Chapter X: The Treason

It was night; but no bright moon compensated for the absence of the greater orb, and the air was dark, though the sky itself shone with all its innumerable sparks of golden light. It was one of those nights in which the depth of the heavens becomes apparent, in which each separate star is seen hanging distinct and apart from all the rest, a lamp of everlasting fire in the blue profound of space. The lately troubled waters of the Danube had become clear; and, flowing more calmly, though in a less volume, mirrored the splendid pageantry of heaven's resplendent host.

Within an hour, however, after the full setting of the sun had left the earth to the dominion of the night, another light than that of the stars was reflected from the waters of the rolling stream at the distance of a few miles from the city of Margus. The glare of a multitude of torches flickered over the rolling stream, and cast a red, unpleasing light over the rocks and trees amid which the Roman road was cut from Tricornium to Margus. That light, too, shone upon the anxious and wearied countenances of those who, a little more than a month before, we have seen set out from the spot where all their happy memories were left behind them to wander forward towards lands and fortunes that they knew not.

A change, however, had been effected in the appearance of many of that party. Young as he was, Theodore had shown a wisdom and prudence beyond his years; and as soon as they had lost the escort of the tribune Marcian, on the frontiers of M[oe]sia, he had selected twenty of the most faithful slaves, and had besought Flavia to liberate and arm them. His pretext was that, in approaching the barbarian countries, many dangers lay upon the way; but he did not say that even against the authority of the emperor himself those arms might not be used.

Belated by the length and fatiguing nature of the way, many a timid glance was cast by Ildica and Eudochia towards the opposite bank of the stream, where lay, shrouded in its dark woods, the strange and dangerous country of the Huns. Many an apprehensive inquiry, too, went from lip to lip among the women slaves that followed; and, though each knew that the other was as ignorant of the land through which they were passing as herself, many a time was the question asked, "How far is it now to Margus!" meeting still with the same unsatisfactory reply. At length Theodore, riding up from the rear of the line, where he had remained to see that no one lingered behind, approached the side of the lectula in which Ildica was borne, and said, to the no small joy of all who heard him, "Lo! the arch of Trajan. To Margus is but one short mile."

That mile was soon accomplished; and at the gates of the city they were met by persons sent on purpose to welcome them, both by the magistrates and by the bishop of the town. Such friendly greeting in such a remote spot, the sight of a populous and wealthy city, the cheerful sounds and objects which met the ear and eye in the streets, served to revive hope in the bosoms of that weary and anxious train, and to recall the images of warm domestic tranquillity, which had been banished during their dreary journey of the last two days: a house had been prepared for them not far from the dwelling of the bishop, and they found, waiting their arrival, all those ready luxuries which the skill and ingenuity of the most pleasure-loving nation upon earth had devised in the most voluptuous period of the world's history. Baths were prepared; wine-cups crowned with garlands, and delicacies from remote lands, waited for the lip; the softest triclinia surrounded the already spread table; and the sound of sweet music was breathing through the atrium: odours floated on the air; lights blazed through the halls; and when at length Flavia, Ildica, Eudochia, Theodore, and Ammian stood in the midst of that enchanted scene--far from their enemies, with a place of certain refuge close at hand, and the long, weary, perilous journey accomplished behind them--feelings of joy and thankfulness, great, irrepressible, overpowering, welled up from the deep fountain of the heart, and, casting themselves into each other's arms, they wept.

Many moments passed in those entrancing feelings; but when, at length, the bishop appeared to bid them welcome to a city over which his eloquence and powers of mind had given him greater influence than even the representative of the imperial authority possessed, Flavia had again resumed her calm and tranquil dignity. He would not sit down to meat with the guests for whose entertainment he had provided so sumptuously, affecting an abstinence which might or might not be habitual; but he insisted upon waiting in a neighbouring chamber while they supped, declaring that he had matter of some moment to communicate to the Lady Flavia. Simple in her habits, and encouraging simplicity in her children, Flavia was soon prepared to give the prelate that private hearing which he desired. He led her accordingly into another chamber, while Ammian sported with Eudochia; and Theodore, seated beside Ildica, tasted once more the sweet moments of love.

They were the only ones that they had known since the fatal night of the earthquake, since that night which had witnessed the first union of their hearts in the bond of spoken affection. In all their other meetings--in every other communication which they had yet had--danger and terror, like the drawn sword in the eastern feast, had hung above their heads, and marred the tranquillity of their mutual hearts. Now, however, when apprehension was drowned in hope, they felt, and oh, how dear was the feeling! that the love, which had grown up in joy and peace, had been increased and strengthened, brightened and perfected, by dangers and misfortunes.

