 section 22 of the Lions Brood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rutherford Osborne. The Lions Brood by Duffield Osborne. Section 22. Freedom. The morning air of the seplasia reeked with perfumes, more even than was its want. For Carthaginian and Capuan revelers had been carousing there, and several of the shops had been broken open. The gutters streamed wine with which were mingled all the essences of India and Asia. Flowers withered and soaked with coarser odors than their own, floated on the pools and drifted down the rivulets. Inert bodies drunk to repletion, lace scattered about, helpless, unable to drink consciously, but absorbing the wasted liquor through every pour. A dead citizen, his head crushed in by a single blow, sprawled hideously in the middle of the street, while his murderer, a gigantic gall, was embracing the corpse with model and affection and whispering in its ear to arise and guide him back to camp. Those who passed from time to time paused to join the soldiers, comrades, and laughter and rude jests and suggestions of new methods of awakening his friend. And now, down the street, extending from wall to wall, came a line of young men. Their faces flushed, their garments disordered or cast aside, and their brows crowned with what had once been chaplets of roses. Three or four courtesans, with gowns and tunics torn from their white shoulders, were being dragged along, half laughing, half resisting, and wholly possessed by Bacchic frenzy. In front of the company marched a slender youth with dark, curling hair and delicate features. In his hand was a thersis, and his eyes blazed with the madness of the wine. Ev'we, ev'we, he shouted. Comrades, Bacchantes, there is no water in Capua to mix with wine. Equal mixture for poets and fools. Undiluted wine for victors and lovers. Perola is a good Carthaginian today, shouted one of his fellows. Behold how Bacchus has answered our prayers. Kiss him, Cluvia, for a reward. Pushed forward, the courtesan fell upon the young man's neck, almost bearing him to the street and overwhelming him with drunken caresses. A moment later he freed himself from her arms. What is Roman beauty to our Capu'in, he hickoffed. Marcia, Cluvia, all are one. All are women and we are Capu'ins. Braver than Romans, wiser than Carthaginians. Listen, friends, when my father rules Italy, you shall all be kings and queens. Ev'we, ev'we, shouts and shrieks of drunken joy greeted his words. Several sought to embrace him. And staggering back, he stumbled over the gall in the dead Capu'in where they sprawled in the street. Mingled laughter and curses rose all around. Blows and kisses were given and received, and the mad company rolled on through the subplasia and into the forum. Here, too, were intoxication and obauchery, but they were restrained within some manner of bounds. The fact that grave events were taking place seemed to exert a sobering influence on the populace. And they gathered in a dense throng around the Senate House, whence ominous rumors pursued each other in quick succession. The Senate was in succession. Hannibal was before them. Desius Magius had been arrested at his demand. So ran the talk. Guards of Carthaginian soldiery were posted at several points, but especially at all the entrances to the chamber in which the fathers of the city discussed or obeyed. And against these lines, the waves of the rabble surged and broke and receded. Men offered the soldiers money for free passenger news. Women offered them kisses for money. And the soldiers took both and gave nothing but jeers and blows. Perola and his drunken company had but just poured out to swell the tide of this ocean of popular passion, when a commotion of a different character began at the other end of the forum. The closed door of the Senate House swung open and a man in the garb of a senator but chained and shackled, issued forth and stood on the steps beneath the porch. Surrounded by a guard of Africans, it was fully a moment before the mob recognized Desius Magius, the partisan of Rome. Then a chorus of howls and curses rose up. Insults were hurled. The grossest that the minds of a licentious rabble could suggest. Fists were shaken. Women spat towards the prisoner. Even a few stones were cast. And when one of these happened to strike an African of the guard, he turned quietly and cut down the nearest citizen. Then, with their heavy javelins so held as to be used either as spears or clubs, the soldiers descended into the forum, and with a captive in their midst, began their progress toward the street and gate that led to the Carthaginian camp. There was no weak delay in this progress, no requests for passage. The escort clove through the mass of the people as a war galley dashes through the breakers of a turbulent sea. A spray of human beings that strove to escape but could not, boiled up about the prow. A wake of bodies writhing or senseless fell behind the stern, while, at either side, the stout javelins rose and fell like the strokes of oars, splashing up blood for foam. The taunts and threats that had assailed the prisoner died away amid shrieks of tear or pain and the deep rumble of the mob. Stupid with drink, drunk with the exaltation of ungoverned power, they wondered vaguely as they crushed back why their new friends should strike merely because they, the Kapooan people, allies of Carthage, strove to punish a traitor and a common enemy. The prisoner's lips were seen moving as his captors hurried him along, but no speech from them could be heard until the forum had been nearly traversed. Then, on the hush born of surprise and efforts to escape blows, the words of Magius were audible, at least to those nearest. He was protesting against this violation of the treaty. He was speaking of himself, a Kapooan, then whom no one was of higher rank, being dragged and chained to the camp of an ally who had sworn that no Carthaginian should have power over a citizen of Kapua. At the mention of his rank, Malus and Envy lent to some of the cow who would rabble courage to jeer once more. Then he had asked how they expected that an ally so careless of recently sworn obligations would respect his vow that no Kapooan would be compelled to do military service against his will, whereupon some of those who heard looked serious. For this seemed reasonable and brought the possibility of evil pleasantly home to them. Finally, he congratulated them upon this marvelous newfound freedom which the Carthaginian alliance had brought, and which they had been celebrating so earnestly. Perola and his companions had found themselves crushed against the portico of the Temple of Hercules, in which only the day before had been established also the worship of the Tyrian Melcarth out of compliment to the new alliance. At first, they had realized but little of what was going on before and around them. They had listened vacantly to crazy rumors of how the statue of Jupiter in the Senate House had bowed to Hannibal as he entered, and how the Senate had forthwith saluted him as a God and declared him the patron and protector of the city, and again to other rumors even more wild of how the wives of all the Kapooans had been decreed to be given to the Carthaginians in return for which the women of Rome were to be surrendered to the Kapooans by their victorious allies. When Desius Magius was let out in custody of the soldiers, Perola was trying to think whether, after all, he would not prefer Marsha to Cluvia. Then followed the passage to the crowded forum straight toward the exit beside the Temple of Hercules, and Perola found himself within a spear's length of his captive friend, whose words of protest and warning fell upon his ears like molten lead, and whose reproachful eyes gazed into his own, piercing through them to his brain dissipating the fumes of intoxication as sunlight melts the fog. Desius had not spoken to him, for he was mindful that such speech might bring suspicion upon the younger man, but his look had said all that his tongue refrained from saying, and Perola realized his degradation and his shame. He started forward and cried out, I was mad, my father, mad do you hear? It was because I knew suddenly that I loved her and that she would never love me. And then I rushed out and met others who were drinking, and we feasted and drank until I knew nothing. Pardon, pardon. Suddenly he became conscious that Desius and his guards were gone. Had he heard his plea? Surely yes, for did not he, Perola, now hear his friend's eyes saying to him that he was but a fool who had added to folly, philosophy, and to both weakness and to all madness. He looked around at his companions. Some were gaping at him vacantly. Some were laughing. Cluvia tried to grasp his arm, and he shook her off and saw her stumble and roll down the steps that led up to the portico. Then a new commotion arose in the direction of the Senate House, and the attention of the bystanders was diverted. More Carthaginian soldiers were forming and marching through the mob that now opened to give passage of double width. And as the escort came near, Perola saw Hannibal clad in the gown of a Kapooan senator, moving calmly in their midst. A new frenzy came to his brain to take the place of the fumes of wine. Perhaps it was one compounded of that and of shame and horror and revenge. He groped under his torn tunic and found his dagger. Then, brandishing it, he burst down through the crowd, uttering incoherent words and threw himself like a wild beast upon the guards. He had stabbed one through the throat and another in the shoulder before he was beaten down by a blow from the staff of a javelin. A moment later, the first soldier to recover from the surprise of the incident bent over him with drawn sword. A sharp exclamation from behind checked the descending thrust and the soldier turned quickly. Hannibal stood beside him with a thoughtful smile upon his lips. Would you kill a citizen of Kapooa? A man of our allies, he said quietly. The African looked around stupidly that he should not crush the Italian vermin forthwith was beyond his comprehension, but evidently such was not the chaliceum's wish. Grumbling, he slipped his sword slowly back into its sheath. And at that moment, several of the Kapooan senators and Hannibal's