Chapter III: Fighting with Fate

There was a cool and refreshing northern breeze wafted off the seas when one morning the young warrior Scipio persuaded the Carthaginian maid to accompany him on horseback to a green, palm-studded headland stretching far out into the sea. Having dismounted and left their steeds with some slaves, the twain wandered on until they came to a sort of cave.

It was a natural archway overhung with wild fig and caper bushes, and having an aspect towards the delightfully blue waters of the Mediterranean. There had once been a temple to some god or goddess at the spot, and they seated themselves upon a fallen column in the recess. This was shaded by overhanging and luxuriant tufts of dew-bespangled maidenhair fern; it was, in fact, a most enchanting spot. Never was there such a glorious day; it was a day when merely to live was in itself an infinite joy. Across the sea could be seen, a hundred miles away, the faint outline of the Spanish land in a radiant haze, while close at hand, the rock-doves uttered cooing notes of love.

Placing his arm round Elissa’s shoulder and drawing her face near to his own, Scipio spoke.

“Elissa, thou canst see in the far distance the headlands showing; they are the coasts of Iberia. But what thou canst not see is the future of the world, and that thou hast it in thine own hands to shape that future now. Now, I can foresee much. And this I tell thee. I love thee, dear, and love thee deeply, and, wilt thou but give me thy love in return, thy nation and mine can conquer the world together. But before all I ask one thing, I ask thy love.”

Elissa’s heart beat fast. The memory of her own love, Maharbal, came to her mind. This man, this Scipio, told upon her strangely, yet could she not forget Maharbal. She remained silent, gazing over the sea and nervously twisting her fingers together.

“Canst thou not love me?” Scipio asked, as he rose and confronted her, capturing and holding her not altogether unyielding fingers in his own strong grasp. “Look out, dear one, over the seas; all those seas may be ours. Watch those far distant headlands. They now belong to Carthage, ’tis true, but they will, should thou not accede unto my prayer, most undoubtedly one day belong to Rome. Yet, give me but thy love, thy hand, and together, thou and I, will conquer and rule the world, and Rome and Carthage will be one alone.”

Bending low, he kissed her hands with gentle kisses, stealing all along from finger-tips to wrist. Still she remained silent, lost in deepest thought. For she was thinking of her country and her past.

After a period of thought she suddenly threw his hands from her.

“And Maharbal?” she exclaimed, “what share is he to have in this ruling of the world?”

The young Roman had not expected this.

“Maharbal!” he answered scornfully, “what share can such a one as Maharbal have in the universal dominion that I propose to thee shouldst thou but unite thy lot with mine? Maharbal, if he be not already dead, can still continue his career as a bold cavalry leader; but what can he do for the world save send many men out of it before their time? ’Tis out of place, methinks, to talk of Maharbal when the future of nations is at stake, and all dependeth but on thee and me.”

Elissa sprung to her feet in turn, and looked Scipio straight in the eyes.

Laughing half scornfully, “Listen unto me,” she said, “oh Scipio. Thou art but a boy for all thine exploits, and art carried away partly by thine enthusiasm and partly by thy love of me, for which, believe me, I am truly grateful, for thou art indeed one worthy to be loved. Yet listen, thou art dreaming a dream which is impossible of completion. Thy union with me could never carry with it the weight that thou dost imagine. I, being Hannibal’s daughter, should be hated by Rome. Thy marriage would not be recognised; I should soon be reduced to the position of thy mere mistress. Rome and Carthage together would never conquer the world, for the sole object of each is to conquer the other, and thus the old racial hatred would never permit it. Could I for one instant believe that it could be so, I would, for my country’s sake, and even in the interest of all humanity, throw over mine allegiance to Maharbal and give myself unto thee now. But I see it is but a dream, and, therefore, were there even no Maharbal in existence--although my heart tells me that I should love thee and love thee dearly--yet would I not give myself unto thee. Nay! it may not be; my natural intelligence persuades me that party feeling in Rome and Carthage, and mine own father’s hatred of Rome, would never allow this glorious union between the two countries which thou hast most patriotically imagined. Therefore, Scipio, leave thou me for ever, for I can never be thine. Things being thus, I only belong to one man living, and to him I will be true.”

Scipio stamped his foot with rage.

