The Lion's Brood Part 28

"Come," he said, speaking sharply but in low tones; and, holding the lamp above his head, he tried to peer into the apartment. "Come; it will soon be light. Ah! you have not arisen? No matter; I have another cloak, and we must not delay. The slaves are well bribed, and Calavius sleeps soundly--forever. My horses, good horses, are in the street; a few moments and we gain the gate. The schalischim's own ring is on my finger, and the seal of the Great Council shall win us egress.

_You_ are my slave: that is how you shall go with me--and I accept the omen."

He laughed low and harshly, and Marcia shuddered, thinking of her host lying slain--by his false slaves?--by the order of Hannibal?--no, rather by the hand or plotting of this wretch who now called her, "slave."

"Come, come quickly, Roma.n.u.s," he said, mimicking the Latin nomenclature of foreign slaves. At the same time he took a step forward into the room and let the curtains fall behind him. "Come, or I shall have to order the rods to those white shoulders. That would be--"

And then a shadow seemed to glide forward from the corner half behind him. For a moment a stream of lamplight fell upon a white, set face behind the Carthaginian's shoulder--a face that was indeed from the land of the four rivers; an arm was lashed around the priest's neck, and, while Marcia stared spellbound at the shade that had come back to save her, the lamp fell from Iddilcar's hand,--and then she lay still and listened to the furious struggle that ensued, the scuffling of feet upon the marble floor, the breathing that came and went in short, quick gasps. Now it seemed that both fell together; but not in victory or defeat, for the noises told of continuing combat; no words, only the horrible sound of writhing and of hard-drawn breath.

Breaking at last from the bonds of dazed wonder, she glided from the couch, groping for the fallen lamp. She must _see_. She must _know_.

Then she remembered the room-lamp that stood on a stand by the bed, and began to feel her way toward it. The grating of metal against metal came to her ears, followed by a low exclamation and a sharp "Ah!"

gasped exultantly; then came the sound of two fierce blows.

She had found the lamp now, and was trying to strike a light. The victory was still undecided, though the combatants seemed to groan with each breath they drew. At last the wick caught the spark, and the mellow light and the odour of perfumed oil began slowly to fill the room. A statuette or vase came cras.h.i.+ng to the floor, and, raising the lamp high above her head, she threw its light upon the struggling men.

For a moment she could make out nothing except a dark ma.s.s at her feet.

Then she caught the glitter of a weapon, and at last her eyes grasped something of the situation.

Iddilcar was undermost. She could see his black, curling beard that seemed matted and ragged now, while the Roman--the man who bore the face of the dead Sergius--was extended upon him, grasping, with both hands, the Carthaginian's wrists. It was the latter who held the blade that had glittered--a long Numidian dagger, but the hold upon his wrists prevented his using it, and the Roman dared not release either hand to wrench it away. There were bruises, too, on Iddilcar's face--the blows of fists; but the blood on the floor told of some other wound, doubtless the Roman's, inflicted before he could restrain the hand that dealt it. Now, neither seemed able to accomplish further injury, until the strength of one should fail; and if it was her protector's blood that was flowing?--the thought was ominous. Neither dared to cry out, for the aid that might come was too doubtful, and, besides, they needed to husband all the air their lungs could gain.

Marcia saw these things and thought them clearly, quickly, and in order. Her mind seemed to grow as strangely calm as if busied in selecting some shade of wool for her distaff. She reached down and, by a quick movement, twisted the dagger from the stiffened, weary fingers of the Carthaginian. A cry burst from him--the first since the triumphant "Ah!" that had doubtless come from his lips when he used the weapon, a few moments since. He writhed furiously, and Marcia stood, holding the dagger in her hand, hesitating rather through dread of injuring this new Sergius that had arisen to aid her.

The Roman, however, seeing himself freed from the necessity of guarding against the sharp point that had menaced him, now suddenly released the wrists of his adversary, and, grasping him by the throat, he lifted his head several times, and struck it violently against the pavement. The Carthaginian groaned, and his hold relaxed for a moment. Then, tearing himself free, and with one hand still gripping the throat of the prostrate man, the Roman raised his body, and, turning toward Marcia, reached out for the dagger. With eyes fixed wonderingly on his, she gave it to him, as if only half conscious of her act.

Again the scene changed. Less helpless than he had seemed, and with staring eyes, before which death danced, Iddilcar gathered all his remaining strength for one last, despairing effort, wrenched himself loose, and staggered to his feet.

Then Marcia saw Sergius, for she knew now it was indeed he, saw him throw himself forward on his knees, and, catching Iddilcar about the hips, plunge the blade into his side.

The priest shrieked once, as he felt the point, and struggled furiously to escape, raining blows upon the other's head and shoulders. Again the long dagger rose and fell, piercing the man's entrails. G.o.ds!

would he never fall?--and still he maintained his footing, but now his hands beat only the air, and his struggles became agonized writhings.

