The Lion\'s Brood
D >>
Duffield Osborne >> The Lion\'s Brood
Pages:
1 |
2 | 3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16
Then came the order from the praetorium,--not to advance the standards,
but to man the rampart and to repel. Such was not the custom of
Rome--to refuse battle amid the ravaged lands of her allies. Had the
heart of the dictator grown cold? Forthwith the pale cheeks of the
boasters flushed again; lips that had been compressed, before the
terrors they had so rashly invoked, parted in wonder and complaint; the
mist rose, and the sun pierced through the settling dust. There stood
the enemy, drawn up in order of battle across the plain, and waiting;
too far away for the Romans to make out their form or equipment--just a
long, dense array that seemed dark or light in spots. Now and again a
trumpet rang out its distant note of defiance; now and again some
portion of the line seemed to manoeuvre or change front, as if to tempt
attack, while from time to time a flurry of horsemen--dark-skinned
riders, bending low upon the necks of wiry little steeds and urging
them with shrill, barbarous cries--swept almost up to the ditch, and
brandished their darts, making obscene gestures and shouting words that
brought the blood to the faces of the garrison, though they understood
not the tongue that uttered them.
A circle of officers surrounded the dictator's tent. Some were silent
and shamefaced; some were vociferous of their desire to be allowed to
go forth and fight, or, at least, to lead out the cavalry to chastise
the insolence of slaves and barbarians; all were wondering and
dissatisfied. Few, however, ventured to express their full thoughts.
There was a something in the very mildness of the general that
discouraged too direct criticism. Only Minucius, presuming, perhaps on
his position of second in command, perhaps on his contempt for the
great houses, sought the dictator's presence and spoke as if half to
him, half to the company of officers. Even his first words but thinly
veiled his feelings.
"The enemy await us in line of battle, my master, but I do not see the
red flag above your tent. Is it your will that the standards be
advanced?"
"No, Marcus, it is not my will, or the signal would have been
displayed," said Fabius, calmly.
"The troops are eager to be led out; the enemy insult us up to the very
ditch. Italy is wasted," went on Minucius; but, as if slightly cowed
by the deep, gray eyes, his tone seemed less aggressive.
Fabius paused a moment, before answering, and glanced around upon the
lowering faces of legates and tribunes. Then he said:--
"It is proper, Quirites, that I should say something to you of my
plans. Our men are new--untried. Those that have seen service have
seen defeat. The enemy are flushed with victory, full of confidence in
themselves and their general, well seasoned in battle. Has the
Republic a new army if this be lost? But happily there is another side
to the picture. We are in our own lands. Our supplies are
inexhaustible; _we_ receive; _they_ must take. We shall wear them out
in skirmishes, cut off their foragers--men whom they cannot replace,
while we replace our losses daily and season ourselves in battle and
grow to see that even Carthaginians are not immortal."
There was a moment of silence. Then Minucius spoke again.
"And, while we pursue this prudent policy, what becomes of the spirit
of our men who see that their general dares not face the enemy? What
becomes of the allies who see their fields wasted and cities burned,
while Rome lies silent in her camps and offers no succour?"
Fabius' brow clouded, but he spoke even more mildly than before.
"There is much of truth in what you say Marcus; but I am convinced that
there is less danger in such risks than in tempting the fate of
Flaminius; and there are many compensations, together with certain
victory in the end."
And then the master-of-the-horse lost control of his temper; his voice
rose, and he cried out:--
"You are general and you command, but you shall hear me when I say that
I had rather have perished bravely with a Flaminius than live to
conquer in such cowardly fashion with a Fabius."
A murmur of half-uttered applause ran around the circle, but Fabius did
not seem to hear it. He eyed his lieutenant calmly for an instant.
Then he said:--
"You speak truth, Marcus, when you say that I am general;" and, turning
his back upon Minucius, he passed through the line of officers, as they
fell aside to give him way, and proceeded slowly toward the praetorian
gate.
Here, among the soldiers, discontent with the dictator's policy was as
strong as it had been in the praetorium, while its expression was less
governed by the amenities of rank. Roman discipline, however severe as
to the acts of the legionary, put very few restrictions upon his
speech; and the general, as he watched from the rampart the lines and
movements of the enemy, heard many comments no less uncomplimentary
than those of his master-of-the-horse, and couched in language almost
as coarse as that of the Numidians themselves. It seemed as if the
foul words of the barbarians were passed on thus to the man held
responsible for Romans being compelled to listen to such insults.