“Curse him!” he cried. “Curse him, by all the gods of Olympus and Hades! He needs must come between me and victory at every turn, and never more so than now. And thou art acting ill for thy country, Elissa; mark thou my word. Some day, moreover, in spite of this thrice-accursed Maharbal, thou shalt be mine whether thou wilt or no.”

Elissa’s colour rose, and she laughed at him.

“Thine! whether I wilt or no, my lord Scipio? Surely a somewhat presumptuous boast, seeing how my father Hannibal is slaying thy compatriots by tens of thousands in Italia, and how I myself have been present at the terrible discomfiture of thy relatives in Spain--a proud boast indeed. Thine, indeed!” she added scornfully, “never while Maharbal exists will I be thine, unless thou capture me in honest war; but remember Hannibal’s daughter is accustomed to warfare, and will not be easily taken, I assure thee.”

“Nevertheless,” responded Scipio sternly, “since thou hast thus rejected my proposals, thou knowest, full well, Elissa, that should I capture thee as thou sayst in honest warfare, thou wilt no longer have the chance of becoming my wife. Thou wilt become my slave, ay, my slave, nothing more. And how wouldst thou submit to the consequences?”

“Scipio,” answered Elissa smilingly, for her anger had evaporated, knowing as she did the utter devotion of her companion, “shouldst thou conquer me in war, as I have conquered thee in love, I would submit without demur to all the penalties of the situation; and who knows but I might perchance not be so over-sad if thou shouldst thus capture me, and I have no voice in the matter. For despite thy nationality, that thou art most congenial to me, I must confess. Yet, until I am thy slave, with all due deference to thee, I may, I think, venture to retain, oh thou most amiable Scipio, my liberty of person, and likewise my fidelity both to my country Carthage and my lover Maharbal.”

And with a playful laugh she gently seized him by the arm and led him away, saying:

“Now, that is a bargain between us, so let us not talk of such foolish matters further.”

But Scipio, exasperated and sick at heart, even while allowing himself to be led by her caressing hand back to where the horses stood, swore by all his Roman gods that she should regret it yet, and that if ever she should fall into his hands he would bind her to keep her promise. And so they returned.

A few days later, Syphax having announced his approaching marriage with Sophonisba, and his consequent definite espousal of the Carthaginian cause, Scipio and Lælius had no other course left to them but to quit the Numidian Court and return to Rome.

Scipio had a parting with Elissa that was almost tragic. He ended by bidding her to remember that she might, for all her flouting him, yet some day become the mere slave of the man who now adored her so madly, and who was willing to make her his bride. Then ashamed of himself for having spoken thus, and having lost all control of himself, he pressed her madly in his arms for one short passionate second. And so they parted!

Shortly after the departure of Scipio and his suite, the marriage of King Syphax and Sophonisba was celebrated with great magnificence. Everyone at the Numidian court seemed happy and overjoyed at the event save Massinissa alone. He himself had sought the lovely Sophonisba’s hand, but she had repulsed him in the most unmistakable terms. Therefore, in high dudgeon and vowing revenge, he had quitted his uncle’s court with all his suite, without waiting for the marriage festivities.

When these were completed, bidding a tender farewell to her friend, now queen of Massaesyllia, and a warm farewell to her kindly host the Numidian King, Elissa with General Hasdrubal set sail for New Carthage, whither she arrived without accident. Her uncle Hasdrubal was but awaiting her return to once more prosecute the war in the northern provinces, and General Hasdrubal, the son of Gisco, having been despatched to the south-western parts with an army, Elissa herself once more resumed her old position as Regent and Governor of New Carthage.

She found upon her return the foolish little Princess Cœcilia still in the palace, quite as vain and foolish as ever, and what was worse, on terms of considerable intimacy with a certain young Roman noble, one Marcus Primus, a prisoner in the palace awaiting a ransom from Rome. A patrician and of very high family, Marcus was a young officer of distinction, closely connected with the family of the Scipios. He had escaped on the occasion of the defeat of Cnœus Scipio, but Mago had wounded and unhorsed him in a subsequent encounter, after which, on account of his rank, he had not been treated as an ordinary prisoner, but sent to New Carthage, and there during his recovery had been placed on parole. Hasdrubal, finding him of a somewhat pliant disposition, and hoping to make use of him later, had purposely kept him under semi-restraint only, and lodged him in some out-buildings within the palace grounds, to the walls of which he was confined. The Carthaginian General likewise occasionally entertained his prisoner at his own table.

