, however, were heard, and then again, after a
time, the voices once more sank low, and in a few minutes the bishop
and the lady issued forth with hasty steps and agitated looks. The
prelate was passing rapidly on, without noticing his brother's
children, as if carried forward by some strong excitement; but, ere he
reached the doorway, his habitual self-command returned in a degree,
and, turning round with a knitted brow but an air of dignity, he
raised both his extended hands, saying, "Bless you, my children! the
blessing of God be upon this house, and all that it contains." That
done, he again turned upon his way, and rapidly quitted the apartment.
In the meanwhile, in the midst of that rich hall, stood Flavia, with
her pale cheek flushed, her beautiful eyes wild and thoughtful, her
fair hand pressed tight upon her broad, statue-like brow, and her lip
murmuring words which sounded vague and unmeaning, because the key
to their sad interpretation was in her own bosom. At length she
spoke:--"Hie thee to repose, Eudochia," she said; "hie thee to repose,
my sweet child, Ammian, too, seek rest, my boy, while thou mayst find
it. Ye have had a weary journey, children, and God only knows when it
may be renewed."
With some light and fanciful words from Ammian, breathing the spirit
of bright untiring youth, some of the slaves were summoned, and the
two younger members of that family, whose fate we have so long
followed, retired to sleep. Flavia listened for their parting steps;
but when all was quiet, she caught the hand of Theodore, exclaiming,
"Oh, my son, have you known and consented to this?"
"Have I known what, dear mother?" demanded Theodore, who had hitherto
mastered his surprise. "I have consented to nothing which should move
my mother thus painfully."
"I believed it, Theodore, I believed it," replied Flavia. "In your
veins and in mine flows the blood of those Romans who thought life a
light sacrifice for their country, whose gore flowed like water for
the defence and preservation of their native land; and I am sure that
if you be your father's son, no danger, no injustice, will induce you
to forget your duty, and bring upon the country of your birth the tide
of barbarian warfare! Is it not so, my son?"
"It is!" answered Theodore; "but what mean you, my mother? We
understand not to what your words apply."
But Flavia continued, turning to her daughter: "And you, Ildica," she
said, "tell me that you are my child indeed--that you would sacrifice
life, and all life's dearest interests, rather than take part, or
benefit by, or instigate the ruin of your country."
"I would, my mother, I would," replied Ildica, while her person seemed
to grow taller, and her resemblance to her mother increased under the
excitement of the moment. "I would sacrifice life, and, what is far
dearer than life, I would sacrifice him," and she laid her hand upon
the arm of Theodore. "I would rather see him die in defence of his
country than live and prosper by its fall. Oh, my mother, you have
judged your child rightly; the blood of my father, spilled by the
enemies of our native land, throbs in his daughter's heart; and even
this weak hand, were there none other to assert our country, might yet
strike one blow in her defence."
"My noble child," cried Flavia, throwing her arms around her daughter,
"thou art worthy of thy race. Theodore, what think you that your uncle
proposes to me to do? To throw wide the gates of Margus to the
barbarians, to open the way for the Huns into the heart of the empire,
to buy revenge for your father's death and safety for ourselves by the
desolation of our native land, the destruction and ruin of our
friends, and the massacre of our fellow-countrymen! Shame on such
degenerate Romans! Shame, shame upon them to all eternity! Oh God, oh
God! where are thy thunderbolts?"
Theodore stood, for a moment, as one stupified by the strange and
fearful tidings he had heard; and fixing his eyes upon Flavia's face,
he gazed upon her with an expression of inquiring doubt, which showed
how far he was from any participation in the schemes or feelings of
his uncle. "My mother," he said at length, "let us go hence. This is
no refuge for us. Did he think, by showing us here an image of that
splendour and comfort which we so long possessed, and so lately
lost--did he think to blind our eyes, and weaken our hearts, and
destroy our virtue? My choice, oh my mother, is made; give me honour
and misery, if virtue cannot secure peace. Let us go hence."
"At sunrise to-morrow," replied Flavia, "we will depart; for I much
fear that he told me not all; I doubt that his dealing with the Huns
is far advanced."
"Why not at once, then?" demanded Theodore; "to-morrow's daylight may
be too late."