Sergius' grip about his hips had never loosened, and the dagger rose and fell a third time. Iddilcar groaned long and deeply and sank down in a heap, carrying his slayer with him.

XII.

FLIGHT.

Slowly Sergius disengaged himself from the death grip that entangled him, and, rising, turned to where Marcia stood. Still holding the lighted lamp above her head and peering forward, she gazed into his eyes with a look wherein wonder and terror were mingled with awakening joy.

"Who are you?" she faltered at last; "you who come as a slave, bearing the face of a shade?"

"I _am_ a shade," he answered; "one sent back by Orcus--by the hand of Mercury, to save a Roman woman from dishonour."

"Oh, my lord Lucius!" she cried, falling upon her knees and holding out her hands toward him. "Truly it was not dishonour to avenge you, to save the Republic; but if it were, then may your manes pity and forgive me. There, now, is the dagger. Take it and use it, so that I, too, may be your companion when you return to the land that owns you. I love you, Lucius; the laughter of the old days has pa.s.sed. Surely a woman who is about to die may say to the dead words which a girl might not say to her lover for the shame of them. I love you--I love you.

Take me before the maiden, Proserpine, that she may show us favour--to your land--"

The lamp fell from her hand; she felt herself raised suddenly from the pavement, and strained hard against a bosom that rose and fell with all the pulsations of life and love. Frightened, wondering, she struggled faintly, while kisses warm and human fell upon her brow, her eyes, her lips.

"Marcia, little bird, dearest, purest, best," murmured a voice close to her ear; "yes, you shall go with me to my land, and that land is Rome."

Still she trembled in his arms, not daring to believe.

"Wait," he said. Then, releasing her for a moment, he regained the fallen lamp, relighted it and placed it in its niche, facing her again with arms outspread.

"Look well; am I not indeed Lucius Sergius--once pierced and worn with wounds, but now well and strong to fight or love? The tale I told you was true. It was my tale--the saving of one Roman from the slaughter of her legions."

She drew closer and looked again into his eyes.

"Yes," she said, and in her voice the joy began to sweep away all other feelings; "yes, you are indeed Lucius Sergius Fidenas--man, not shade--"

But, taking her hand, he interrupted:--

"Do you not remember the omen, my Marcia? how you said you would love me when Orcus should send back the dead from Acheron? how I accepted it? how the G.o.ds have brought all about, as was most to their honour and my joy?--for now you have indeed said that you love me."

She placed her free hand upon his shoulder saying:--

"And that which I, Marcia, daughter of t.i.tus Manlius Torquatus, have said unto the shade, that say I to the living Lucius Sergius. Take me, love; for where thou art Caius, there shall I be Caia."

Once again he took her in his arms and kissed her upon the lips, long and tenderly. Then she drew herself back.

"You are wounded?" she said anxiously. "Forgive me that I forgot.

Truly I forget all things, now--in this wonder and joy."

Sergius laughed.

"He p.r.i.c.ked me--in the thigh, I think, but not deeply. The G.o.ds have brought me so close to the shades that I am enough akin to them not to heed little hurts."

But she had seized the lamp and was examining his injury--a flesh wound that, while it had bled freely, yet seemed to have avoided the larger muscles and blood-vessels.

"Did I not tell you?" he said rea.s.suringly, as she rose from her knee.

"A close bandage so that it will not bleed--that is all we shall want, for my strength must remain with me yet a little while, if we would truly go to Rome and not to the realms of the dead."

She said nothing, but, tearing strips from her stole, proceeded deftly to bind them around the leg.

"Agathocles himself could not do better--nay, I doubt Aesculapius--"

but she rose again quickly and placed her finger upon his lips.

"It is the G.o.ds who have saved us to each other. Do not make them angry, lest they withdraw their favour. I am ready to follow you, my lord Lucius."

Standing erect, he raised both hands in invocation.

"A shrine to Venus the Preserver!--to Apollo the Healer!"

Then, stooping quickly, he drew the long, dark robe of Iddilcar from where it lay entangled about the legs of the corpse. Fortunately it had slipped down from the Carthaginian's shoulders early in the struggle; perhaps he had tried to free himself from it; perhaps it had been partly torn away; but, in either event, it had fallen where it must have hampered his movements even more seriously, and where it was less stained with his blood than might have been expected.

Sergius threw it over his own tattered, blood-stained garments, striving to hide the rents, and raising it high about his neck so as to conceal his face as much as possible. Meanwhile, Marcia, having bound on her sandals, had of her own accord donned the mantle Iddilcar had brought for her, and which had fallen by the door of the apartment.

Then, gathering up her long, thick hair, she confined it close above her head, drawing down upon it the hat that lay beside the cloak--a broad-brimmed Greek petasus, admirably adapted for concealment as well as protection.

"I am ready," she said eagerly. "Let us make haste."