train gathered round him with protestations and expressions of regret. The general looked at them and frowned. I have been with you scarcely two days, he said. And now you try to murder me. The senators fell upon their knees, kissing his gown and hands in a frenzy of horror at the thought. Who is this fellow? asked Hannibal, turning Perola over with his foot. Then, recognizing the son of Pachuvius Calaevius, he went on. Someone of no consequence doubtless, dust of the street that stings when the wind drives it. And he glared around at the prostrate senators. They glanced at the senseless figure, as if hardly daring so much. Some knew him, more did not, but all united in protesting their ignorance. Hannibal viewed them with drooping lids and the smile returned to his lips. Perola stirred slightly. Again, he addressed the Kapooans, raising his voice somewhat so that the crowd might hear, what is your law for the punishment of such a crime? Those who had not recognized the assassin cried out, death. Others divided between the more powerful enmity of Hannibal and the slower revenge of Calaevius made their lips move, but were silent, hoping to escape notice in the shout of the others. A few of these were envious of the young man's father, more feared him. Hannibal noted their confusion and came to their relief. But perhaps so wicked a man is not a Kapooan after all. It is difficult to believe that the gods would suffer such impiety to lurk in a city so beloved as yours. And if no one knows him, a chorus of disclaimers snatched at the proffered evasion, and the smile on Hannibal's lips grew more subtle. As he said, in that case, the treaty does not stand and you, my fathers, are relieved from the burden of his trial and punishment. I am still free to condemn an ally of Rome. Let your rods and ax do their office. The senators were standing now and several of them winced and looked frightened at the swift result of their complacence. One even gathered courage to say, When is it my Lord's will that punishment fall? Hannibal eyed him closely for a moment. Here, in your forum, and now, he said, provided you would give prompt warning to such vermin. The Kapooan shifted uneasily and looked down. Several of the soldiers had already lifted Perola to his feet and holding him upright had torn away what remained of his garments. Others sent for the executioners and in a moment these appeared with the instruments of their calling. It was doubtful whether the prisoner had recovered full consciousness when the first rod fell upon his shoulders, but he groaned and writhed slightly in the grasp of the four soldiers who held him extended upon the pavement. Then Hannibal turned away, ordering one of his officers to remain and see the end. He signed to the Kapooans to follow him. Such jackals, my fathers, are not worthy that men of rank and wealth should watch them die, he said lightly. The rabble will provide him with sufficient audience. And the senators with odd and thoughtful faces followed in the train of the Captain General of Carthage. End of Section 22. Section 23 of the Lions Brood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rutherford Osborn. The Lions Brood by Duffield Osborn. Section 23. Diplomacy. Pachuvius Calavius sat in the atrium of his house. Black robed from head to foot with hair and beard untrimmed and uncombed, and face and hands foul with dirt. He rocked to and fro and groaned. From time to time he ran his fingers through beard and hair and uttered the measured cry of the Greek mourners. An hour before, one of the senators had stolen furtively in, and having hurriedly related the gruesome scene just enacted in the forum, had sneaked out again as if he were a passing spy through the hostile Lions. None other of the friends of the afflicted father had ventured to bear or send a message of condolence. It was as if the house of the once acknowledged leader had been marked for the pestilence, and no pestilence was more to be shunned than the deadly blight of broken power. Even the slaves shifted about in embarrassed silence, offered little service, and obeyed as if conscious that obedience was something of discretion and was liable at any moment to become a crime. Some had slipped away to their quarters and had begun to discuss the relative possibilities of freedom, wholesale execution, or a new master, when the coming blows should fall upon this one. To Marsha, on the other hand, had been born a feeling of sympathy for her host, that, for the present, overcame the contempt with which he had inspired her, a contempt scarcely lessened by the repulsive ostentation of his mourning. She alone ventured to minister to his wants and to beg him to partake of food and drink. Perhaps her attitude was due in a measure to the horror with which she herself had listened to the mourning's news. To be sure, she had not admired the character of Perola. It had in it too much of the weakness and perulity engendered by the bastard Greek culture fashionable in lower Italy, and which naturally attained its most offensive form in the towns of Italian origin. Still, he had been faithful to Rome, and there was something within that told her his madness and ruin were not entirely disconnected with her own personality. Word, too, had just been brought her that both Legerius and Capor had died of their injuries. They had seemed on the road to recovery when she visited them on the previous day, and this sudden misfortune filled her with new forebodings, mingled with a suspicion too horrible to dwell upon. As for Decius Magius, she had barely seen him, yet she had felt him to be one of all others upon whom she could rely, an Italian uncorrupted by capoean luxury, a worthy descendant of the rugged Samnite stock, a Roman in all but name, and now he was snatched away, a prisoner in the hands of enemies who knew nothing of mercy. Still, he had approved of her design, had seen in it the possibility of success, and there was at least a consolation in the thought that, without friends or allies, no one but herself would now be cognizant of the fulfillment of her impending degradation. Another hour had passed. Into Marsha's mind had come the calmness of a fixed resolve. Calaeus still moaned and cried out, his measured, I.E. I.E. Suddenly a tumult of noises sounded from the street, the approaching murmur of a multitude, the footsteps of men, shouts of applause, cries of wonder or warning in sharp words of command. Ah, the end was near now. Calaeus began to imagine himself stretching out his neck to the sword, and he sought, by proclaiming his willingness and welcome, to stay the chilling of his blood, the trembling of his lips and hands. Staves were beating upon the outer door, the hum of voices in the street rose and fell and rose again. Open the door, Phoenix, mumbled Calaeus, as he rocked and swayed. Open the door and let them enter. I am an old man. My son is dead. What matters are few years of life. I pray to the gods that the barbarians may not hack me. You shall see how easy I will make it if they have but a sharp sword. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and grasped Marsha's arm. They will not scourge me. Surely they will not scourge me. I am a senator and the friend of Carthage. Will the door hold? Hason, my daughter, run and tell me whether they are guarding the street in the rear before the tradesman's gate. The beating upon the door still continued with short intermissions, and Marsha surmised that the porter was probably skulking in the attic with his fellow slaves. Calaeus had turned suddenly from the depths of despair and the height of resignation to a keen desire for life. He had hurried away to seek for some unguarded exit, heedless for the moment of what even Marsha fully realized. The utter impossibility of a man so well known escaping unaided through a hostile city and without a friendly land where too to turn his flight. He had left her standing in the court to be a first prey of the assailants, whether Capuans or Carthaginians, and she reasoned that it would be better or at least quicker to unbar the door before it should be broken in. She was wondering, in fact, that the forbearance that had preserved it thus far from more violent assaults. Calaeus had been gone some time. Doubtless he had escaped or recognizing the uselessness of his attempt was hiding somewhere and in either event nothing would be lost by judicious parlaying. Arranging her robe, she walked slowly through the hall, slid back the bolts one by one and let the door swing out into the street. Then she stood dazed and frightened for the sight that met her eyes was Hannibal himself reclining in a litter borne by four Nubians. The curtains were thrown back and he was leaning out, evidently giving some directions to the attendants whose summons had thus far failed to obtain an answer. Beside the litter stood the priest, Edilcar, with folded arms and look bent upon the ground. Around them were ranged a strong guard of Africans and back through the streets as far as she could see the capoean rabble were thronging forward, curious or bloodthirsty. All this was visible in a moment and then the general attracted by the creaking of the door and the exclamation of the crowd looked up and saw Marcia standing upon the threshold. The litter was set down at an imperceptible signal and he stepped out, robed in a loose gown of black entirely without ornaments and with hair and beard uncombed and sprinkled lightly with ashes. Marcia stared in wonder. Surely this could not be the Carthaginian method of announcing judgment or execution. She caught a flash of subtle lightning from the eyes of Edilcar, though these had not seemed to neglect for a moment their close scrutiny of the pavement. Then Hannibal stood before her, bowing low and speaking in suppressed tones. The gods be with you and dwell within this house. I have come to look upon the face of my father and, if may be, to console him. Praise be to Tannis for the omen that you have opened to us, rather than one whose servile duty it was. So shall our entrance be free and our going joyful. He had cast a rapid glance around as he spoke and Marcia knew that he divined while the service of tending the door had been left to her, a free woman and a guest. Yet he was pleased