Theodore held Ildica's graceful hand in his, and gazed into those dark, dark lustrous eyes, reading therein a reply to all the intense and passionate love of his own ardent heart; and Ildica, seated on the couch beside him, lifted the long sweet curtains of those gemlike orbs to the countenance of her lover, and, with the mingled glance of timidity and confidence, seemed to pour forth the thanks of her fervent spirit, not only for all that he had done to sooth, to comfort, and to protect her, but for all the unspoken thoughts of love, the anxieties and fears concealed, the constant remembrance by day, the frequent dreams by night, for all, in short, which her heart told her that his had felt in the hours of pain and care through which they had so lately passed. Low and murmured words read a comment on those looks, and Theodore and Ildica once more knew an hour of intense delight.

A large chamber intervened between that in which they sat and that to which her mother had retired to hold conference with the prelate, and the veils over both the doorways were drawn. For some time the voice of neither speaker was heard, but at length the tones grew higher. The low sweet murmur even of Flavia's tongue found its way to the hall where her children waited her return, and the high but harmonious tones of the eloquent priest sounded loud, and sustained, as if he were using all his powers of oratory upon some great and inspiring theme. No distinct words, however, were heard, and then again, after a time, the voices once more sank low, and in a few minutes the bishop and the lady issued forth with hasty steps and agitated looks. The prelate was passing rapidly on, without noticing his brother's children, as if carried forward by some strong excitement; but, ere he reached the doorway, his habitual self-command returned in a degree, and, turning round with a knitted brow but an air of dignity, he raised both his extended hands, saying, "Bless you, my children! the blessing of God be upon this house, and all that it contains." That done, he again turned upon his way, and rapidly quitted the apartment.

In the meanwhile, in the midst of that rich hall, stood Flavia, with her pale cheek flushed, her beautiful eyes wild and thoughtful, her fair hand pressed tight upon her broad, statue-like brow, and her lip murmuring words which sounded vague and unmeaning, because the key to their sad interpretation was in her own bosom. At length she spoke:--"Hie thee to repose, Eudochia," she said; "hie thee to repose, my sweet child, Ammian, too, seek rest, my boy, while thou mayst find it. Ye have had a weary journey, children, and God only knows when it may be renewed."

With some light and fanciful words from Ammian, breathing the spirit of bright untiring youth, some of the slaves were summoned, and the two younger members of that family, whose fate we have so long followed, retired to sleep. Flavia listened for their parting steps; but when all was quiet, she caught the hand of Theodore, exclaiming, "Oh, my son, have you known and consented to this?"

"Have I known what, dear mother?" demanded Theodore, who had hitherto mastered his surprise. "I have consented to nothing which should move my mother thus painfully."

"I believed it, Theodore, I believed it," replied Flavia. "In your veins and in mine flows the blood of those Romans who thought life a light sacrifice for their country, whose gore flowed like water for the defence and preservation of their native land; and I am sure that if you be your father's son, no danger, no injustice, will induce you to forget your duty, and bring upon the country of your birth the tide of barbarian warfare! Is it not so, my son?"

"It is!" answered Theodore; "but what mean you, my mother? We understand not to what your words apply."

But Flavia continued, turning to her daughter: "And you, Ildica," she said, "tell me that you are my child indeed--that you would sacrifice life, and all life's dearest interests, rather than take part, or benefit by, or instigate the ruin of your country."

"I would, my mother, I would," replied Ildica, while her person seemed to grow taller, and her resemblance to her mother increased under the excitement of the moment. "I would sacrifice life, and, what is far dearer than life, I would sacrifice him," and she laid her hand upon the arm of Theodore. "I would rather see him die in defence of his country than live and prosper by its fall. Oh, my mother, you have judged your child rightly; the blood of my father, spilled by the enemies of our native land, throbs in his daughter's heart; and even this weak hand, were there none other to assert our country, might yet strike one blow in her defence."

"My noble child," cried Flavia, throwing her arms around her daughter, "thou art worthy of thy race. Theodore, what think you that your uncle proposes to me to do? To throw wide the gates of Margus to the barbarians, to open the way for the Huns into the heart of the empire, to buy revenge for your father's death and safety for ourselves by the desolation of our native land, the destruction and ruin of our friends, and the massacre of our fellow-countrymen! Shame on such degenerate Romans! Shame, shame upon them to all eternity! Oh God, oh God! where are thy thunderbolts?"

Theodore stood, for a moment, as one stupified by the strange and fearful tidings he had heard; and fixing his eyes upon Flavia's face, he gazed upon her with an expression of inquiring doubt, which showed how far he was from any participation in the schemes or feelings of his uncle. "My mother," he said at length, "let us go hence. This is no refuge for us. Did he think, by showing us here an image of that splendour and comfort which we so long possessed, and so lately lost--did he think to blind our eyes, and weaken our hearts, and destroy our virtue? My choice, oh my mother, is made; give me honour and misery, if virtue cannot secure peace. Let us go hence."

