The Lion\'s Brood

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An odd look had come into the Carthaginian's face as she spoke, a look
more scornful but less threatening.

"You speak true woman's philosophy," he said. "That is the philosophy
of these times. I am convinced that there _were_ days, and women--but
pah! now it is only glory that is worthy to be a man's bride. Come, I
will lead you to the house of Calavius."

Ligurius had recovered sufficiently to remount his horse, while Mago's
attendants had laid the still senseless Caipor in the rheda to which
their master now assisted Marcia. Then he rode on, by the wheel of the
carriage.

As for the daughter of Torquatus, not even the consciousness of her
purpose, and of the high and bitter motives that had shaped it, could
drive the touch of shame from her cheeks. It galled her when she
considered how she must appear to this man--a mere youth and a
Carthaginian, and it galled her the more that she should care for his
opinion. That she had inspired only his contempt, was quite evident;
and she, whose glances had always gone straight as the arrows of Love
to the hearts of men, now found herself more annoyed by the
indifference of an enemy than she had been by the dangers from which he
had rescued her. She was not certain whether it was with a desire to
gain in his sight, or only in the pursuance of her plans, that she
spoke again.

"Does my lord think worse of me for what I have said?"

"I thought you a woman; now I know you for one," he replied, carelessly.

"Ah! but my lord did not ask as to my other reasons for seeking the
camp of Carthage."

"That is a matter for Calavius to look to. If you come as an enemy--so
much the worse for him."

"And if I come as a woman who would escape a hated marriage--to seek a
lover who has won her heart afar off?--"

"Calavius?" laughed Mago, the boy in him suddenly flashing out. "They
say even the old men here are hunters of women. Have a care of the
Claudian, though. She may bite."

Marcia flushed crimson. Mago was not an easy subject for female
influence. Besides, she began to realize that the respect she could
not help feeling for the attitude of the young soldier might hamper
whatever efforts she could put forth to ensnare and control him. His
closeness to Hannibal, however, would make his conquest as advantageous
as it seemed difficult, and it was some such thought as this that
prompted her next words.

"Happy the leader and brother that has so single and so firm a
counsellor!"

She spoke as if half unconsciously, but Mago shot a sharp glance
straight into her eyes. Then he answered, carelessly:--

"My brother is the captain-general of Carthage, and I am only a young
soldier. Doubtless he is wise to ignore my opinions; and yet, had he
harkened to Maharbal and myself at the close of the day of Cannae--had
he let us press on with the cavalry and followed, with such speed as
the gods could grant,--I am convinced that within five days he had
supped in the Capitol."

His tone changed, as he spoke, to one of fierce enthusiasm, and his
listener shuddered. Then, sinking his voice, he went on, as if
speaking to himself:--

"Even now--even now--before the winter closes in, there might be a
chance. Later, they will recover strength and courage, and we--we
shall become--Capuans."

Marcia hid her agitation behind the curtains of the rheda. She was
terrified by his vehemence and by the justice of his reasoning. Here
was the man whose whole influence would be pitted against the purpose
of her journey; and her woman's intuition told her that no argument or
allurement could turn his mind. It was with a feeling of relief that
the halting of the vehicle before the porch of a stately house checked
the unwise retort that trembled on her lips. Later, she could oppose
him better than if, yielding now to an impulse to controvert his views,
she had aroused suspicion.

III.

PACUVIUS CALAVIUS.

The house of Pacuvius Calavius was well situated, near the centre of
the town, accessible to the Forum, and upon a street of considerable
width. The porch of the ostium was supported by four columns
delicately fluted and painted, the lower half in dull crimson, the
upper in ochre. A porter, in costume much richer than those worn by
most free Romans, lounged on a stool set upon the mosaic pavement, and
roused himself lazily to shuffle down and inquire why the rheda had
halted before his door.

"Ah! It was a lady"--and he smirked with insolent meaning--"who
desired to see his master?" He threw out his hands with a deprecatory
gesture. "The gods were, in truth, very friendly to Pacuvius Calavius;
but then he was very old--a complaint which few could guard against.
Oh!--"

Mago had signalled to one of his horsemen, and the soldier's lash
whistled and wound itself about the slave's neck. All the fellow's
laziness and insolence vanished, and he fell upon the pavement,
writhing and whimpering.

"Lash the hound till he does his office," said Mago, quietly; and the
short hand-thong rose again.