Flavia turned her eyes upon her daughter, who understood the glance,
and answered at once, "My mother, I can go, though I am wearied: were
it not better to drop by the wayside than risk our future peace?"
But Theodore interposed: "No, no," he said; "an hour before daylight
will be time enough. The slaves are wearied beyond all endurance; and
perhaps, also, were we to attempt it to-night, the guards might become
suspicious, and stay us at the gates. To-morrow it will seem more
natural. The wearied soldiers, at that hour, will let us pass without
inquiry, and, following the course of the river, we can pass through
Noricum, and take refuge either among my kindred of the Alani, or
under the strong shield of [AE]tius, in Gaul, from whose protection
neither weak emperor dare attempt to snatch us. Rest thee, Ildica!" he
added, throwing his arms around her; "rest thee, my beloved; and rest
thee, too, dear mother! I will see all prepared, and ready to set out
an hour before the dawning of the day."
"And thou, my poor Theodore," said Flavia, "thou hast no rest!"
"Am I not a Roman?" was the youth's reply.
On the next morning--while the city of Margus was still buried in
slumber, and all vacant were those streets so lately thronged with the
gay unthinking crowd pursuing with light heart the butterfly pleasure,
and never dreaming that fate, like a lion, was following fast upon its
track--the same train which the night before had entered the gate with
joy, now passed them again with sorrow, but without regret. Theodore
had first presented himself, and had held a momentary conversation
with a soldier on guard. The gates had then been opened by the janitor
of the night, and the slaves, who led the train, passed out. Ildica
and Eudochia followed; but as the litter of Flavia was borne forward,
Theodore approached its side, and said, in a low voice, "They demand
that one of us at least should stay to give account of our departure
either to the bishop or the magistrates; I will keep Cremera and some
others with me. In the meantime go you on, and I will join you
speedily."
Flavia turned an anxious look upon him, but he added, in a still lower
tone, "Fear not: they dare not detain me;" and, motioning to the
slaves who bore the litter to proceed, he drew back under the archway.
Their course lay to the westward; but as Theodore turned towards the
city, a faint gray light hung over the massy towers and columns of
Margus, showing that the dawn of day was fast approaching. With a slow
pace, and a sad but resolute heart, Theodore returned to the house
which had been assigned to them as their dwelling; and, after a
momentary pause, turned his steps on foot to the mansion of the
bishop. The gates were already open, some of the slaves at work, and
the light of the now dawning day was seen streaming faint and cold
through the long range of vestibules and halls from an open archway,
beyond which appeared various groups of statues, fountains, and
pillars, ornamenting a courtyard. Like all dependants on the great and
powerful, keen to perceive who were in favour, who were influential
with their lords, the slaves, who, a few days before, had obstructed
the access of Theodore to his uncle, hastened to pay their court to
one whom they now knew, and besought him, with officious civility, to
repose himself there till the bishop should have risen to receive him.
The mind of Theodore, however, was not in a state to permit him to
take even corporeal rest; and he replied that he would walk forth into
the court and amuse himself with the statues and fountains till his
uncle was prepared to receive him. The cold and absent tone in which
he spoke checked all intrusion; and, meditating on his wayward fate,
he walked forth alone, now pausing as if to contemplate some beautiful
piece of sculpture, now gazing, as if with pleased attention, on the
clear waters that, welling from the rocky ground on which the city was
built, sparkled round the court in innumerable graceful urns and
vases, but with his mind, in fact, employed on matters far different
from the light elegances and calm pleasures of life.