to ignore all inferences and to attribute her act to some divine will. His words, too, were more than friendly and if they covered no snare of punic faith, augured safely and continued favor. I have come, he continued, that I might mingle my tears with those of my father who mourns the death of a son. Marcia stood amazed. Had they not been told how this man had himself ordered the execution of parola? How, then, could even a Carthaginian show such effrontery? Still, it was necessary to think quickly and her woman's wit told her that, in any event, Galavius' best chance of safety was to seem to accept the visit in the spirit which cloaked it. So thinking, she led the visitors into the peristyle. Hannibal, Ildilcar, and some twenty soldiers who followed as if by previous orders while the rest mounted guard before the vestibule. Mermoring some word of apology, she hurried back through the garden to the tradesman's door. It was still closed and barred. Facts which, together with the rumble of the crowd without, showed that Galavius' plan of escape had proven impractical. Then, she began a careful search, becoming more agitated with each moment, about the difficulty of explaining the delay. At last, she found him, hidden away under a couch in one of the slaves' apartments, so senseless with terror that several minutes passed before he could grasp her tail of Hannibal's presence and of the chance of safety it offered. When, however, he understood that there was yet room for diplomacy, that the visitors were not mere executioners with orders to obey, he drew himself out from his hiding place, alert and active. The need of haste and view of the time already lost was apparent, but nevertheless he paused in the garden to wallow a moment in the mold and plunge his hands into its depth. Marcia saw with disgust, but she led on until they reached the peristyle. When slipping a side into one of the cells, she watched the playing of the game. Galavius paused a moment at the entrance. Then, groaning deeply to attract attention, he shambled forward and, throwing himself at full length before Hannibal, seized the hem of his robe and pressed it eagerly to his lips. Ah, my master, he cried, slay me, slay me at once or with tortures. Surely that man is not fit to live whose loins have engendered such a monster of wickedness. Only by death can I hope to expiate my offense and retain the favor of the gods. Rise, my father, said the captain general, and to Marcia's ears his voice rang true with sympathy. He reached out his hand to help Galavius. Do you not see that I also wear morning for this melancholy error? Never shall I rise or face you, cried Galavius, until you give me your oath that I shall have your forgiveness before I die. Ah, the monster, the parasite, who would slay at one stroke both him who had brought him up to better deeds and him who is indeed the father of his country. Ah, gods, the shame of it. Give orders, Lord, quickly, only vow first that you forgive me. Hannibal's tones were low and deep with sorrow, and by an imperceptible effort of what must have been prodigious strength, he raised the unwilling Galavius to his feet. Listen, my father, he said. Have they not told you how I knew not the young man? He was stained and disheveled with revelings in honor of our alliance, in honor of me, unhappy one. Purchance, the Lord Bacchus, whom you worship, will to have him for his own, for surely it was he that raised the young man's hand against me. Ah, my father, did I not know how this son of thine was most beautiful, best and bravest of the capoean youth. Had I not marked him out for signal honor, only less than yours, my father and his? See now how the gods confused the affairs of men. It was at the banquet that I learned his worth, and determined that he should love me and find in me a friend. Truly, yes, interrupted Galavius, and you had won his heart for walking in the garden he told me as much, only adding that he must appear to turn to you slowly, for the honor of his name among the partisans of Rome, whom may the gods confound as they have done. Hannibal smiled softly as he took up the words. All this I knew well, being somewhat learned in men, my father, and now the gods have smitten my brother with madness that he should try to slay me and myself with blindness that I should unknowingly order the death of one I loved most. Look, my father, I join you in your morning, with black robes and ashes. I come to weep with you at the feet of fate, you whose love for me has lost you a son, and to offer you myself to be a son in his place. Galavius embraced him, mumbling prayers and vows and endearments in the sudden joy of escaped death. Idilcar raised his eyes from the study of the mosaics and turned aside, shaking as if with some strong emotion, and Hannibal spoke again. One thing more, my father, I would speak to you of, though for my best interest I should hold my peace, nor make dissensions among allies. There were those with me when this evil happened, men of your capoean senate, who knew this youth better than I, and who I am convinced suspected the truth, yet they spoke not. Ah, cried Galavius, and you have their names written down for me. We shall slay them. Hannibal's face wore an expression strangely inscrutable as he answered. Yes, my father, I have their names whom I suspect, and they shall surely die. Grant it to me, though, that I alone keep them and expiate my own fault by avenging your wrong. This I swear by Baal Melcharth and Baal Malak, to accomplish at the season best for your plans. Therefore, I tell you the fact, but without names, that you may know that you have enemies and walk warily, while I, your son, shall, under the gods, be your reliance for protection and revenge. Another thought seemed to be struggling for utterance in the bosom of Galavius, a wish prompted by religion, but checked by prudence. Twice he raised his head as if to speak, and twice his eyes wandered. Then, Hannibal spoke again as if reading the other's thoughts, I have also, my father, given orders that funeral honors be paid to my brother, a pire rich with woven fabrics and wine and oil and spices, and from my own share of the Etruscan spoils, I have chosen a vase boldly pictured with a combat of heroes. Tears gushed anew from the eyes of Galavius at this added evidence of thoughtful friendship, and once again he embraced his benefactor, but with somewhat more of dignity, now that the fear of death was removed. Suddenly Marsha became conscious of an intruding presence beside her, and turning, her eyes fell upon the repulsive features of Idilcar that seemed to sneer through the semi-gloom. She shuddered and drew back against the wall. Idilcar held out his arms which the broadsleeves of his robe left bare to elbow. An expression of eager lust made his face even more hideous than did the sneer of a moment past. Come, little bird, he said, and I will charm you, moon of Tannus, lamp of Proserpene. Essence of all the heavens, do you not see I love you? I, Idilcar, priest of Melcharth, behold my robe is dark. It mourns not for the fool who died, but because you have not loved me. Love, and it will gleam again in violet, and all the bracelets that hung from my arms at the banquet shall be yours. She pressed her hands to her face. She felt herself swang upon her trembling knees. Only the support of the wall saved her from sinking down. After a moment's silence, he began again. What is an old man and weak, a sport of foreigners, to me who am young and strong, and by whose word even the chalesium of Carthage must march or halt. I, the favored one of Melcharth, beseech you, a Roman for favor, because Adonis wills it. See how I come to you unpermitted from those who cajole each other, and I show you my heart. Love me. Love me. Leave this keeper who is but an old woman, and you shall be a priestess in Carthage, and the people shall swarm around you and cast their jewels and wealth before you, for the deity that shall be you alone, and we shall feast and love and love and feast again as such splendor as not even Carthage has ever known. She could restrain her feelings no longer. All her resolves seemed to slip from her in the presence of this man. She thrust out her hands and turned her head away with a shiver of utter disgust. Her movement was vague in the dim light, but he saw it, and his face darkened. What is this house, he exclaimed harshly? How long will it stand against me? Shall I not crush its root, even as its branch was torn off today? Filth, vermin, dust. Shall not its flower lie in my bosom to bloom forever, if she wills, or to bloom for a moment and wither and be cast away, if she wills not? He strode forward and caught her wrist, his hot breath steamed in her face. No! No! I hate you! Go! The words sprang from her lips, without power to hold them back, and she struggled frantically in his grasp. She heard his teeth grinding as, mad with passion, he strove to bind her arms to her sides. At that moment a rattling of weapons from the peristyle seemed to bring him to a consciousness of his surroundings. Releasing her he half turned, and she sank down in the corner of the cell. The visit was evidently over, and Hannibal, about to take his leave, was glancing around evidently in search of the missing priest. A dill-car spoke low and rapidly. I will return at once. Wait me till I come, or I will have you given to a syntagma of Africans. He was out in the peristyle now, bowing low before the Captain General. Then he whispered in his ear, probably some explanation of his absence, of how he had been keeping watch against treachery. For Hannibal nodded several times, and again, embracing Calabias, accepted his escort to the door, giving his arm to study the steps of the older man. Marsha crouched, huddled in the farthest corner of the cell, and listened to the receding footsteps of the visitors. Then she heard new sounds echoing through the house, the rushing feet of slaves descending from their quarters, striving to gain their stations unobserved. The sharp tongue of Calabias now loosed from the bonds of terror, and rating them soundly for their unfaithfulness and cowardice, the patter of excuses and protestations. In a few moments the quarters above resounded with the shrieks and groans