A Captive of the Roman Eagles Part 7

But the eager speaker, without hearing his words, continued: "What he said concerning the permanence and spread of his own renown I will apply to the glory of Rome: it will increase and grow, so long as the priest ascends the hill to the Capitol with the silent Virgin. The Vestal," he added in explanation.

"H'm," observed the Illyrian, "only it's a pity that the hypothesis is no longer apt."

"What? How so?"

"The pious Constantine, of murderous memory (I hear they want to canonize the a.s.sa.s.sin of his mother and his wife) prohibited or restricted the offering of sacrifices at the Capitol, and your pupil and patron, Gratia.n.u.s, recently abolished the Vestals."

CHAPTER XIII.

"Oh, that must not be taken so literally," Ausonius remarked.

"I am not superst.i.tious. I rely possibly too much upon my sword and too little upon heaven; and I care nothing about the Vestal virgins. But I do not like the second step your pupil took last year in Rome."

"What do you mean?"

"He removed from the council-hall of the Senate the altar of the G.o.ddess of victory, where sacrifices were offered before the opening of debates."

"Constantine had removed it previously."

"But Julian, the mighty conqueror of the Alemanni, restored it. And, by Jupiter!--pardon me, by G.o.d!--with good success. The priests called him 'the apostate,' but the G.o.ddess of victory was not unfaithful to him.

Now men fight stoutly, with or without the G.o.ddess of victory. But--I am a Roman--I dread the omen."

"You see the matter in too dark colors."

"You see it in too rosy a light. Your kind heart wishes good to all."

"Yes, even to the Barbarians!" Ausonius nodded, raising his goblet.

"They are human beings, too. And as the Stoa, not the Galilean, first taught, all men are brothers."

"But there are too many of these yellow-maned brothers."

"And I believe in a deity--call him by whatever name you choose--that directs all things well. Therefore I believe that these Barbarians will listen to reason and soon offer you their submission."

"Perhaps the little girl--what is her name? Bissula--will also surrender to Ausonius," said the Tribune in a jesting tone.

"Oh, the dear child! If I could only see her again."

"Do not wish it, Prefect."

"Why?"

"Perhaps she will conquer you! She would not be the first Barbarian.

Was it Pipa--or Pipara--that the girl of the Marcomanni was called, with whom even an emperor fell desperately and hopelessly in love?"

"You forget I wanted her for a daughter, not a wife."

"At that time. Now she is no longer a child--and you are a widower."

"Alas! she probably fled with her people long ago. And yet, I am so ready to believe what I desire!"

"Yes, that is one of your most amiable weaknesses,"

"Am I to hope for what I fear?"

"No, but to think what we do not desire more probable than what we wish--that is my wisdom."

"No, no! I will not allow myself to be robbed of the hope that I shall again see the little nymph of these forests."

"But if I catch her," cried the Tribune, laughing, "she will be mine according to the laws of war."

A sudden change of expression--like a flash of lightning--flickered across Hercula.n.u.s's hazard visage. The Tribune did not see; his eyes were fixed upon Ausonius's face, wondering that his features should pale with fear.

"Can this feeling be so deep-seated in my worthy friend?" he thought.

"Uncle, surely you know that the Tribune is jesting," cried Hercula.n.u.s, as if to comfort him.

The Illyrian turned toward him with a threatening bearing, saying in a stern, grave tone: "Who tells you so?"

Ausonius cast a hasty, anxious glance at the handsome, stately man; then he tried to smile, but the attempt was not very successful. "Your jest brought before me the possibility of a terrible earnest. If the charming, innocent child should fall into the hands of one of our pitiless centurions! Horrible!"

"It has been the fate of thousands--pshaw, what am I saying--of many hundred thousands, since we Romans bore our eagles over the world. You poets--even you, my softhearted friend--are fond of singing the praises of war. I tell you, he who knows and directs it rarely lauds it. War is necessary. I laugh at the foolish weaklings who, like the worthy stoics, or the monks, imagine that some day there will be a kingdom of eternal peace. War is grand; death for one's native land is the most powerful feeling that rules mankind; but war is horrible! To me it does not matter," he added, laughing, as he drained his goblet. "I need only make war, not answer for it, and above all, I need not sing its praises, I am neither anvil nor lyre; I am hammer, and woe to the vanquished! For a thousand years we have carried the terrors of our victories to all nations: an unprecedented loyalty on the part of Fortuna. But now--I hope I shall not witness it--now her wheel is gradually rolling backward--toward us--over us!"

"Never!" cried the poet. "What can these half-naked Barbarians do against us? So long as we have warriors like you and, for the service of the Muses, minds--"

"Like Ausonius's, do you mean? Enviable self-reliance! I tell you, I consider myself--and far better soldiers than I--incapable of resisting this ever-advancing ocean which is called 'Germans.' I have gone through many a campaign against them--against these very Alemanni. I think they know my name! But there is something mysterious under this surging mult.i.tude--I know not what--a motive power unintelligible to us all, which can no more be resisted with sword and spear than the sea itself. I have long sought the clue to the secret, yet cannot find it.

But so far as the service of the Muses is concerned--pardon a rude soldier--we need peasants, not poets. There are only millionaires, beggars, and slaves. Give me a hundred thousand free peasants of the ancient Latin stock, and I'll sacrifice in return for them all the Latin poets, dead and living, and once more believe in the future of Rome. As things are--but it is already late," he cried, starting up.

"Let us seek our couches. We shall not be able to end this old conflict of ours; coming generations will decide it, but not with words. Good-night! Dream of Bissula--that we may find her: you believe in dreams. For to-morrow--Nannienus has at least completed a couple of s.h.i.+ps which he will send to cruise along the northern sh.o.r.e--we will make a little expedition eastward."

He raised the curtain and strode in his clanking armor out into the darkness; he could not help thinking constantly of the beautiful wood-nymph. Hercula.n.u.s also took his leave, but he was scarcely outside the tent when he shook his clenched fist threateningly toward the east, muttering through his set teeth: "Wait, Barbarian witch!" But Ausonius stretched himself on his camp bed, put out the light, and murmured: "Sleep peacefully, my Bissula, wherever you may be; to-morrow perhaps I shall once more see those never-to-be-forgotten eyes."

CHAPTER XIV.

At daybreak the tuba sounded through the Roman camp, summoning to departure the bands who were to share the expedition.

"Where is my nephew?" asked Ausonius, mounting the beautiful gray Cantabrian stallion, whose stirrup was held by old Prosper. "He is usually the first at my bedside to greet me."

"He hastened on with his mailed riders long ago. He started even before the Tribune."

"What zeal! I like that," said the uncle, patting the neck of his n.o.ble steed. "At home in Burdigala he devoted his time solely to--"

"To spending your money, O patron!" growled the old man.

"Pshaw, never mind, graybeard! My money--it will soon be his money."

"May the Olympians--forgive me, the saints--forbid!"