Thus absent and musing, he went on to a spot where a long flight of
steps led down to the bottom of that terraced garden which he had
beheld from above in his first conference with his uncle. Scarcely
conscious of what he did, Theodore slowly descended the steps, and
entered one of the long paved walks at the very lowest part of the
garden. The right side was flanked by a strong wall, in which were two
or three doorways leading, as it would seem, to the pom[ae]rium, or
open space between the town and its fortified walls--for the house
itself was one of the farthest from the centre of Margus. Scarcely had
he entered that path, however, when the sound of steps made him raise
his eyes, and he beheld before him four dark figures--to see which, in
that place, caused him suddenly to pause, and lay his hand upon his
sword. Ere he could distinguish their faces, by the general aspect of
their forms, he perceived that they were barbarians, free, and in a
Roman city at that early hour. A moment more showed him that, while
three of the party had mingled their barbarian dress of skins with
jewels and ornaments of gold and silver, the fourth, who preceded the
others as they advanced, retained the original simple habit of his
nation, being clothed in plain but valuable furs and dark cloth, but
of exceeding fineness. Those who followed bore about them many strange
and barbarian arms, but he who preceded had nothing but a broad and
heavy sword, composed solely of iron from its hilt to its scabbard. In
him Theodore instantly recognised the Hun who had been his guide on
his last day's journey through the Dacian territory, and the same
unaccountable feeling passed through his bosom which he had
experienced on beholding him before. He saw too well, however, that
Flavia's suspicions were correct, and that his uncle had already
plunged irretrievably into those dangerous intrigues which were
destined to prove, not only the ruin of himself and of the city which
yielded itself so tamely and entirely to his government, but far
beyond that, to his whole native land, and indignation for a moment
mastered all other sensations.
"What doest thou here, barbarian?" was his only greeting when they
met.
"What is that to thee, youth?" rejoined the Hun, with a calm, haughty
smile, such as may play upon a father's lip when he reproves--though
amused thereby--the frowardness of some spoiled child. "But speak
thine own language," he continued, in a corrupt dialect of the Latin
tongue; "speak thine own language: weak and insignificant as it is, it
will cover from the ears of those who hear us such light words as
those thou hast just spoken."
"My words were not light, Hun," replied Theodore: "for every Roman may
well demand what thou doest here, when he meets with armed barbarians
in the heart of a Roman city."
"We are armed," said the Hun, "but we are few. What I do here is
naught to thee; but if thou wilt listen to me, my coming may do thee
service. I love thee for thy mother's father, and for her brother.
They were my friends; and he who would be terrible to those who hate
him must do good deeds to those who love him. Know that the Roman
empire trembles to its fall. Attila the King has said it, and it will
come to pass. He has said, 'I will sweep it as a cloud sweeps the tops
of the forest. I will pass over it as a storm,' he has declared, 'from
one part even unto the other; and I will not leave it so long as one
Roman stands up before me to oppose me.' Attila the King has said it,
and his words shall be made true. Nevertheless, as thou art one of
those who think that there is yet vigour in weakness and strength in
Rome, I bid thee consider what will be thy fate even should thine
emperor be successful in resistance. The blood of thy father is upon
his head; thou fleest from his vengeance, and he seeks thy life. Thus
much have I learned from thee and from thine uncle. Should Attila be
successful, and thou not of his friends, thou perishest. Should
Theodosius triumph, thinkest thou that he who has trodden upon the
mighty will spare the weak?"
"Hun!" said Theodore, taking a step forward to pass him, "could my
blood, poured forth on the banks of yonder river, like the dragon's
teeth of Cadmus, raise up a host of armed men to defend my native land
against thee and against thy king, I would hold my throat to the
knife, and die with gratitude and joy! Thinkest thou that such a one
can be impelled by fear, or led by hope, to serve thee and to betray
his native land?"
"I think," replied the Hun, "that thou mightst be a faithful friend to
a worthier monarch than thine own. Fare thee well! and remember, as I
told thee when last we met: in future times, when the hands of fate
shall have shaken from their places thrones and empires, and have
changed the fate of little as well as great, shouldst thou need
protection, thou wilt find it at the name of Onegisus. Now, forward to
thine uncle; I must hence."
Without returning to the court, Theodore sprang up the terraces of the
garden towards the chamber where he had before conferred with the
bishop. His hurried step caught the prelate's attention; and, ere
Theodore had reached the top, his uncle's majestic form, clothed in
his splendid robes, appeared in the doorway above, gazing down to see
who it was that approached so rapidly.
"Theodore," he exclaimed, while an expression of pleasure and
expectation lighted up his features, "I trust you are come to bear me
good tidings, and that the Lady Flavia is not so rashly obstinate as
when last I saw her."