of those condemned to the lash, for the wrath and indignation of Calabias, generally the mildest of masters, were spurred to vindictive bitterness by a consciousness of his late terror and abasement. They were guilty of all crimes, and worst of all, of the rankest ingratitude. Let them learn that their master was still strong enough to punish. So the scourges fell, and the victim screamed and writhed. All these things, Marsha heard, but they meant little to a mind so full of internal conflict as was hers. What was she to believe of herself? Had she not marked out a course of self-devotion and sacrifice, which was to gain respite and safety for her country, revenge upon its enemies? Had not others, notably Desius Magius, been forced unwillingly to admit the possible efficiency of her plan? Yet now, when the gods had shown her favor beyond all anticipation, had brought the chosen quarry into her net, she had thrown all aside and yielded to her womanly weakness, her instinct of modesty, her sense of personal repulsion. What right had she to think of herself as a woman? He, for whose love her sex had been dear to her, was gone. A pallid shade who could no longer be sensitive to her beauty, a vague being sent far hence into the land of the Four Rivers by these very men who had devoted to destruction. What, though the virtues that had beaten down her resolves had been good once, good for Marsha the woman. They were evil for that Marsha who had resolved to be a heroine, and who was now learning how hard it is for the female to seek the latter crown without losing the former. Again and again, she struggled with herself, swayed back and forth by the counter-currents of conflicting shames, until the thought of death as a final possibility revived to steal her purpose. The sacrifice and the shame would be short, and, in the consciousness of her work accomplished, she could die, going before the Lady Prasarpeen with a pure heart that need not fear to meet the eyes of Sergius when they should ask its secret. Rising quickly, she hastened to her chamber by passages where she would not be likely to meet her host. Whatever intentions he might have entertained toward her had been effectually suspended, if not obliterated, by the course of events, and now he was much too busy setting in order his demoralized household to think of her presence. Therefore, she reached her apartment unnoticed, and, summoning her tire woman, surrendered herself to the tedious process of adornment according to the accepted taste of Magna Gracia. The afternoon was spent, air all had been finished. Then she ate hurriedly, and with little appetite, drinking deeply of the lesbian wine till her cheeks flushed through the rouge, and her eyes sparkled. Calavius had gone out, busy about affairs of state, and eager to collect the strained threads of his influence, threads that might be strengthened by their very straining, in the hands of a politician who realized how men were ready to grant every complacence to one whom they had deserved ill of and whose vengeance they feared. Marsha found herself wondering whether Adilcar would indeed return as he had said. Perhaps her attitude had seemed to him so unfavorable that he would strike first. But when and how? Perhaps affairs of state detained him also. Perhaps even this man Hannibal, whose eye pierced through all subterfuges, had already divine the danger and set himself to nullify it. Perhaps. And then, as she was reclining in the larger dining room, one of the slaves entered and whispered in her ear. She rose quickly. Tell my lord that she whom he favors await cement the hemicycle in the garden and guide him to me. She spoke marveling at her steady tones and turning, walked with drooping head to the semicircular marble seat, not the single seat, back amongst the foliage where she had met Perola, the philosopher's chair, as Calavius had called it laughingly, where his son retired to commune with thoughts too great for men. Sinking down at one end of the hemicycle, she studied the carved lion's head that ornamented the armrest and the paw, thrusting out from the side support upon the pavement beneath. It troubled her, such wonderful handicraft, had not considered that the head was entirely out of proportion with the paw. And yet, if the former were larger or the latter smaller, surely they would not fit well in the places they were intended to ornament. What a provoking dilemma, to be sure. And at such a time, for glancing suddenly up, she saw Idilcar's dark, repulsive features bent upon her with a terrible intentness. All her former loathing surged back over her heart with tenfold force sickening her with its suffocating weight. Light of the two eyes of Baal, he murmured softly, look kindly upon thy servant. Smile upon his love that thy light in his worship may be eternal. Behold, for thee I cast aside the worship of the Lord Melcharth. He tore apart his long, violet tunic, showing his throat and bosom hung with necklaces. His arms, bare to the shoulders, glittered with heavy bracelets. Low, the spoils of Italy, assigned to my Lord I give to thee. And taking off necklace and bracelet, he knelt and piled them at her feet, raising and parting his arms in the attitude of oblation. Charmed as by a serpent, Marsha watched him with horrible disgust, yet unable to turn her eyes aside. What is tannis to thee, he went on? What Saris? What Prasarpeen? Ashera? Their Cherto. Goddesses afar from men, goddesses whom, not seeing, we worship faintly with sacrifice and ceremony. But thou, thou shalt dwell forever in the temple upon the square of Melcharth. Come. Again, and in spite of every resolve, Marsha felt the overmastering sense of women's loathing that stood so obstinately between herself and the role she had marked out. It was too much. She could not. Could not suffer this man for a moment, even with the release of swiftly hastening death before her eyes. She struggled to her feet, groping about, turning, and with stifled scream she sought to fly. But her strength refused her even this service. In an instant he was up and beside her. His hand had roughly grasped her shoulder, half tearing away the cyclists. His little eyes blazed with vindictive fury. His nostrils dilated. His coarse lips writhed in hungry passion. Ah, slave, you would escape? Where? Where? In this house? Ah, fool, could you not measure the comedy of this morning? Do you think this old impassal, this man condemned to follow his mouse-killing son, can protect you from the meanest Nubian in the army? Do you think? Ah, and he raised his hand as if to strike. Wrenching herself loose by a quick movement, Marsha turned and faced him with all the blood of the Torquati flushing in her cheeks, all their fire blazing in her eyes. Dog of a pulse-eater she cried, and he shrank back before the vehemence of her tone. Do I care what you do? Break your alliance with these people, if you wish, an alliance of fools with fools, knaves with knaves. Break it, before it be cloven asunder for you by the sword of Rome. Doubtless your chief will sacrifice all his plans to your cowardly lust. Kill my protector, tear down his house, and kill me, me, for whom there is neither sowing nor reaping in this matter. All his arrogance and violence had vanished, cowed and crushed by her outbreak, but even as he cringed before her, the gleam of oriental cunning had taken its place. Ah, now indeed art thou more beautiful than the Lady Tannis, he muttered, clasping and unclasping his hands, as if in ecstasy. Now indeed do I love thee. His voice sank to a whisper, and he glanced about timorously, and so it is neither sowing nor reaping with you, my pretty, he went on. Fools we may be, but not the fools to be blind to your sowing, not the fools who shall not root up your seed before the day of reaping. Did not you, a Roman, counsel Mago to delay? Did you not, foolish one, even give such counsel at the banquet of welcome to the chaliceism, until I laughed in my cup to see a silly girl who would cajole men of government and of war? Marcia stood, rigid and pale. All her plans seemed shivering about her. She was doomed to fail, then. Fail, after all, through the cunning of these vermin. Still she struggled to retain her composure. Liar, she said. Do I not know that if you speak truth I would already be buried under hurdles, weighted with stones? He laughed softly. Why, he asked. What can you avail, coining lead for us who perceives its falseness? Nay, you are even of use to Hannibal, for by your very eagerness he has come to Maharbaal's thinking, that all must be done speedily, if we would take Rome. Even now, Capuhan's work night and day building our engines, soon they will set them up before your gates. We shall winter in Rome as the guests of the Lady Marcia who has invited us. Therefore Hannibal grants you life and to be a comfort to his friend and father, Bakuvius Calavius, in his declining years. And he laughed again but harshly and sneeringly. Marcia could scarcely keep her feet under the crushing force of these blows, in what vain manner had she, an inexperienced girl, blind to all but a noble purpose, contended with men whose cunning had sufficed to snare the chiefs of her people. Worse even, she had herself forged the weapons for the destruction of all had hoped to save. Edilcar watched her from under half-closed lids, noting every line of her face and reading its struggle and its despair. And so it is wisdom for us to march north at once, he said softly. How do I know? A woman. He smiled subtly and ignored the change of front he had rested from her. Love me, and I swear by the crown of Melcharth that Hannibal shall winter in Capua. She started, as if from the touch of fire. Had her ears heard words of his, or was it only a belated thought coursing from her brain to her heart? He stepped nearer and spoke again. Love me, pretty one, and Hannibal shall winter in Capua. Yea, though he hangs on the cross for it, though all the armies of Carthage become food for dogs. At first she had been dreaming of new snares, but these last words and the vehemence of his tone brought her to an intuitive realization that this man was indeed prepared to give up God, country, general, friends. All so only that he might gratify his over-mastering passion. The gods