Curiously enough, the centurions and under officers appeared to be the
only ones not hostile to Fabius' policy. These were silent or even
made some efforts to restrain the ribaldry of their men.
As for the general himself, no one could have appeared less conscious
of the storm his orders had provoked. His eyes were still fixed upon
the distant array, and when, as the sun almost touched the meridian,
Lucius Sergius approached with despatches just arrived from Rome, he
was compelled to speak twice before the other was aware of his
presence. Then the dictator turned quickly, and, pointing to the
Carthaginians, exclaimed:--
"See! they are withdrawing. Do you not note how thin the centre grows?
Ah! I shall teach them new lessons of war--new lessons. They will find
in me no Flaminius, to let my enemy choose the day and field of battle."
Leaving the ramparts, they walked back toward the praetorium, Fabius
breaking the seals and reading the letters as he walked. When they
reached the tent, he stood still for a moment and seemed to study the
face of the young tribune who had followed, a half pace behind, to
receive any answer or order that might be forthcoming.
"What is your opinion of my refusing battle?" he asked suddenly, after
a short silence.
Sergius turned crimson, but he answered quickly:--
"I have learned to trust in my general until such time as I know him to
be unworthy of trust."
Fabius smiled.
"Some of your colleagues appear to have already arrived at the latter
conclusion," he said. Then, after a pause, he went on: "After all, it
is the judgment of the centurions that counts for most. Our legates
and tribunes feel disgraced by our refusing a challenge; they may be
sneered at for _that_, but who would blame _them_ for the defeat that
might follow its acceptance. The common soldier knows only his rage
against the enemy, sees his comrades about him furious for battle, and
comprehends nothing of its dangers. It is the centurions, our
veterans, who realize the truth: the worth of their own men as measured
against those of the enemy; nor are they puffed up with foolish pride
of rank. You observe, sir, that the centurions are with me."
Sergius bowed.
"Now mark well what will happen," pursued Fabius. "Hannibal will
retreat to his camp; he will break camp and march off during the night.
He must have forage, and he cannot scatter his forces while I am near.
He will escape, and I shall let him, rather than risk the army in a
night battle; but I shall hang close as the father-wolf to the stag's
haunch, keeping nevertheless to the high ground, where his cavalry
cannot trouble me. There will be need of good horsemen who shall cling
yet closer and advise me of his movements."
Sergius' eyes flashed with eagerness, but he said nothing.
"You will attend to this service," continued Fabius, not seeming to
regard the young officer's exultation. "Take the other five turmae of
your legion--not those of the escort. You must have light cavalry to
cope with the Numidians, and your Greek horsemen are too heavily
equipped. Assemble your men, watch the enemy, follow him when he
marches tonight, cut off his stragglers, and send such words to me as
you consider necessary. This shall be your reward for trusting greater
things to your general."
Turning, he entered the tent, before the tribune could express his
thanks.
Deeply impressed by the favour and confidence of the dictator, Sergius
hurried away to his quarters, and, sending for Marcus Decius, the
decurion who had told the news of Trasimenus to the crowd of the Forum,
he directed him to see that the horses were fed and the men in
readiness for a night march. Then he resigned himself to sleep and
dreams of a certain pictured peristyle on the Palatine Hill,--a
peristyle wherein a maid sat spinning by a fountain and thinking--of
what? Perhaps of him--for he was only dreaming, and maidens do not
always think as men dream.
V.
TEMPTATION.
The night was already far spent, and the Roman camp slept on, secure in
all its grim array; silent, but for the tread of the patrols, as they
paced the streets and exchanged the watchword, post with post, or but
for the clang of sword upon greave, or shield against cuirass, as some
sentry at gate, rampart or praetorium shifted his arms in weary waiting
for the day.
Far up in the heavens the moon shone silvery and serene, while here and
there upon the plain below swaying points of light seemed to move,
flicker, go out, and rekindle again. No Roman watcher but knew well
that play of moonlight upon the heads of the reedlike spears with which
the ancient cavalry of the legion were equipped--weapons which,
together with their ox-hide bucklers, were being gradually superseded
by the heavier Greek accoutrements. Yes, and had not the word passed
from the guard at the praetorian gate, how a tribune and five turmae of
the fourth legion had ridden out on the service of the dictator?