But before it descended a second time, the porter had rolled and
scrambled to his feet, and was rushing to open the door. He vanished
with wonderful speed, and, a moment later, there appeared a man
somewhat above middle age, with a close-curling, white beard, and clad
in a robe so heavily embroidered with gold as to leave the ground
colour a matter of conjecture. With keen eyes that shifted nervously,
he hurried down toward the rheda. Then, noting Mago, and that he was a
Carthaginian of rank, he paused, uncertain, and his salutation savoured
somewhat of over-respect.

"A lady?" he said hesitatingly;--"a lady who desires to see me?"

Marcia parted the curtains and leaned out, smiling. The newcomer
stopped short and gasped in astonishment.

Mago glanced sharply from one to the other, and his lip curled. He
signed to his attendants, and, with an obeisance that had in it
haughtiness rather than courtesy, he rode away.

Glancing cautiously up and down the street, Calavius approached the
rheda.

"And is it the lady Marcia who is to honour my house?" he began, in
words that carried more welcome than did the tone. "A dangerous
journey, in these days, and a dangerous destination. Surely you are
welcome--and who was the young man that rode with you? Did he know
anything of your name and birth? I trust you were cautious?--"

Marcia laughed.

"Do not fear, father;" Calavius frowned slightly at the venerable
title, and shook out his robe that the odours might permeate the air.
"Do not fear but that I was as cunning as your Campanians. I told him
I was a Roman--wherefore not? For the matter of that, he divined it.
He is Mago, the brother of Hannibal--"

"And he brought you here?" cried Calavius, trembling now in good
earnest. "Surely it was done to ruin me; but whose plot?--whose plot?"

"It is not necessary I should be your guest," said Marcia, with
well-feigned indifference. "Doubtless there are inns; but he guided me
here because I asked for your house, imagining that my father's friend
would have a welcome for my father's daughter."

Calavius instantly recovered his composure.

"Ah! dear lady," he began, in a voice from which all the tremor had
vanished, "and do you dream for a moment that you should taste of other
hospitality than mine? Will you not descend--nay, I will help you--and
let us enter quickly. These are indeed troublous days, and every door
creaks a warning; troublous days, with each man's hand against his
neighbour, plotting by necessity, often, rather than by preference.
What! your attendants are hurt?" Again his voice shook. "A brawl?
that is bad; but come within. It is there you shall tell me of it all."

So speaking, he assisted Marcia to descend, and, summoning his
servants, gave the rheda and its guardians into their care. Then he
led the way into his house, carefully fastening the street door behind
them, for the porter evidently had not halted in his flight, short of
the slaves' apartments upstairs.

Marcia followed, wondering at the magnificence of the decorations. She
passed through passages lighted by hanging-lamps of gold and silver and
bronze; past walls rich with frescoes in black and yellow and red;
panels and pictures such as Caius Fabius Pictor could never have
dreamed when he ornamented the Temple of Safety; frescoes that so far
surpassed the work of Damophilus and Gorgasus upon the walls of Ceres,
as these had surpassed the art of Pictor himself. Then came courts
surrounded by rows of fluted columns, set with fountains that threw
light sprays of scented water over the flowers and the garments of the
passers; then more passages, with paintings of even greater merit and
delicacy of execution, mingled, here and there, with scenes where the
delicacy was of the execution alone, and that brought hot blushes to
her cheek. Amid all, were scattered richly carved pedestals bearing
beautiful statues done in marble or bronze, or great vases, black or
terra-cotta, with intricately composed groups of figures in the
opposite tint. It came like a veritable revelation to one who had
known nothing but the crude art of the Etruscans and the cruder
handicraft of her own people, tempered, as they were, by the taste of
such Greek artists as fell so far short of their native ideals as to be
willing to waste their skill upon barbarians. She had heard of the
wealth and luxury of the Capuans, but it had never entered her mind to
imagine that the luxury of Capua could demand, or the wealth of
Campania purchase, pictures whose distance and proportions were true to
life itself, and statues that seemed veritably to live and breathe.
Her eyes were big with wonder and admiration, when her guide and host
turned sharply to the right and ushered her into a small room that
looked out through a row of slender pillars into a portico beyond, and
thence into a garden that seemed a very forest of small rose trees.
Around the walls ran a shelf upon which were set a number of circular
boxes, while lying upon the table were several bulky rolls of papyrus,
in parchment wrappers stained yellow or purple.