"At sunrise to-morrow," replied Flavia, "we will depart; for I much fear that he told me not all; I doubt that his dealing with the Huns is far advanced."

"Why not at once, then?" demanded Theodore; "to-morrow's daylight may be too late."

Flavia turned her eyes upon her daughter, who understood the glance, and answered at once, "My mother, I can go, though I am wearied: were it not better to drop by the wayside than risk our future peace?"

But Theodore interposed: "No, no," he said; "an hour before daylight will be time enough. The slaves are wearied beyond all endurance; and perhaps, also, were we to attempt it to-night, the guards might become suspicious, and stay us at the gates. To-morrow it will seem more natural. The wearied soldiers, at that hour, will let us pass without inquiry, and, following the course of the river, we can pass through Noricum, and take refuge either among my kindred of the Alani, or under the strong shield of [AE]tius, in Gaul, from whose protection neither weak emperor dare attempt to snatch us. Rest thee, Ildica!" he added, throwing his arms around her; "rest thee, my beloved; and rest thee, too, dear mother! I will see all prepared, and ready to set out an hour before the dawning of the day."

"And thou, my poor Theodore," said Flavia, "thou hast no rest!"

"Am I not a Roman?" was the youth's reply.

On the next morning--while the city of Margus was still buried in slumber, and all vacant were those streets so lately thronged with the gay unthinking crowd pursuing with light heart the butterfly pleasure, and never dreaming that fate, like a lion, was following fast upon its track--the same train which the night before had entered the gate with joy, now passed them again with sorrow, but without regret. Theodore had first presented himself, and had held a momentary conversation with a soldier on guard. The gates had then been opened by the janitor of the night, and the slaves, who led the train, passed out. Ildica and Eudochia followed; but as the litter of Flavia was borne forward, Theodore approached its side, and said, in a low voice, "They demand that one of us at least should stay to give account of our departure either to the bishop or the magistrates; I will keep Cremera and some others with me. In the meantime go you on, and I will join you speedily."

Flavia turned an anxious look upon him, but he added, in a still lower tone, "Fear not: they dare not detain me;" and, motioning to the slaves who bore the litter to proceed, he drew back under the archway.

Their course lay to the westward; but as Theodore turned towards the city, a faint gray light hung over the massy towers and columns of Margus, showing that the dawn of day was fast approaching. With a slow pace, and a sad but resolute heart, Theodore returned to the house which had been assigned to them as their dwelling; and, after a momentary pause, turned his steps on foot to the mansion of the bishop. The gates were already open, some of the slaves at work, and the light of the now dawning day was seen streaming faint and cold through the long range of vestibules and halls from an open archway, beyond which appeared various groups of statues, fountains, and pillars, ornamenting a courtyard. Like all dependants on the great and powerful, keen to perceive who were in favour, who were influential with their lords, the slaves, who, a few days before, had obstructed the access of Theodore to his uncle, hastened to pay their court to one whom they now knew, and besought him, with officious civility, to repose himself there till the bishop should have risen to receive him.

The mind of Theodore, however, was not in a state to permit him to take even corporeal rest; and he replied that he would walk forth into the court and amuse himself with the statues and fountains till his uncle was prepared to receive him. The cold and absent tone in which he spoke checked all intrusion; and, meditating on his wayward fate, he walked forth alone, now pausing as if to contemplate some beautiful piece of sculpture, now gazing, as if with pleased attention, on the clear waters that, welling from the rocky ground on which the city was built, sparkled round the court in innumerable graceful urns and vases, but with his mind, in fact, employed on matters far different from the light elegances and calm pleasures of life.

Thus absent and musing, he went on to a spot where a long flight of steps led down to the bottom of that terraced garden which he had beheld from above in his first conference with his uncle. Scarcely conscious of what he did, Theodore slowly descended the steps, and entered one of the long paved walks at the very lowest part of the garden. The right side was flanked by a strong wall, in which were two or three doorways leading, as it would seem, to the pom[ae]rium, or open space between the town and its fortified walls--for the house itself was one of the farthest from the centre of Margus. Scarcely had he entered that path, however, when the sound of steps made him raise his eyes, and he beheld before him four dark figures--to see which, in that place, caused him suddenly to pause, and lay his hand upon his sword. Ere he could distinguish their faces, by the general aspect of their forms, he perceived that they were barbarians, free, and in a Roman city at that early hour. A moment more showed him that, while three of the party had mingled their barbarian dress of skins with jewels and ornaments of gold and silver, the fourth, who preceded the others as they advanced, retained the original simple habit of his nation, being clothed in plain but valuable furs and dark cloth, but of exceeding fineness. Those who followed bore about them many strange and barbarian arms, but he who preceded had nothing but a broad and heavy sword, composed solely of iron from its hilt to its scabbard. In him Theodore instantly recognised the Hun who had been his guide on his last day's journey through the Dacian territory, and the same unaccountable feeling passed through his bosom which he had experienced on beholding him before. He saw too well, however, that Flavia's suspicions were correct, and that his uncle had already plunged irretrievably into those dangerous intrigues which were destined to prove, not only the ruin of himself and of the city which yielded itself so tamely and entirely to his government, but far beyond that, to his whole native land, and indignation for a moment mastered all other sensations.

