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, save for the king, Orcus. So the thought came to me that by my blandishments I might win power with these people, and, by power, delay, and, by delay, safety for Rome—and revenge for my lord, Lucius. Therefore I journeyed to Capua. You see that I have played my part—that I have won? Tomorrow I go to pay the price. What matters 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 of my wounds they brought me here—to Capua, and sold me to Pacuvius Calavius—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 Iddilcar, 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 Iddilcar 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 arisen? No matter; I have another cloak, and we must not delay. The slaves are well bribed, and Calavius sleeps soundly—forever. My horses, good horses, are in the street; a few moments and we gain the gate. The schalischim's own ring is on my finger, and the seal of the Great Council shall win us egress. 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 wretch 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 rods 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 lamplight 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 around the priest's neck, and, while Marcia stared spellbound at the shade that had come back to save her, the lamp fell from Iddilcar'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.