Four days' march from the wonder-land of Grasse. We are spending the night in the open country. To-morrow we shall reach Decimum, less than nine Roman miles from Carthage, and not one Vandal have we seen yet.
It is late in the evening. Our camp-fires are blazing for a long distance, a beautiful scene! There is something ominous in the soft, dark air. Night is falling swiftly under the distant trees in the west. There is the blast of the shrill horns of our Huns. I see their white sheepskin cloaks disappearing. They are mounting guard on all three sides. At the right, on the northeast, the sea and our ships protect us; that is, for to-day. To-morrow the galleys will not be able to accompany our march as they have done hitherto, on account of the cliffs of the Promontory of Mercury, which here extend far out from the shore. So Belisarius ordered the Quæstor Archelaus, who commands the fleet, not to venture as for as Carthage itself, but, after rounding the promontory, to cast anchor and wait further orders. So to-morrow we shall be obliged, for the first time, to advance without the protection of our faithful companions, the ships; and as the road to Decimum is said to lead through dangerous defiles, Belisarius has carefully planned the order of marching and sent it in writing this evening to all the leaders, to save time in the departure early in the morning.
* * * * *
The warlike notes of the tuba are rousing the sleepers. We are about to start. An eagle from the desert in the west is flying over our camp.
It is reported that the first meeting with the enemy--only a few mounted men--took place during the night at our farthest western outpost. One of our Huns fell, and the commander of one of their squadrons, Bleda, is missing. Probably it is merely one of the camp rumors which the impatience of expectation has already conjured up several times. To-night we shall reach Decimum; to-morrow night the gates of Carthage. But where are the Vandals?
CHAPTER V
When Procopius wrote the last lines, those whom he was seeking were far nearer than he imagined.
The first rays of the morning sun darted above the sea, glittered on the waves, and shone over the yellowish-brown sand of the edge of the desert, as a dozen Vandal horsemen dashed into the King's camp a few leagues southwest of Decimum.
Gibamund, the leader, and the boy Ammata sprang from their horses. "What do ye bring?" shouted the guards.
"Victory," answered Ammata.