 Section 28 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 Jakhmola. The Lion's Brood by Duffield Osborne, Winter Quarters. The beat of hoofs upon the great blocks of basalt rang through the morning air in measured caddins and soon an answering echo came up from the south. Open Flight had at last dispelled all doubt and given the signal for pursuit. First came the two Africans of the original escort, released and bitten to ride for life or death. A short distance behind was the Carthaginian captain on his own horse which had probably been halted behind the guard house. And, last of all, three of the Spanish guard who had thrown the servants and baggage from the animals that bore them and appropriated such speed as these afforded for the business in hand. That the officer was pretty well sobered seemed apparent. A fugitive bearing the ring of chaliceism, the seal of the great council must be a man of importance or else the possession of such a talisman augured the commission of some terrible crime. Already he saw himself stretched riding upon the cross, the crowd, reviling or gybing, seeming surging about his feet and his howls of anguish found voice in a storm of guttural objurgations to men and horses mingled with prayers and wows to the gods of Carthage. He had overtaken the two Africans now for his animal was better than this, but the three others laboured hopelessly behind. The Cappadocians flew rather than galloped far in advance. Already nearly 300 yards separated them from their pursuers and the gap was widening slowly but surely. Only the officer held his own for he was now forging ahead of the Africans. Ah, cowards, slime, felt! He shouted to his struggling men, the cross, the cross, that for you, unless we catch them, that for me, for all, ah, Ashmound, ah, come on, Melcharth, gift, golds, gems, robes, spices, my first born to the bells, to the bells, help, speed! The man was mad, mad indeed, with terror and newly dispelled drunkenness, and his horse, a great African, cold black, safe for one white hoof, seemed to partake of his master's frenzy. The ears lying flat along his head, and eyes that burnt into those of Sergius when he ventured to glance behind him, glaring sheer through distance and dust like the very eyes of those demons his rider invoked. The beast thundered on, equalling the speed of the light Asiatic Chargers by the force of strength alone. From time to time the fugitives turned their heads to measure the distance and the sight of this unverified perceiver fascinated them as by some weird power. The rest were beaten out, the Spaniards lost to sight the Africans visible only by the dust that hung over them far behind. The mountains to the eastward seemed to be dancing away in a mad chase toward the south, a chase which Tifata itself was urging on. The glimmer of white in the north told of the morning sun striking upon houses. Still they rode on, suddenly a sound, half trumpet note, half bellow, swelled up ahead. Then another answered it, and another, and another took up the refrain. Sergius' face blanched, and with a sudden effort he threw his animal almost upon its haunches. Marciavis carried several spear-lens farther before she could check her speed. Wonder and the dread of some accident drove the blood to her heart. A hoarse shout of triumph came from the perceiver as she turned to ride back. She asked no questions. Surely Sergius knew what was best. She saw Idilcar's long dagger in his hand, and that he was about to fight. Back, back, and to one side he called as she rode up. Did you not hear the elephants? That is Casillinum, and they are besieging it. We should have remembered. He darted forward to meet the Cartagena, fearful that he, too, would draw rain and await the coming of his followers. Then indeed all would be lost. Six soldiers on the one side and a campful on the other were hopeless odds against a wounded man armed only with a Numedian dagger. But it was Bacchus that fought for Rome that day. Bacchus, to whom no altar had been vowed. A night of debauchery and the sudden terror of its awakening had effectually blurred whatever judgement the officer may have had, and his one thought was to kill or capture his quarry. So they came together, Sergius verving his Cappadocian as they met. The officer struck blindly, but the good Lord Bacchus put out his hand and turned the blow aside. Then, as they parted, a strange thing happened. Marcia had wondered dimly why Sergius struggled with the long, girdles garment of Idilcar turning it off as he rode. Now, when the two horses sprang apart, she saw that he had thrown it dexterulously over the Carthaginian, blinding his blow and tangling him in its heavy folds. Prompt to respond to knee and rain, the Cappadocian wheeled almost as soon as he ran clear, but the African thundered on while its rider cast in blind terror and tried to check his horse and to free his face and sword arm. A moment, and he had succeeded, but he succeeded too late. The Roman was at his back and Marcia saw the long dagger rise and fall in a swift thrust. She could not see how the point took its victim just at the nape, but she saw him pitch forward like an ox under the axe. Almost before she could grasp what had happened, Sergius was beside the fallen man, had resumed the priest's tunic, read with new blood stains and was on his horse again. His brow lay in deep lines toward her. Come, he said, the gods favouring us, we must pass their camp before the rest come up, grant that those may linger by the corpse and that we meet no check. Again they were galloping toward the lines that lay about Castellinum. All had happened so quickly that even now they could scarcely see the plume in the distant dust cloud that told where the perceivers straggled on. They had turned into the new side road without meeting a man. Before aging party halted them, and Sergius showed the seal and spoke in gallic to its Numidian leader. A little farther on was stationed another band and here the delay was longer and his halting punic convinced the Spanish pickwit and they again rode forward unsuspected. All had bowed low to the horse and the palm tree and no one dared question what weighty mission urged the tunic and the slender youth, his companion. Now they were back again upon the pavement of the Appian. The last line was passed and the beleaguered town with its stout-hearted garrison lay well behind. Perhaps that sudden uproar told of the arrival of the perceivers. Perhaps those glittering points amid distant dust clouds meant a new pursuit. Surely none but Mercury unveried like springs of steel the stout muscles drove them on on over the marshland with the glint of the sea before them on up the rising ground. Again and again Sergius turned in his saddle scanning the road behind feeling the presence of perceivers whom he could not see. The good horses were weakening fast no flesh and blood could stand that strain and not but the spirit of the breed kept them afoot. Marcia was limping painfully the one Sergius rode was wavering in its stride like the Carthaginian captain when he came out of the guardhouse by the gate. Gods what were those shrill sounds half whistle half scream too well he remembered how the new medians urged on their bridal-less chargers yes there they were now scars half a milestone behind and coming up like the wind that blew through their disheveled mains fifty at least death then was decreed after all and he glanced toward Marcia measuring the time when he might kiss her and kill her ere he sold his own life to the javelins suddenly he heard her cry out look she called and following her finger he gazed eagerly ahead a clump of horsemen heavy-armed with the helmet and corselet crowned the knoll of rising ground over which the road led and above them fluttering in the breeze he saw the square vexillum of the cavalry of the legion he was among them now lifting Marcia from her horse and dimly conscious of many words being spoken around see lord they have halted said a voice is it your will that we pursue then as an answering voice replied in the negative he kissed Marcia and made her drink wine that someone brought barbarous cries that she must not hear or understand came to his ears and he knew that their perceivers were wheeling in discomfited flight the circle of soldiers stood back something cold in feathery fell upon his upturned face and turned to moisture he saw a tall man with features of wonderful beauty regarding them kindly and in silence his white paludimentum was heavily fringed with purple and Sergius recognized him now Marcus Marcellus the new dictator another drop feathery, cold and moist fell upon Marcia's hand and she roused herself at the touch peering up into her lover's face and then quickly at the heavens look she cried up not into my eyes he turned for an instant to see the blue vault of a few moments since overcast with grey and filled with a swirl of snowy flakes see now Lucius lord of my life here are the messengers of winter winter quarters he is in winter quarters see have we not prevailed it was the voice of the dictator that answered yes truly and there shall soon be prepared for him in summer quarters in flagathon if the greek tales be true end of section number 28 end of the lions brood by duffield Osborn