"My library," said Calavius, in a careless tone, but with a wave of his
arm that showed his pride in its possession. "Three hundred and
eighty-nine works--the best, and of the most excellent authors:--poets,
philosophers, historians, rhetoricians--all that is worth reading. No
man in Capua has a better show of literature--unless, perhaps, it be
Decius Magius," and his voice sank, as if the name had brought him back
to a realization of circumstances. "Here I can read without
disturbance, and here we can talk without fear of interruption or
listening ears. There are slaves always stationed at both ends of the
portico, to insure quiet."

"And you are the man who has dared to turn Capua over to the enemies of
Rome! Truly, I cannot understand."

Marcia could not restrain the words, and Calavius flushed.

"Do not condemn me for timidity," he said quickly. "These are
dangerous seas for a man of mark to steer his craft upon.
Carthaginians and other barbarians are not citizens of Capua--no
refinement--no civilization. Much has happened to disturb me--to
unsettle my nerves. Decius Magius has been parading in the Forum,
defying our friends,--and who with him but my own son, Perolla, casting
discredit on my plans, and danger on himself! It was with the utmost
difficulty I could drag him away--and then, what does the Carthaginian
do but fly into a rage, and demand an audience of the senate, with a
view to punishing Decius. Nothing but my influence and that of Virrius
and the Ninii have persuaded him to forego his purpose for the time;
and that, only, by pleading the joy of this day, and that it should be
given to nothing save festivity and feasting. Truly, my mind misgives
me. Still, they have sworn that no Carthaginian shall have any power
over a Campanian, and--was not that a noise in the portico?"

He rose and, gliding out to the row of pillars, looked up and down.
Marcia regarded him with contempt and pity.

"And yet," she said, "it is for this terror and distrust that you have
betrayed Rome. Were there none of our soldiers and citizens in the
town?"

"Do not speak of it," whispered Calavius, growing even paler;--"a most
frightful misfortune! They were taken in arms, or at their
business--what matters it which?--and confined in the baths for
safe-keeping."

"And then?" said Marcia, for he paused.

"And then some evil-disposed persons turned on the vapour."

"They were killed?" she cried.

"Not so loud!--not so loud! for the love of all the gods! It was a
mistake, a terrible mistake!"

"Ah! guest-friend of my father," said Marcia, sadly; "I fear it is a
mistake that Rome will exact a heavy price for. You say truly that it
matters not how they were taken."

"But I swear it was no will of mine!" he cried, and then, fearing lest
he had committed himself too deeply, he went on. "In fact, lady, they
say too much, who set this revolution at my door; who say that I was
the mover of all. Was it not Vibius Virrius who first suggested it?
Was it not Marius Blossius, the praetor, who led out the people to meet
the Carthaginians?--and see how my son is still with Rome! No, by
Bacchus! there are many here a thousand times more guilty--if it be
guilt, and on whom the rods and axes must fall first if there be
justice under the gods. You can bear witness at Rome to that."

"There will be rods and axes enough for all," said Marcia, grimly,
filled with horror and disgust for the deeds told of, and with contempt
for this garrulous, timid plotter of treachery and murder. Then,
suddenly, she noted a sinister glitter in his eye, and, at the same
time, remembering her mission, she checked her words and went on, "Rods
and axes enough for all who are so feeble as not to take the
sovereignty of Italy when it lies within their grasp."

"What--what is that you say?" he said eagerly, and the threat fled from
his face. "The sovereignty of Italy? Ah! it is a great prize! Who
shall deny it to us? Are we not the second city? Have we not allies
the strongest in the world?--a general the greatest? and when all is
over, who so fitting to rule as the first man of the first city?--for
Rome will be no more. Ah! I will deal with them gently, though; I
will conciliate--unless I be opposed too obstinately. You shall tell
them that. Are they meditating surrender? Do they not see that we
must prevail?--but," and his tone changed again to distrust, "I have
forgotten to ask, amid my anxiety about matters of state, why you have
come to Capua--a Roman--at such times?"

Marcia laughed. She was ready for her part now, and this adversary, at
least, she despised,--perhaps too much, for he was a cunning man, in
his way, and when the matter demanded only chicanery against other
cowards.

"Ah! my Pacuvius, a politician like _you_ asks me that?" she exclaimed
gayly. "Is it for a woman to remain in a ship buffeted and rocking in
the storm? a ship that must founder soon, if it be but left to itself?"

"Is that truth?" he asked eagerly, but with a tinge of suspicion in his
voice.

"Surely, it is truth: as it is truth that I, with many other women,
have gone out to such cities where there are friends of our
houses--cities friendly to the new powers, friends strong enough to
give us shelter and protection. It is my happy fortune to have found a
city and a friend the strongest of all."