were indeed with her after all, were guiding her aright, and the knowledge steadied her self-control and strengthened her resolve. What omen of favor could be more potent than this snatching of victory out of the very hands of ruin, this molding of ruin into a source of victory? So she spoke, calmly and evenly. Perhaps you tell the truth. Perhaps folly. How shall I know, any more than I know of this power to command commanders, of which you make such silly boast? Not I. Not I, lady, he protested eagerly. Listen. It is the Lord Melcharth that has always loved the colonies of Phoenicia, first among which is Carthage. It is he that has guided and guarded us through the perils of the deep and of the desert, of the skies and of the earth, of hunger and thirst of beasts and men. What God equals him in our city. What God receives such gifts, such incense, such sacrifices. What though we fear Baal Malach, is it not the Lord Melcharth whom we love? It is he who goes before our armies that he may tell them when to attack, when to await the foe. I am his priest, do you understand? I have spoken his words many times. Now he shall speak mine. Marsha could hardly fail to understand the nature of the power which this man now proposed to lay at her feet. Yet it all seemed horribly impossible that he, a priest, could dare such sacrilege for such end. Had she been Fabius, Paulus, or even Sergius, men who were already groping amid the Greek schools of doubt and were coming to regard the religion of the state more as an invaluable means of curbing the vices of the low and ignorant than as a divine light for the learned, had she been such as these, this proposal of Idilcar would have seemed incredible only on account of its treason to his country. And yet, in one sense, she was better fitted than they to understand the Carthaginian. True skepticism has found little room under the mantle of the gloomy, the terrible cult that swayed the destinies of the Channada tish races. Even the priests, while they were ready enough to use the people's faith, the minister to their own ends, trembled before their savage gods. Low, brutish, full of inconsistent wiles their faith might be, but such faith it was as an educated Roman could with difficulty comprehend. On the other hand, the minds of the women of Rome had not as yet swerved from unquestioning belief in the gods consulting in the gods apart, and the Torquati were most conservative among all the great houses. From childhood up, and in years she was scarcely more than a child. All these had been very real to her. Pomona wandered through every orchard beside her beloved vertoomness. Pan and his Sylvan brood sported behind the foliage of every copes. She would as soon have thought of questioning their presence as of doubting her own being. Marsha believed the average Roman patrician affected to believe and indulged in his polite, Hellenic doubts. The Carthaginian priest, while he believed, with all Marsha's fervor, in a theology to which Marsha was tender as the divine fellowship of the Phoenicians, yet conceived that it was entirely legitimate to play tricks upon his fiend gods, to pit his cunning against theirs. If they caught him, perhaps they would laugh, perhaps consume him in the flames of their wrath. It depended on their mood, whether they had dined well perhaps, and he would take his chances. He stood now toward his deities, just where the heroes of Homer had stood centuries before. He was a living evidence of the Asiatic birth of Greek theology, only in the Asian races religious feeling was not religious thought, did not arise from the mind or change, like the cults of Europe, as the mind that evolved or adopted them developed and outgrew its offspring. So it was that, while Marsha, but for her instinctive realization of the truth, might have been utterly unable to credit the sincerity of such prodigious wickedness, yet armed with this intuition as a starting point, she sought for and found reasons to support it. The purity of her own faith came to her aid. Perhaps the Punic gods were mere demons, as they seemed to be, and Idilcar knew it and relied for protection upon the mightier gods of Rome. In a sense, she reasoned on false premises, but her conclusion was, nonetheless, more accurate than would have been that of either Paulus or Sergius. For the time, at least, Idilcar was entirely sincere. To be sure, if he could gain his end by mere promises, he preferred to deceive Marsha rather than Melcharth, but his plotting had not gotten so far as that yet. Now, his fierce oriental nature was consuming with that passion which, in it, took the place of all love. This Roman woman had aroused desires that he had never known in the gardens of Ashera. Her face was to the faces of the courtesans, who throng the sacred woods of feast days, as the glory of the crescent moon was to the sputter of the rancid oil in the lamp that illumined the cell of fancula cluvia, cunning beyond his race, learned in the strange learning of the east that had come to a few in Egypt and to fewer yet in Phoenicia. Idilcar read the struggle that was taking place in the girl's mind. What do I care for Hannibal, he cried, for the great council, for Carthage? I would give them all to you for one kiss. To him who has learned all secret knowledge, the mind alone is God and city and home and friends. Everything, everything, saved love. And his voice, harsh and strident, sank to a whisper in which was compassed all the fierceness of ungoverned and ungovernable desire. Marsha knew now that he was speaking the truth, that he would indeed stop at nothing, and with a certainty there came to her a strange mingling of exaltation, terror and calm. She saw this man, powerful with the power of the conqueror, learned with the learning of the student and of the ascetic, groveling here at her feet, slave to a force against which no power, no philosophy could avail. She saw him crawl to her and press her robe to his lips. She heard him mumbling and whining like some animal, and she despised him and grew stronger in the light of her growing self-esteem. At last, she spoke, It is well. I have listened and determined. Yes, you were right. I have wished that the army should not march north. I have wished that it should winter in Campania. I am a Roman. Why should I not wish it? You say you can accomplish this. Do so, and you shall have your reward. A dealcar sprang to his feet and threw out his arms to draw her to him. The breath came from his chest in short gasps. His eyes were suffused with tears through which he saw something glitter, and his hands, clutching and unclutching, caught only air. Then his arms fell to his sides. He paused and looked stupidly at her. She had sprung back and was facing him defiantly with a short dagger raised to strike. Not too soon, slave, she said, and her voice rang in his ears like steel. He who would reap must first sow. You do not love me, he said sheepishly, gnashing his teeth because he knew the foolishness of his words and yet could say no others. She laughed. Then her face grew sober. No, she said, I do not love you. Why should I? We love those who serve us well. Ah, but I have promised, he broke in. I am giving you everything. I want but one thing, she said, while the lines of her mouth hardened. And for that I take no promise. He lowered his head to avoid the straight flash of her eyes. It is I, then, who must trust. Always I, he muttered, how do I know you will give yourself when I earn you? How do I know you will not kill yourself with that dagger? For you hate me. And then with sudden fierceness, why should I not take my own? What hinders me? This, said Marsha, touching the point with her finger. Idilkar shuddered. Listen now, she began, and be reasonable. I have named my price, and you have said it is not too much. Why speak of love or hate? Earn me and take me. Yes, he echoed, for he was braver when his eyes studied the pavement. Why speak of love or hate? It is you I want. Your kisses, your embraces. Who shall say that hatred may not flavour them better even than love? And he sneered. Ah, but how shall I know? I am a Roman, and I have promised. Fulfill your Punic word as well, and I swear you shall have your pay, so surely. And then the memory of another day, happier, but, oh, so bitterly regretted, came to her mind. So surely, as Orcus sends not the dead back from Archeron. Now go. He drew back, step by step, still facing her, longing to rebel, but not daring, cringing, skulking like a whipped cur. He reached the end of the path. The entrance to the garden was behind him. He raised his clenched hand to the heavens. Ah, Melcharth burst from his lips, and turning he plunged into the house, running. Marcia listened eagerly to the fall of his sandals. They died away, and the distant door creaked. Tears filled her eyes, and shivering in every muscle, she sank down upon the seat, and buried her face in her hands. End of Section 24. Section 25 of The Lion's Brood This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rutherford Osborne The Lion's Brood by Duffield Osborne Section 25. Melcharth Two moons had waxed and waned. Pachuvius Galavius had dined in his winter triclinium for the first time this year, and Marcia was rejoicing at the omen. She watched her host as he lay back upon his couch, and noted with pity the change that had come over him. When he had greeted her coming, he had seemed not very much past middle age, a brisk man, well preserved in mind and body. Now he was old, very old, and the pallor and wrinkles were prominent through the flush of the wine and the paint with which he strove to hide them. Even his ambition was dead. He hardly sought the Senate House, but stopping within doors, mondered quarrelously and unceasingly to Marcia, to his servants, to anyone who would listen to him, of the blunders that were being made, and how war and negotiations should be conducted. Speaking always as a man from whom such things had no personal interest, the diadem of Italy that had once blinded his eyes to good faith and oaths of alliance had melted away in the flames of the pyre that consumed his son. As for Marcia, she had come to regard him with something of that indulgent consideration which we feel the aged and infirm. His former attitude