Being of a particularly pleasing if somewhat effeminate appearance, and having an agreeable manner, the amorous Cœcilia was instantly attracted by him. She had not been long in taking advantage of the new opportunity thus afforded her of a flirtation, and during his convalescence had become intimate with the young Marcus Primus to an extent of which Hasdrubal had not the slightest idea. Elissa, however, upon her return, well knowing her aunt’s disposition, was by no means so easily blinded to what was going on, and very soon had an explanation with the princess upon the subject.

“By whose orders,” she inquired severely, “oh Cœcilia, hath this young Roman been admitted to the palace, and how cometh it to pass that, not content to be for ever wandering about with him in the gardens, thou must even bring him to the dining-table and place him by thy side? It is, methinks, somewhat unseemly on thy behalf to be thus closely consorting with a prisoner. Wilt thou never have done with thy folly and philanderings, that thou must needs bring our enemies thus under our very roof-trees?”

The Princess Cœcilia blushed through her paint, and answered nervously:

“I, my dear! I assure thee I have nothing at all to do with it, my dear. The young man is most estimable, I assure thee, and perfectly harmless and well-behaved. ’Twas thine uncle Hasdrubal himself that brought him hither; I had no voice in the matter whatever, for he is nothing to me. But he seemeth, nevertheless, most amiable and--”

“And not at all averse to being made love to in the summer-house in the orange grove, as I have seen myself,” interrupted Elissa. “Well, since Hasdrubal brought him about the palace, and he is nothing to thee, he can, now Hasdrubal hath gone, henceforth remain even in his own quarters, and so no longer trouble thee with his presence. I do not at all approve of what hath much the appearance of a love-affair taking place here in our palace between a high-placed lady of the Carthaginian court and a Roman officer, no matter how well-bred or amiable he may be.”

“Oh! certainly, my dear Elissa! as thou wilt; send him back to his quarters by all means. But, since thou art so particular, may I inquire if ’tis then only in the court of Syphax that thou dost approve of friendships, or even love-makings between Carthaginian ladies and Roman officers of rank?”

It was now the turn for Elissa’s cheek to redden, for it was evident, from this sly cut, that Cœcilia had heard of the intimate terms upon which she herself had been with young Scipio.

She disdained, however, to notice the allusion further than to say sternly:

“I shall give mine instructions, mine aunt, and do thou see to it that thou consort with this Marcus Primus no longer. Thou mayst, however, see him once to bid him farewell if thou choosest.”

“Oh, certainly,” replied the little princess spitefully, “even as thou didst, so they say, take a somewhat prolonged farewell of thy Scipio.” And she bounced off in a temper to find the latest object of her affections, with whom she concocted a plan whereby she could secretly visit him.

One morning not very long after this, it was reported that the young Roman was missing.

His raiment was discovered upon the battlements on the side next to the lagoon. In a courteously worded letter which he left behind him, he expressed his thanks for the kindness and hospitality which had been extended to him during his captivity. But he further stated that, wearied out with long waiting for the ransom that never came, he was determined to take his own life, especially as he was now placed under closer restraint. Thus it was concluded in the palace that Marcus Primus had committed suicide, and the hysterical little princess made a somewhat exaggerated show of grief at the untimely end of her _protégé_.

Elissa, however, when no signs of the Roman’s body were seen either in the lagoon or in the gulf, had very considerable doubts, not only of the genuineness of the suicide, but of Cœcilia’s grief. Nor was she wrong in her suspicions, for the facts were these:

The princess, knowing that the water in the lagoon became fordable at certain periods, had, by bribing two of the guards and some fishermen of her own Iberian race, assisted Marcus to make his escape, which he had done in the garb of a fisherman, for since his confinement to his quarters he considered himself freed from his parole. She herself had made arrangements with the fishermen to carry her off also on a subsequent night, to the hiding-place where the Roman was to be concealed for a few days until she could join him.

This plan, however, was entirely frustrated by Elissa, whose suspicions were so thoroughly aroused that she had her aunt’s movements watched day and night. When the frivolous little woman discovered this, she was wretched. Cursing Elissa in her heart, she flung herself upon her couch and wept bitterly for her sorrows, as being one of the most ill-treated women in the world. For she had really become passionately attached to this the latest of her lovers, and the difference between their ages had only made her affection all the stronger.