Earlier in the night, those who listened closely had heard a low hum
that seemed to pervade the air, rising and falling like the dull glow
in the west that told of the fluctuant watch-fires of the hostile camp.
Now the noises had died away, as in the distance, and the light that
had flashed up a few hours since hardly tinted the clouds. It is only
the old soldier who can read the signs of a decamping foe, who knows
how the fagots must be heaped at the moment of departure, so that the
deserted fires may burn until the morning, whose quick ear catches and
recognizes the indefinite noises of a host moving in secret. All these
things were, and old campaigners among the legionaries at the gate had
read them aright. Messenger after messenger hurried to the praetorium,
and returned with word that the dictator slept, "having taken all
needed measures," and how the master-of-the-horse paced up and down
before his tent, grinding his teeth, clenching his hands, and muttering
curses upon patrician cowardice and imbecility.
Meanwhile, Lucius Sergius rode on through the night, with Marcus Decius
at his side, and the troop of horse trailing out across the plain
behind them.
"It is silent, master," said the decurion, but his attitude, as he
leaned forward over his horse's neck, was rather of one trying to smell
than to listen. "The pulse-eaters sleep deeply." He watched Sergius
from under half-closed lids, waiting to be contradicted, that he might
measure his officer's warcraft.
Sergius smiled. "Perhaps they are even wider awake than ourselves," he
said, drawing rein. Then, as the other nodded several times in
satisfied acquiescence, he brought his horse to his haunches a stride
beyond, and added: "It was the dictator who said we should find their
lair empty, and, though I do not question his judgment, it will be well
to send on a few who shall spy out the fact, and see whether there be
not Numidians lurking among the huts."
So, slowly and cautiously, they pushed forward again, with riders in
advance, until a shout gave notice that the way was indeed clear, and
they rode through the open gate of the rampart and along the silent
street of the deserted camp.
Nothing was about them save dismantled huts, for the most part mere
burrows with roofs of interlaced boughs that were now smoking amid the
ashes of the fires. Not a sign of disorder, nor even of the rapidity
with which so great an army had been moved; not a scale of armour left
behind--only the insufferable stench of a barbarian camp, of offal and
refuse piled or scattered about, of dead beasts and of dead men--the
sick and wounded who had yielded to sword or disease during the last
few days.
It was with a sense of relief that the cavalcade emerged from the
shadows of the huts and began to mount the rising ground beyond. The
moon, too, had grown faint, and the gray mists of the morning were
lying along the lower levels. Sounds, mingled and far ahead, told of
the presence of a marching host, and Sergius led his troop on a more
oblique course to gain the flank of the foe and lessen the chances of
detection and ambuscade.
It was not stirring work for a soldier--the days that followed; never
attacking, always guarding against discovery and surprise, viewing
slaughter and devastation that duty and weakness alike made him
powerless to prevent or punish, sending courier after courier to his
general to tell of the enemies' march or of stragglers and foragers to
be crushed in the jaws of the army that enveloped the invader's rear.
Thus the war passed through Apulia, over the Apennines, down into the
old Samnite lands, past Beneventum that closed its gates and mourned
over its devastated fields, on across the Volturnus, descending at last
into the Falernian plain, the glory of Campania, the Paradise of
Italian wealth and luxury.
During all these days Sergius had grown thinner and browner. Little
furrows had been ploughed between the eyes that must pierce every ridge
and thicket for the glint of javelins and the wild faces of the
bridleless riders of the desert. From time to time news of devastators
cut to pieces brought a fierce joy to his heart; from time to time he
dreamt he saw the eagles of the Republic hovering upon the heights
above, ready to stoop and strike and save the allied lands from trials
greater than they could bear; but of Marcia, scarce a waking thought.
Surely the man he now was had never reclined in peaceful halls where
women plied the distaff and talked about love, and of how Rabuleius,
the perfume-maker of the Suburra, had just received a new essence from
Arabia! That old life was all a dream, perhaps the memory of a former
existence, as the sage of Croton had taught. There was nothing real in
the world, in these days, but fear and suffering and humiliation and
revenge. Even duty had become a mere habit that should minister to
greater influences.