"Far from it!" said Theodore, gravely, "I have come but to tell you
that we remain Romans to our death. All who entered the gates last
night, except myself and a few slaves, are by this time an hour's
journey on their way to Noricum."
"Rash woman! what has she done?" cried the bishop, clasping his hands;
"she is lost, she is lost! Fly, Theodore, quick! Fly like the
lightning! Bring her back hither; or, if she will not come, lead her
on the road to the south, anywhere but the road she has taken."
Theodore gazed upon the agitated countenance of his uncle in
amazement; but the bishop continued, more vehemently than before,
"Fly! do I not tell you to fly? Lose not a moment! breathe not a word!
Away, as if a lion were behind you. The Huns are already across the
river, on the very road she has taken. If she will not return hither,
seek for no highway, look for no easy path, but plunge at once into
the country, and hurry to the southward, making not a moment's pause!"
Without a word of reply, the youth darted through the vacant rooms,
passed the gates of the dwelling, the Basilica, and the Forum; reached
the house where the horses and slaves remained, sprang upon his
charger's back, and, followed by the rest, dashed out towards the
walls of the city. The gates were open, but, to his surprise, no
soldiers, no gatekeepers were now there. The guard had been withdrawn
for purposes which he too well divined; and passing out unquestioned,
he hurried on with the same frantic speed in search of those he loved.
CHAPTER XI.
THE SEARCH.
Hurrying on without pause, and impressed with but the one overpowering
thought of the danger of all he loved on earth, Theodore soon reached
the banks of the Danube, and gazed onward upon the road, which for
several miles lay straight before him. But nothing met his sight,
either to raise his hopes or increase his apprehensions; all was open
and clear, and not even a cart or a beast of burden from the country,
no, not a single peasant bringing in his basket of fruit or flowers,
arrested the eye, as it wandered down the long, straight avenue. A
pair of enormous eagles, whirling slowly round, high up in the blue
morning sky, was the only sight of animated being that presented
itself; the singing of a light bird, too lowly and insignificant to
fear those majestic tyrants of the skies, and the dull roar of the
great river, were the only sounds that broke upon the ear.
Hope sets her quick foot wherever fear leaves the space vacant; and
Theodore trusted that Ildica might have passed on ere the Huns had
crossed the river. He paused not, however, at the voice of the siren,
but still urged on his horse, gazing anxiously forward, and listening
for every sound. The five freedmen who had remained with him followed
as fast as they could, but the superior power and swiftness of the
young Roman's charger left a short but increasing interval between
them. That interval was less, perhaps, than half a mile, when Theodore
reached the wooded rocks, round whose immoveable bases the road was
forced to wind; but his faithful Cremera saw him disappear behind them
with apprehension, and urged on his horse with eager haste, till he
and the rest had also turned the angle of the rocks, and once more
beheld his master.
Theodore was now at less than a hundred yards' distance: he had
dismounted, and, with the charger standing beside him, was kneeling
over some object which had attracted his attention on the road. When
the freedmen came up, they too sprang to the ground to look upon the
sight which had stopped him. It was the body of one of their
companions, who had been selected, like themselves, to bear arms upon
the dangerous journey they had been forced to undertake. His spear was
in his hand, with the iron red with blood, and in his heart was fixed
a reed arrow, such as some of the Scythian nations used in their wars.
Theodore pointed in silence to the corpse, gazed for a moment round,
and followed with his haggard eye the long track of the road,
apparently to discover if any new object of horror lay before him; and
then, after once more looking sternly upon the dead man, he shook his
sword from the sheath, sprang again upon his horse, and galloped on
his way. As he went, however, his eye searched anxiously on the ground
for further traces regarding the too evident fate which had befallen
Flavia and her company; nor was he without finding such marks; the
ground was dented and beaten with horses' feet, and stains of blood
here and there showed that there had been a contest of a fierce and
desperate kind on the spot over which he passed.
Scarcely three hundred yards from the place where lay the body of the
freedman, a small road turned off to the left, leading down through
the woods, with which that part of the country was thickly strewn,
to the banks of the river Margus, higher up than the city. At that
point, too, the traces, which had hitherto marked so plainly the
course which those he sought for had pursued
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