toward herself, which had filled her with contempt and disgust, had vanished utterly, and in its place was a fatherly kindness that had now no near object upon which to lavage itself. As for the household, what little discipline had once pertained was gone. The slaves were no longer punished and slave-like, they presumed upon their master's gentleness or indifference. They pilfered right and left, they neglected duties and orders until at last a large measure of the care of her host and his house devolved upon Marcia alone. And Marcia also had softened and grown kindlier and was as slow to ask for punishments as was Calavius to decree them. They seemed like two who were awaiting death and would not add to the measure of human misery, knowing from their own how great this was. Let them enjoy a false freedom for a few days longer, said Calavius. Soon we shall be gone and then who knows. I have no heirs and the state may not deal so kindly with them. Strangely enough, he seemed always to assume Marcia's coming death along with his own, and when she gazed into her mirror, its story molded well with that reflected in the mirror of her thoughts. She had grown thin, very thin, and pale, and her eyes burned large and luminous as with the fires of fever. Her lips too were redder even than when the blood had tinted them with hues of more perfect vigor. Hannibal had continued to preserve the attitude of respectful consideration, which had marked his demeanor on that day of which they never spoke. He still greeted Calavius as father when he came to ask about his health and on the days when he did not come, he sent some Carthaginian of rank, generally Idilcar, to make courteous inquiries in his stead. Calavius, on the other hand, complained continuously of the Shalisham's delay, and Hannibal listened with downcast face, frowning to himself, and made no answer except that he was the servant of the gods. Marcia's presence he entirely ignored. Still, he spent little of his time in Capua, and of this, Calavius was now speaking. Truly, did you note the news we had received today, my daughter? Two of the new engines destroyed before Casillinum. Casillinum for Soothe, a paltry village, against which the Capuan children would hardly dane to march. It is Rome. Rome. Rome that calls. And this great general, this conqueror, sits down before Nusiria, Asere, Nola, Casillinum. Soon, mark me. And his eyes gleamed prophetic. Rome will sit down before Capua, and then receive thou me, O death, who art my friend and well-wisher. Marcia wondered at this vehemence so different from his manner through all these weeks. But the omens, my father, she said after a moment's pause, I have heard that the gods of Carthage forbid the march north. Perhaps they fear to contend with the gods of Rome at the foot of their own hills. Tush, girl, exclaimed Calavius, impatiently. Who does not know that the gods say such words as their thievish priests filch from them? Mark now this fellow that comes from the captain general. Do you not see how the fingers of his left hand clutch and unclutch? We're Hannibal to crucify him and if you like, his gods might utter more favoring responses. Meanwhile, our engines that should thunder at your capinium gate are consumed before mud heaps. And who knows but all the time some tree grows stouter that it may bear the weight of this Hannibal, the slave of gods that should be taught their place and their duties. Marsha, despite her complicity, listened, shuddering to these sacrilegious words and mingled with her shrinking from a philosophy that dared to talk of the immortals as mere means to be used or cast aside as human ends might dictate, was a terror lest similar reasoning should at last find place in Hannibal's mind and thus bring to not her aims and her sacrifices. It was easy to see how the general chafed at the unwanted delay and with what willingness he listened when another spoke the words which he himself dared not utter. Calavius had but just finished his tirade when they both turned at a slight noise and saw Edilcar standing in the entrance of the room. How long he had been there what he had heard neither knew but his face wore the subtle smile which, though well-nigh native to its lines, yet seemed always to bear some hidden import. The favor of Melcharth and of the Baileum be with you, he said softly. Your servants, my Pachuvius, are not over well trained. There was no offer to bear word of my coming, no offer of attendance. The porter hardly deigned to swing the door for me. Marsha, knowing Edilcar as she did, was prompt to take this speech in the light of an explanation of his eavesdropping. But the once sharp intelligence of Calavius had been too much deadened to search for secondary meanings. I am an old man, priest, he said quarrelously. Why should I leave stripes and crying behind me? Edilcar shrugged his shoulders. That may be, he replied, but if we had such servants as yours and Carthage, we should send their shades ahead of us. He had indeed deftly parried any attack or inquiry. Then, suddenly, and of his own accord, he turned back to strike. And so you have been condemning the piety of this shalishism, the integrity of the College of Priests, the truth of the Gods themselves, for ought I know, have a care. He was lashing himself into a fury. I have listened to your words. If I reported them, how long before you would both be sent to Carthage to keep comradeship with that terrible fellow, desius magius? Have care. Have care lest the Gods strike through me, their servant. Nevertheless, the Gods are merciful to those who bring offerings, peace offerings of gold and jewels and raiment and spices. Come. What will you give me that I smother their wrath? I, Adilcar, your friend, whom you speak ill of behind his back, whom you hate. Yes, both of you. And his eyes flashed at Marcia with a strange recklessness that she had never seen in them. Wondering and terrified, she listened to his outburst of rage. But Calavius heard it calmly and answered, without troubling himself to probe its import. You shall have a talent of silver and such jewels as you choose, he said, rising. I will go and give the orders. Orders, sneered the other. But to Marcia it seemed that the word and look covered suspicion at the ready acquiescence of the capoean. Then I will go with you and see that these orders are obeyed. Come. Ah, and he turned to Marcia. And will you be here when I return? I wish to speak with you. She inclined her head, still wondering, and when they had left the room her wonder deepened. Surely a change had taken place. A Carthaginian was always said to love money. But for Idilcar to seek to obtain it by such crude and violent means, from a man whom his general professed to honor and protect, seemed to augur something of which she knew not. Either Hannibal's protection was to be for some reason withdrawn or else. But what else could embolden the priest to such license? The look, too, with which he had regarded herself. She had restrained him with some difficulty during the past months, but now she felt instinctively that her control had vanished. Even violence seemed near for that Idilcar could be fool enough to dream that his mere repetition of the words he had listened to would enrage Hannibal. She did not for a moment believe. The general had heard the same from Calavius face to face and had only frowned and bit his lips behind his beard as if feeling their justice. What then could have happened? Ah, you are still here. She looked up quickly and saw that the priest had returned alone. He went on, speaking quickly and nervously, but in low tones. The time has come and so you were thinking, thinking of what? Was it rejoicing that Tannis was to give you to me so soon? And he showed his teeth, like a dog. Listen, they suspect me. I have done all as you wished, but there was a council today in the camp before Cicillinum and Maharbal fell on his knees as he did after Cannae and begged to march north. Not with the cavalry alone, as then, he knew it was too late for that and the shalisham knit his brows and frowned. Then Hasdrubal and Carthalo added their prayers and pleadings, gathering around him, and then he turned his somber face to me and asked if it was permitted. But before I could answer, for my mind was disturbed, that animal whom they call the fighter had drawn his sword and held it over my head, crying out, Yes, friends, it is permitted. See? It is permitted. And then I felt myself grow pale and I heard the great beast laugh. A moment later, and Hannibal had ordered him to put up his sword and I saw Maharbal whispering quick words in the general's ear, among which it seemed to me that his lips formed your name. Again, Hannibal asked, is it permitted, Idilkar, or what sacrifice will your Lord have from us? Have we not served him faithfully? Is there ought he wishes? And I felt all their eyes on me, but above all were yours that were soon to smile. Therefore I took courage, which the Lord Melcharth granted, and spoke boldly, explaining that I had as yet been able to win no favor, though I had prayed long and fasted and lashed myself with thongs, whereupon Hannibal, the fighter, made as if to tear off my mantle, laughing in his beard, and when I saw they did not believe me, my terror came back. Then it was that Melcharth shed wisdom upon his servant, and, after a moment's thought, I spoke up, thus. Listen, lords, I said, I am a native Carthaginian, like you all, and I reverence the gods. How be it it may chance that here, beyond the sea, it is not so easy to win their favor, so that they shall go before us. New and strange sacrifices and pleadings wherein I am untaught may be needed to pierce the denser ether of this land. Truly, lords, as ye have not failed in piety, neither have I erred in divination. For Melcharth has spoken many times, telling me of the unnumbered woes that would overwhelm the army if it marched upon Rome unbidden, and he hath spoken truth, and I have saved you to revile me for it. Only I would learn if there be yet speech better fitted to his ear. I paused, and they were silent, wondering. Then I spoke on, grant me, lords, three days, that I may journey to Chamea, for I have heard that a woman dwells there, wise in the ways of the gods, and if I