And now it was worst of all. Campania was a conflagration from which
rose supplications and shrieks and groans, mingled with curses against
the cowardly ally that had left her to her fate. Still the legions
held to the high ground, and still the black pest of Numidia swept
hither and thither on its errand of murder and rapine. Even to Sergius
the plans of the dictator began to seem but "coined lead," as Marcus
Decius roughly put it. Of what avail was it that the pass at Tarracina
was blocked, that he had garrisoned Casilinum in the enemies' rear and
Cales upon the Latin Way, and that the sea and the Volturnus and the
steep hills with their guarded passes seemed to complete the line of
circumvallation? Could such bonds hold one so wise as Hannibal from
the rich cities of the plain? Unless Rome would advance her standards,
were not Sinuessa and Cumae, Puteoli and Neapolis, Nuceria and Teanum,
and, above all, Capua, left to fight their own battle against barbarian
insolence and barbarian power? What hope to starve out an enemy
established in such a region and amid such affluence!
Then, too, there was less work now for Sergius, even such as it was.
The enemy, wheresoever he marched, was well in view from a dozen points
held by the dictator, and at last word came to the tribune that he
should join the camp near Casilinum. There, at least, he would have
companionship in shame, instead of seeming to command men and being
unwilling to lead them to fight for lands which the gods themselves had
deemed worthy of their contention.
They were near Cales when the orders were brought. Could it be the
dictator's intention to give battle and avenge what he had failed to
save? By midday they were mounted and threading the forest paths that
led to their comrades--paths whence, from time to time, some vista in
the woods disclosed the plain below, with here and there a column of
smoke that made Sergius grind his teeth and clench his hands in
impotent rage. Suddenly he drew rein, for a man, dressed in the
coarse, gray tunic of a slave, had half run, half stumbled across his
way. An instant more, and the fellow was struggling in the grasp of
Decius, who had sprung to the ground.
"What now, forkbearer! what now, delight of the scourges!" cried the
decurion. "Will you delay the march of a tribune of the Republic?"
"Pity me, master, pity me and let me go!" cried the man, still striving
vainly to escape. "Surely they are close behind me--"
"Who are behind you?" asked Sergius, sternly. "Speak and lie not, food
for Acheron!"
"They who are burning the farm."
Sergius' eyes glittered, and he leaned forward to catch the words, as
he began to gather their import.
"Speak quickly, and you shall be safe," he said, in more reassuring
tones. "Whose farm is it that is burning? Loose him, Marcus."
Released from the hands that held him, the fugitive seemed to waver for
a moment between speech and flight. Perhaps exhaustion turned the
balance, for, still panting for breath, he threw himself on his knees
before Sergius' bridle and gasped:--
"My master's farm--a veteran of the first war--a centurion--the
Numidians."
"Where is it? How many are there?"
The man pointed down the slope up which he had scrambled.
"I did not note their numbers, lord. Perhaps a hundred--perhaps more."
As he spoke, the sky began to brighten as with fire, and Sergius,
wheeling his horse, urged him downward toward the plain. Decius was by
his side in an instant, and behind them came the cavalry at a speed
that threatened to hurl them headlong to the foot of the rocky
declivity. Joy and fury shone on the faces of the men: only Marcus
Decius seemed troubled and abstracted.
"We shall be with them soon, my Marcus," cried Sergius, gayly, and
then, noting the furrowed face of his first decurion: "Surely,
Trasimenus has not cooled your heart. Take courage. There is no water
here to chill you."
Decius flushed through the deep bronze of his skin.
"It is true that there is no water here, and blows might warm my blood.
It was the command of the dictator that I thought of."
They had reached the level plain now. A cluster of burning buildings
hardly a mile ahead marked their goal.
"And it is you, Marcus, who have been railing at those same commands?"
"I am an old soldier, my master. I growl, but I obey."
For answer, Sergius urged on his horse with knee and thong. Now they
could distinguish dark shapes gliding hither and thither around the
fires, and now they burst in upon a scene as of the orgies of demons.
Utterly unsuspicious of danger, the marauders had taken no precautions.
Their wiry, little horses had been turned loose about the gardens,
while the riders murdered and pillaged and ravished and destroyed. The
worst was over now. Little remained of the buildings, save clay walls
covered with plaster; dead bodies were scattered here and there; the
women and such of the slaves as had not been slaughtered, together with
the farm stock and other things of value, were gathered beyond the
reach of the fires; while, bound high upon a rude cross before his own
threshold, the master of the farm writhed amid flames that shot upward
to lick his hands and face.