Calavius smiled complacently and stroked his beard.

"Yes, you have done well," he said slowly. "I am not without interest
with the captain-general of Carthage, and there may be yet greater
things in store for me. I will go now and send female attendants to
you, that you may seek the bath and your room, and have such
refreshment as you desire. I will talk with you again later, but
to-night there is the banquet at the house of the Ninii. Ah! it will
be the greatest feast that Capua has seen--a banquet to Hannibal and
the Carthaginian leaders. Farewell."

He turned to go, but she rose quickly and laid her hand upon his robe.

"You have not heard all, yet," she said, casting down her eyes and
speaking in halting phrases. "Do you truly believe that it is _only_ a
woman's fears that have brought me to Capua? You have not questioned
me closely. That is not worthy of your wisdom. It is hard for a woman
to tell all things unless they be drawn from her."

He stared with eyes full of wonder.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Then, throwing her head to one side, she laughed, so that Sergius
himself would scarcely have known it from the laugh of the
free-hearted, jesting Marcia of other days.

"Oh, my father, you a Capuan and a man learned in the ways of women!
It is pitiful--this littleness of your knowledge. Come, tell me now,
as to a pedagogue, what is it that leads a woman to all places, through
all dangers?"

"Surely, my child, it is love," said Calavius, vacantly. Then his face
took on an expression, first of furrowed surprise and then of gratified
vanity, an expression that brought the hot blush to Marcia's cheek,
even while she struggled to restrain her contemptuous mirth. His
manner changed at once to one of insinuating gallantry, which she
hastened to check before he should commit himself.

"What is it," she went on again, glancing down that he might not see
and read her eyes; "what is it that makes women love men? What, if not
strength and courage? I am a Roman, my father; but Roman men are no
longer fit mates for Roman women. Where but in the camp of Carthage
shall I find one worthy of my beauty? It is there I seek my lover."

Disappointment lowered on the face of Calavius. He had noted her
beauty, long before she had referred to it; but now he noted it with a
more distinct desire, and the words, "my father," which she had used,
though but a customary term of respect, grated the more harshly upon
his ears. Still, controlling himself, he asked:--

"And which man of our allies has the lady Marcia chosen to bless with
the love that is too high for an humble Italian?"

She looked the siren herself, as she answered:--

"Surely, my father would not learn the secret of his daughter!"
Calavius winced. "Believe, only, that he who has been loved at a
distance is noble and powerful. However, if so be that my lord would
learn the truth, let him take her to this banquet. I have heard often
that much liberty is allowed to the women of Capua; why not, then, to
the guest of the noblest of the Capuans?"

The mind of Calavius had been divided. With the first rebuff to his
rising passion had come the impulse to avail himself of his power and
of the helpless position of his guest to gratify his spite or his
pleasure as she might choose to make it. Then, at the suggestion that
she loved and had come to seek a Carthaginian of rank, he thought of
the disfavour--even peril he might incur by such a course should an
enemy or a slave learn the facts and expose him; and, finally, he fell
into a cunning casting up of the influence he might gain over the
lover, whoever he was, to whom he should be instrumental in
surrendering such perfect beauty. Again he winced at the thought, but
then, what more likely than that her silly, woman's vanity aspired to
the captain-general himself? and he, Pacuvius Calavius, might hope to
be the confidential go-between. What profit and influence might not be
found in such a relation!--so personal, so beneficent! After all,
there were many beautiful women--even among his slaves, and what was
the difference between woman and woman compared to the dream of Italian
sovereignty that hovered before his eyes! He knew well that no wife or
daughter of a Capuan would be present at that banquet--only the most
beautiful of the city's hetairai--but what of that? This girl was a
Roman--an enemy; the claims of hospitality between his people and hers
would be shivered in the coming crash of arms. What mattered it if to
gain a point--a great point--he wrenched loose his personal obligations
a few days sooner? Yes, Marcia should go to the banquet, and, if
Hannibal desired her, then he, Pacuvius Calavius, would surrender her
into his arms. He knit his brows and spoke:--

"What you ask, my daughter, is truly difficult to compass, nor do I
know that any women or of what class will be present. Trust, however,
that all my power shall be at your service to gain any wish of your
heart,--and, as you know, I am not powerless,--only remember that it is
your will that I am doing. I will send a servant who shall lead you to
your chamber. Rest, prepare, and expect my return before the third
hour. Farewell."

Marcia did not detain him. She noticed the wealth of odours that his
fluttering gown had left behind, and her contempt and disgust deepened.

