XI.
THE SLAVE.
It was an hour 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 to-morrow. With eyelids fast shut, as if dreading to open them to the darkness, she buried her throbbing temples beneath the rich Campanian coverlid. She could still see the eyes of Iddilcar gleaming wolfish amid his jewels; could see him standing in the doorway, as he turned from that startled rush in 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 suppliant 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 Calavius 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 Iddilcar have been then? Had he hurried away? probably enough. Again a slight scratching noise, as of some one 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 some one was present! She felt it. Had Iddilcar come already? The horror of the thought gave her courage, and, thrusting down the coverlid, she opened her eyes defiantly and tried to pierce the darkness. Nothing was visible, but she knew 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 some one, and had the hand been Iddilcar's, she would certainly have realized 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. Calavius 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. "Pacuvius Calavius bought me yesterday in the Street of the Whitened Feet."