Then, in an instant, the scene was changed: the Roman horsemen burst
in, and, frenzied by the spectacle before them, slew madly and fast.
Hither and thither they swept, wherever the dusky figures sought to
fly, and the thin, reed-like lances rose and plunged and rose again,
shivering and dripping, from the bodies of their victims. But for
their well-trained steeds, who came and knelt at their masters' calls,
not one of the desert horsemen could have escaped, and, as it was, a
mere dozen broke out from the carnage and scurried away, with the
avengers in close and relentless pursuit. Marcus Decius paused a
moment before the cross and studied the torn frame and blackened skin
of the man who hung there. Then, with a swift movement of his lance,
he transfixed the quivering body, and, hardly catching the "Jove bless
thee, comrade," and the sigh with which life escaped, he dashed on
after the pursuing squadrons.
VI.
DISOBEDIENCE.
That the chase was doomed to be a vain one seemed apparent. Once mounted
and urging on their steeds with the shrill, barbaric cries of the desert,
Hannibal's light horsemen were safe from all ordinary pursuit. One after
another of the Romans drew up his panting animal, and scarce half of
their turmae pounded on.
Suddenly they saw the flying Numidians throw their horses upon their
haunches. A moment of indecision followed, and then, while several
darted off obliquely, the remainder, seven or eight in all, swung around
and charged straight at the legionaries. At their head rode a giant,
black as ebony save where gouts of red had splashed him with the hue of
terror. His frizzly hair was caught up high and ornamented with a
cluster of ostrich feathers, while with his right hand he drew javelin
after javelin from the sheaf he carried in his left, and launched them
with unerring aim at his former pursuers. Three had flown on their
errands, two had brought down a soldier each, and the third quivered in
the throat of Sergius' horse. Then, as the animal reared and went over,
carrying his rider with him, the assailant burst through the line, and in
a moment had gained the open plain beyond. Once more he was safe, safe
but for one short, thick-set rider,--Marcus Decius, first decurion of the
first turma, hastening to overtake his troop.
Escape from such a pursuer was child's play for the Numidian; but the
fury of fight was on him, and, gnashing his white teeth, from which the
thick, black lips seemed to writhe away, he bent low amid his horse's
mane and, with an inarticulate cry, urged him straight at the veteran.
His javelins had all been expended in breaking through the Roman line,
and a short, heavy dagger was his only weapon. Nothing daunted, he came
on, evaded like a flash the thrust of Decius' spear, and hurled himself
upon him. It was the small buckler of the Roman that saved his life; the
dagger passed through the ox-hide, slightly gashing his arm, and, before
the barbarian could withdraw it, the impact of the horses in full career
had sent both men and animals to the plain in a floundering heap. Again
the Numidian was quicker, and, gaining his feet, he sprang, weaponless as
he was, upon the decurion still struggling to untangle himself from his
fallen horse. The buckler, with the African's knife thrust through it,
had rolled away, and the possession of Decius' sword, which hung in its
sheath upon his right thigh, became the object of the struggle. Perhaps
the strength of the men was not very unequal; but the Roman, hardly free
from his mount, was undermost and wounded, so that the result seemed
hardly doubtful. The Numidian's charger had risen to its feet, and
stood, with out-stretched neck, whinnying softly, as if sharing in the
excitement of the contest. Then the trampling of hoofs sounded in the
ears of the straining combatants. Decius felt his adversary make a
convulsive effort as if to free himself, and then a gush of something
warm came into the Roman's face, and his foe sank down upon him, limp and
helpless. With a last effort of his spent strength, he pushed the
twitching body aside, and, staggering to his feet, saw Sergius standing
beside him, with a dripping sword in his hand, and the bridle of Titus
Icilius', the flag-bearer's, horse thrown over his left arm.
Remounting, they rode slowly back to their troop, and then the cause of
the strange boldness of the fugitives was disclosed. Advancing across
the plain directly in the path of their flight came four hundred of the
allied cavalry, whom the dictator had sent out to reconnoitre, and,
caught thus between two lines, the Numidians had, for the most part,
chosen to take their chances against the weaker force. Not one of the
marauders was alive, but they had sold their lives dearly; for a dozen of
the Romans also were dead, and a score more showed wounds that marked
this last spasm of barbarian frenzy.
Pages:
1 |
2 | 3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16