bear her rich presence, it may happen that she will teach me the words that shall pierce this dull air, even to where Baal Melcharth sits enthroned in my palaea, that he may grant all your wishes. So I crossed my arms upon my breast and, bowing my head, listened. At Chumea, growled Jubelius Toria, who sat near me, say, rather at the house of Pachuvius Calavius, and I felt myself trembling. For then I knew surely that I had heard Marhabal all right, and that I was suspected. Still, I stood fast, and at last Hannibal spoke. Go to Chamea for three days, he said sternly. Take what you wish, one talent, two, three. Only bring back the words that shall win favor. And as Jubal added, and hearken, Lord, if you win not favor, we shall yet march, and, para-adventure, you shall come with us. And if they drive not the nails too deep, but there was an outcry at this, for they trembled lest Malkarth should smite them, and Hasdrubal spoke again, grumbling, Ah, masters, you have not seen soldiers as I have seen them, becoming bloated with wine and food, and softened the arms of courtesans. But Hannibal interrupted him, crying out to me again, Go, go! There is little time for the march, and it may be we are already too late. Go, and do all things so that the Lord, Bal Malkarth, shall favor us. So I went out, and having taken their talents, I am here. This old sheep has disgorged another talent, together with gems. Therefore come now, and we shall escape hence. Marcia saw a dimness before her, amid which his jewels and bracelets and earrings seemed to mingle strange glancings with the fires that burned in his eyes. At last she faltered, But your work, it is not finished. How shall I know if I go with you? The rings on his hands were sinking deep into her wrist, her lips were close to her ear. Ah, you will not go. You will play with me, deceive me. Listen now. Tomorrow I shall be here with horses and money. In the morning, very early, before light. And you will go like a little bird that is tamed. These days will give us time to gain more, if more be needed. Look, I have hazarded it all. Shall I lose my reward now because my work be unfinished by ever so little? It may be that, having gone, I shall not return. Do you think I will leave you here to laugh at me? You will go, or tomorrow, Baal Melcharth shall speak the word. And before midday, Hannibal shall give orders to march to Rome. Why do you think I have gathered this wealth? Look, I have risked all for it, and you shall not escape. Exhausted by his rapid vehemence, he stood back, breathing hard and trying to smile. Ah, moon of Tannis, you will come. He murmured, holding out his arms. We shall escape to Sicily, to Greece, to Egypt, to the Far East. We shall be rich with the spoils of fools. A slight scraping noise came to their ears, and both started. Idilkar sprang swiftly to the entrance of the room, but the lamp in the hall had gone out, and his eyes saw nothing in the darkness. Uncertain what to do. He looked back to where Marcia stood. Pale and rigid, his voice and hands tremble as he repeated in a loud whisper, You will come. You will be ready. Yes, she said, I will come. But she did not look at him as she spoke. Only she caught the triumphant gleam of his eyes. A thousand weird lights seemed to whirl all around her, and she felt herself sinking. It seemed for a moment, as if a slave in a gray tunic was supporting her, and then all consciousness fled. It was in our past midnight when Marcia first knew the agony of returning reason. The gong in the forum had just struck. Where was she? Surely in her own apartment. How had she come there? Then, slowly, the memory of yesterday grew clear, the awful duty of tomorrow. With eyelids fast shut, as if dreading to open them to the darkness, she buried her throbbing temples beneath the rich companion coverlet. She could still see the eyes of Idilkar gleaming wolfish amid his jewels. She could see him standing in the doorway, as he turned from that startled Russian pursuit of what had been doubtless only a whisper of their imaginations. He had said he would come for her before daybreak, and she must be ready. Later, she could approach death with supply and hands. But now, she must be ready. Her life was not her own yet, it was her country's. Later, the shade of Lucius would beckon. Surely he would forgive her for having avenged him. But how had she reached her room? Had it been Calvis or the slaves who had found her? Did they suspect? Then she remembered the man who had seemed to catch her as she fell. Where could Idilkar have been then? Had he hurried away? Probably enough. Again, a slight scratching noise, as of someone softly changing his position. Like the sound which had startled the priest came to her ears. Ah, protecting gods! What was true and what but dreams? Her whole life was passing before her, phantasmagorial and unreal. Surely someone was present. She felt it. Had Idilkar come already, the horror of the thought gave her courage and, thrusting down the cover lid, she opened her eyes defiantly and tried to pierce the darkness. Nothing was visible. But she knew that she was not alone, and leaning upon one elbow, she reached out, groping. Suddenly, a hand grasped hers, a strong bony hand gripping it tightly and by its very energy commanding silence. It seemed strange to her that she did not scream, but then she had known that she would find someone and had the hand been Idilkar's, she would certainly have realised it by the loathing in her soul. For her, now, all other men had become friends. Therefore she was not frightened, did not cry out, rather it was a soothing sense of companionship that came to her almost of reliance. Why had this man come? Perhaps to help her, surely not to injure. Who was he? Man or God? Gods had appeared to those of olden times when the Republic was young and Romans worshipped, believing. She felt very brave, fearless. Who are you? she whispered. I am a slave, answered a voice. I brought you here and I am watching. It was a voice that, while it rang hard, yet had in it an assurance of protection, even of power, and it thrilled her as with some familiar memory. Nevertheless, she could not place its owner in the household. Calvius had many slaves. A few of them had been free-born and some perhaps might even have known a measure of social standing before the turn of war or of financial fortunes had lost them to home and position. Who are you? she asked again. I am a new servant, said the other. Pachavius Calvius bought me yesterday in the street of the whiteened feet. She was silent a moment, trying hard to think. She felt the man's hand trembling and then suddenly realizing she drew her own away. And yet you are going tomorrow with this beast, this animal, said the voice, bitterly. Startle again by the tone and accent, no less than by the words she burst out. Why do you say that? But you do not know and I cannot tell you. Yes, you are right. I am going away tomorrow. I am a courtesian. What then? By the gods. No, he cried and she heard him spring to his feet. Then, lowering his voice, if I thought that, I would kill you. You would only forestall my own blow, she said quietly, and there was new silence. At last he spoke again. Tell me all of this matter. You are safe. I am a Roman. A Roman and a slave. And a slave. Tell me the truth quickly. The voice sounded weak and hollow now, but still strangely familiar. She began her story speaking in a low monotone. I am Marcia, daughter of Titus Manlius Torquatus. I loved and yet I drove my lover from me, and he was killed on the black day of Cannae. Then the senate feared, lest the enemy should advance to Rome, prayed for the winter for time. And I was beautiful and I had no love, safe for the king Orcus. So the thought came to me, that by my blindishments, I might win power with these people, and my power, delay, and my delay, safety for Rome, and revenge for my lord Lucius. Therefore I journey to Capua. You see that I have played my part, that I have won. Tomorrow I go to pay the price. What matter it? Then I can die. He had listened in silence. Only she heard his breath coming hard, and a moment after she had finished, he spoke, No, you cannot die, not thus. I have died once, yet I live. Listen, I, like the lover you tell of, was slain at Cannae, pierced through by javelins, and I lay with the dead heaped above me. Ah, so many hours, days, perhaps, I do not know. Until the slave dealers, passing among the corpses, found me breathing and wondered at my strength, auguring a good value. Therefore they took me, and when I was well off my wounds, they brought me here, to Capua, and sold me to Pacuvious Calvius, to whom may the gods give the death of a traitor. Lo, now let it be for a warning, that Orcus does indeed send back the dead from Acheron. He leaned forward, as he spoke the words, and there came to Marcia a sudden memory of two occasions when she had used the ancient saying, The colloquial never of Rome. Once it had bound her to Idilcar, and once, far back, in happier times, it had parted her forever from Sergius. Tears rolled down her cheeks. A dim light seemed to be creeping into the room. Very dim, but as her eyes grew dry again, she could begin to trace the outlines of her companion sitting on a low stool beside her couch. Surely those were footsteps in the hall. Yes, footsteps, and the approaching light of a lamp. Marcia's heart stood still. The slave had started from his seat, and drawn far back in the darkest corner of the room. Then the curtains were pushed cautiously aside, and the tall form of Idilcar stood revealed by the light of the small silver lamp he bore in his hand. A long, dark mantle enveloped him from head to foot. 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 risen. No matter. I have another cloak, and we must not delay. The slaves are well-briped, and Calvius sleeps soundly. Forever. My horses, good horses, are in the street. A few moment, and we gain the gate. The shalishism's own ring is on my finger, and the seal of the great council shall win a segress. 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 rich, who now called her slave. Come, come quickly, Romanus. 