"What doest thou here, barbarian?" was his only greeting when they met.

"What is that to thee, youth?" rejoined the Hun, with a calm, haughty smile, such as may play upon a father's lip when he reproves--though amused thereby--the frowardness of some spoiled child. "But speak thine own language," he continued, in a corrupt dialect of the Latin tongue; "speak thine own language: weak and insignificant as it is, it will cover from the ears of those who hear us such light words as those thou hast just spoken."

"My words were not light, Hun," replied Theodore: "for every Roman may well demand what thou doest here, when he meets with armed barbarians in the heart of a Roman city."

"We are armed," said the Hun, "but we are few. What I do here is naught to thee; but if thou wilt listen to me, my coming may do thee service. I love thee for thy mother's father, and for her brother. They were my friends; and he who would be terrible to those who hate him must do good deeds to those who love him. Know that the Roman empire trembles to its fall. Attila the King has said it, and it will come to pass. He has said, 'I will sweep it as a cloud sweeps the tops of the forest. I will pass over it as a storm,' he has declared, 'from one part even unto the other; and I will not leave it so long as one Roman stands up before me to oppose me.' Attila the King has said it, and his words shall be made true. Nevertheless, as thou art one of those who think that there is yet vigour in weakness and strength in Rome, I bid thee consider what will be thy fate even should thine emperor be successful in resistance. The blood of thy father is upon his head; thou fleest from his vengeance, and he seeks thy life. Thus much have I learned from thee and from thine uncle. Should Attila be successful, and thou not of his friends, thou perishest. Should Theodosius triumph, thinkest thou that he who has trodden upon the mighty will spare the weak?"

"Hun!" said Theodore, taking a step forward to pass him, "could my blood, poured forth on the banks of yonder river, like the dragon's teeth of Cadmus, raise up a host of armed men to defend my native land against thee and against thy king, I would hold my throat to the knife, and die with gratitude and joy! Thinkest thou that such a one can be impelled by fear, or led by hope, to serve thee and to betray his native land?"

"I think," replied the Hun, "that thou mightst be a faithful friend to a worthier monarch than thine own. Fare thee well! and remember, as I told thee when last we met: in future times, when the hands of fate shall have shaken from their places thrones and empires, and have changed the fate of little as well as great, shouldst thou need protection, thou wilt find it at the name of Onegisus. Now, forward to thine uncle; I must hence."

Without returning to the court, Theodore sprang up the terraces of the garden towards the chamber where he had before conferred with the bishop. His hurried step caught the prelate's attention; and, ere Theodore had reached the top, his uncle's majestic form, clothed in his splendid robes, appeared in the doorway above, gazing down to see who it was that approached so rapidly.

"Theodore," he exclaimed, while an expression of pleasure and expectation lighted up his features, "I trust you are come to bear me good tidings, and that the Lady Flavia is not so rashly obstinate as when last I saw her."

"Far from it!" said Theodore, gravely, "I have come but to tell you that we remain Romans to our death. All who entered the gates last night, except myself and a few slaves, are by this time an hour's journey on their way to Noricum."

"Rash woman! what has she done?" cried the bishop, clasping his hands; "she is lost, she is lost! Fly, Theodore, quick! Fly like the lightning! Bring her back hither; or, if she will not come, lead her on the road to the south, anywhere but the road she has taken."

Theodore gazed upon the agitated countenance of his uncle in amazement; but the bishop continued, more vehemently than before, "Fly! do I not tell you to fly? Lose not a moment! breathe not a word! Away, as if a lion were behind you. The Huns are already across the river, on the very road she has taken. If she will not return hither, seek for no highway, look for no easy path, but plunge at once into the country, and hurry to the southward, making not a moment's pause!"

Without a word of reply, the youth darted through the vacant rooms, passed the gates of the dwelling, the Basilica, and the Forum; reached the house where the horses and slaves remained, sprang upon his charger's back, and, followed by the rest, dashed out towards the walls of the city. The gates were open, but, to his surprise, no soldiers, no gatekeepers were now there. The guard had been withdrawn for purposes which he too well divined; and passing out unquestioned, he hurried on with the same frantic speed in search of those he loved.