IV.

THE HOUSE OF THE NINII CELERES.

The rustle of garments aroused Marcia from a sleep wherein had been
more of bitter revery than of rest; and, glancing up, she saw, at the
entrance of her apartment, two girls, evidently slaves. They had
knelt, with arms crossed upon their breasts and downcast eyes.

"Will my mistress be pleased to place herself in the hands of her
servants, that she may receive refreshment and whatsoever she desires?"

The girl's voice was soft and musical. Marcia rose, and, with a slight
inclination of the head, indicated her acquiescence; then she followed
her new guides through new halls and rooms, around and through the
colonnade, to a part of the house beyond the garden. Here were the
apartments of the bath, and, under the skilful hands of her attendants,
she felt the fatigue and blights of the journey passing from her. No
such artists of luxury were known at Rome as were these slave women of
Capua; new refinements were revealed at every step--refinements that
seemed to culminate when the hair-dresser began her work. First came
the anointing with the richest odours deftly combined from a dozen
vials of ivory or fine glass; then the crimping and curling with hot
irons, the touch of which served also, as the attendant explained, to
consume whatever coarseness clung to the perfumes and to bring out
their finest and most delicate effects. Meanwhile the Roman simplicity
of Marcia's wardrobe and jewel-case had been thoroughly explored, not
without some scornful side glances on the part of the Capuan women, and
she who was in charge of the tiring announced their contents to be
quite inadequate to dress a lady for a banquet of state--an
announcement which brought more smiles than blushes to Marcia's face.
Still, despite her half-veiled contempt, there was nothing to do but
resign herself absolutely into the hands of such competent authorities,
and, besides, she could not say that she found the process altogether
displeasing.

The elaborate structure of curls and frizzes had now been confined in
place by a net of fine gold thread, in which were set, at regular
intervals, pearls remarkable for their colour and perfect spherical
form; then a dozen long pins with carved gold heads were passed through
the net, and above and around all was bound a diadem of thin-beaten
gold ornamented with intricate open-work tracery. Finally, the
hairdresser, having bade Marcia behold herself in the polished silver
mirror which she held up, retired with an expression of serene
self-approbation upon her face, and gave way to other attendants.

One of these bound the smallest of jewelled sandals upon feet that were
too small, even for them; another produced a long palla or sleeveless
tunic of apple tint ornamented with feather patterns, and fastened it
with amethyst brooches at the shoulders. Last, the head tirewoman
herself came to perform what was, after the hair-dressing, the most
delicate of all these operations--the adjustment of the cyclas or
over-robe, a garment of the finest texture and of a shade known as
wax-colour, through which the tint and ornamentation of the palla
produced an effect of inimitable beauty. A slender, vine-work design,
embroidered in gold, bordered the cyclas, and it was in arranging so
that the course of this would form harmonious lines, wherein the skill
and difficulty of the task mainly lay.

A final appeal to the mirror followed, and then, with Marcia's
approval, the work was over. She was robed, indeed, for a Capuan
banquet, and in a manner her simple Roman taste had never dreamed of.

As yet Calavius had not returned. She sat in the portico of the
garden, awaiting him, and time was now afforded her to think of her
plans, the risk she ran, and the objects to be gained. Not since the
resolve had first found place in her mind had she wavered and feared as
now, and an intolerable repugnance began to possess her.

Darkness had veiled the city for several hours, but it was the darkness
of a southern night and of a city in festal mood. The stars seemed to
stand out from the blue-gray vault above, as if reaching down to the
earth--whether in pity or anger, she could not tell. Around the city
itself hung the luminous aura of its lights; the cries of revellers
sounded from the neighbouring streets,--even the rush of feet,--while,
to the eastward, the glow of the Carthaginian watch-fires seemed to
reach upward to meet the rays of the stars. Yes, these were hostile to
the invaders! She knew it now. They were the glittering points of
Roman pila descending upon the foe--pila driven by the hands that
mouldered amid the red mire of Cannae. Surely those men approved of
what she was about to do! Was not Sergius among them, and would he not
will her to make good, by her beauty, what the sacrifice of his own
strength had failed to accomplish? What interest had he, now, in her
as a woman, as a mistress, as a wife? Greater thoughts must inspire
the shade that was once her lover: their common city, its life and
power, the destiny of the world that depended upon the preservation of
both of these; and still she could not banish the feeling of doubt, of
disapproval. Perhaps Calavius would not return, or perhaps he might
not be able to gain for her permission to attend the banquet?

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