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 wroughts 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 lamp light 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 round the priest's neck, and while Marcia stared spellbound at the shade that had come back to save her, the lamp fell from Idilcar'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 taste wonder, she glided from the couch, grouping 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 odor of perfumed oil began slowly to fill the room. A statuette, or vase, came crashing 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 mass at her feet. Then she caught the glitter of a weapon, and at last her eyes grasped something of the situation. Idilkar was undermosed. 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 Carthaginians' wrists. It was the latter who held the blade that had glittered, a long, medium 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 Idilkar's face, the blows of fists, but the blood on the floor told of some other wound, doubtless the Romans, inflicted before he could restrain the hand that had 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 busyed in selecting some shade of wool for her desktop. 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 dance, Idlecar 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 Idlecar above the hips, plunged 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. Gods, would he never fall and still he maintained his footing, but now his hands beat only the air and his struggles became agonised writhings. Sergius's grip about his hips had never loosened and the dagger rose and fell a third time. Idlecar groaned long and deeply and sank down in a heap, carrying his layer with him. End of section number 26 Section 27 of The Lion's Brood This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Shashank Jokmola The Lion's Brood by Duffield Osborne Flight Slowly, Sergius disengaged himself from the death grip that entangled him and, rising, turned to where Marsia 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, once sent back by Orcus, by the hand of Mercury, to save a Roman woman from dishonor. Oh, my Lord Lucius! She cried, falling upon her knees and holding out her hands toward him. Truly it was not dishonor to avenge you, to save the Republic, but if it were, then may your mains 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 passed. 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 prosper pine 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. Brightened, 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 Videnus, 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 Orchis should send back the dead from Akron? How I accepted it? How the gods 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 shoulders, saying, And that which I, Marcia, daughter of Titus Manlius Tauquatus, have said unto the shade, That say I to the living Lucius Sergius, Take me, love, for where thou art Caus, 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 pricked me in the thigh, I think, but not deeply. The gods 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 blood freely, yet seemed to have avoided the larger muscles and blood vessels. Did I not tell you? He said reassuringly, as she rose from her knee, a closed 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 knock to the realms of the dead. She said nothing, but, tearing strips from her stole, proceeded deftly to bind them around the leg. Agatha Slees himself could not do better. Nay, I doubt, as you lapious. But she rose again quickly and placed her finger upon his lips. It is the gods who have saved us to each other. Do not make them angry, lest they withdraw their favor. I am ready to follow you, my lord Lucius. Standing edict, 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 Italy car from where it lay entangled about the legs of the corpse. Fortunately, it had slipped down the Carthaginians' 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 wrens 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 Idilcar 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 pettices, admirably adapted for concealment as well as protection. I am ready, she said eagerly. Let us make haste. Sergius was stooping over the dead man, searching for something. It is the ring, he said, the ring with the seal of the great council of which he spoke. How else should we pass the guard at the gate? A moment later, he rose and, going to the light, examined carefully the several rings taken from the priest's fingers. One by one, they dropped and rolled away over the floor. The last only remained and Marcia, looking over his shoulder, saw a heavy, cold signet bearing the device of a horse under a palm tree. Come now, he said, taking her hand, he had thrust a long knife of idilkar into the girdle of his tunic and this was their only weapon. So, leading Marcia, he quickly traversed the halls and courts and gained the door, which hung ajar and unattended. Outside, a company of five men were gathered, all mounted. Two were apparently soldiers, a sort of guard. The rest were servants. Heavy-looking packages were bound, behind them, on their horses' backs, doubtless the money which idilkar had gotten, while two extra animals, saddled and bridled, were held in waiting. The heart of Sergius leaped, as he noted the fine, small heads and slender muscular legs that mug the Asian stalk of their mounds. Idilkar had provided well for all emergencies, but Sergius felt some anxiety, lest a chance, glimpse of his face, might lead to detection. The sky in the east was already beginning to lighten, and there were more men of the escort than he had anticipated. Speech would be fatal. Therefore, he strode quickly out, took the bridle of one of the horses from the man who held it and swung himself upon its back. To assist Marcia could not be done without exciting suspicion, and he ground his teeth when she tried to follow his example, and one of the servants left and pushed her roughly into the saddle. Then they rode on, and the others followed. Whispering together. He had muffled his face a trifle too closely perhaps, and he had mounted the horse standing, whereas all knew that the Kapudasians were trained to kneel at the word. Therefore, the men of the escort wondered, though they hardly ventured to suspect. Marcia felt, rather than noted, their attitude and Sergius, glancing toward her, saw that she was trembling. He urged his horse faster toward the gate that opened upon the Appian Way. Boldness and speed were all that could save them. Suddenly the gate loomed up, gray and massive, in the midst of the early morning. Several soldiers launched forward from the guard house whence came the rattle of dice and the shrill laughter of a woman. Sergius showed his ring and said nothing, while Marcia came close to him, shivering, for the morning air was chill and biting. Their followers had drawn rain and were gathered in a little clump, several spear lengths behind. Meanwhile the soldiers, Spaniards they seemed, were gazing stupidly at the device on the seal and making irrelevant comments. It was evident that their night had been spent among the wine skins and that a new danger menaced. Summoning what punic he knew, Sergius leaned forward and asked in a low but stern voice to see their officer. Fortunately, his own followers were too far away to hear his words and drunken Iberians would not be critical as to a faulty punic accent. Still they hesitated, chattered together and stared, but at last one who seemed more sober than the rest reeled away to the guard house and after some delay an evident persuasion emerged again with a young officer whose moist hanging lips and filmy eyes showed that he too had been dragged from the pursuit of pleasure. Helmetless and with losing corselette every detail of his appearance told the story of relaxed discipline. What do you want at this hour? He said thickly, ambling forward and leaning heavily upon the shoulder of his castley more steady guide. Again Sergius held out the ring and the man, being a native Carthaginian, recognized it through the mist of his intoxication and, throwing himself at full length, touched the earth with his forehead. What do you wish? He said, rising and standing, somewhat sobered by the presence of such authority. Open the gate, I ride under orders of shallishism, said the Roman, again speaking low and rapidly. The officer turned and shouted to his men and several ran to unbar the gate with such speed as the condition wanted. The other occupants of the guard house were now grouped at door, five men, half armed and two disheveled women with painted faces and flower embroidered palace. The gate swung slowly on its hinges. The light of the bowels be with you, friend, exclaimed Sergius and he and Marcia rode through with hearts beating madly. Voices raised in discussion made them turn in their saddles. In his drunken stupidity the Carthaginian officer was trying to detain their escort and servants. The master had said nothing about them. How did he know they belonged to the same party? Then all began gesticulating and shouting to Sergius for help and explanation. Here was an unforeseen incident and the mind of the young Roman viewed it rapidly in all its lights. On the one side he would be relieved of an awkward following that might at any moment begin to suspect him. On the other hand, to leave these in the lurch would be to invite prompt suspicion. Still, they were fifty yards or more in advance. Their horses were good and more space would be gained before the tangle at the gate could be straightened out. Therefore he waved his arm as if making some signal and turning again in a saddle rode on but without increasing his speed. Louder shouts followed him for as he had intended his gesture had proved unintelligible. Then when they saw he did not stop, the cry ceased suddenly and an animated chattering came to his ears. Here was suspicion trying to make itself understood and at last succeeding for as Sergius glanced back once more to note how the matter progressed the young captain of the gate sprang forward and shouted for him to halt. A third altar to Mercury the hastener exclaimed Sergius, quick now with the knees and pressing the flanks of his Cappadocian both animal bounded forward into a headlong gallop. End of section number 27