There was something gloomy and thoughtful in the manner of the tribune that surprised and somewhat alarmed the Roman lady; for so much habitual self-command had the soldiers of the empire, that it was rare to see any one, especially of such rank and renown as Marcian, display upon the occasion of any misfortune like the earthquake, the natural feelings which were not the less busy at their hearts. The marble exterior of the old republicans was much affected by all who sought to distinguish themselves in the Roman armies; and Marcian was famed for a temperate but unyielding firmness, which admitted not the semblance of grief or apprehension.
"Think you, then," she asked, "that we had better return to the palace? A report reached us in the night that the sea had nearly covered it."
Marcian paused for several minutes, as if meditating what were best to do, and then replied, "Lady, I will send to see the condition of the palace, and in the mean time bid them pitch me a tent here to give you a shelter from the sun. We have provisions with us too, and can offer you a meal, such as, perhaps, this great disaster may not have left at Aspalathus."
"I thank you," replied Flavia; "we have already eaten. We found no want of food among the cottages upon the hills."
But Marcian pressed upon them his hospitality so earnestly, that Flavia yielded, feeling that there was something more beneath his grave and thoughtful air than he suffered at first to appear; and while the tent was being raised by his attendants, he sent a messenger to the palace, with orders for such minute examination as showed that the day would be high ere he could return. Food already dressed was soon spread out under the tent; and one or two vessels of wine were produced, with several rich cups and vases, carved with the exquisite workmanship of an earlier age, and shining with many a precious stone. With grave suavity the tribune did the honours of the meal, and spoke much, and of many things, but with a wandering and discursive spirit, as if his mind was forcing itself to the task, and seeking more largely the aid of imagination than might have been the case had the heart been itself at ease.
"How magnificent are those cypresses!" he said, looking towards the long avenue which led down the hill; "I never beheld finer, except, perhaps, some that grow on the hill above Byzantium. But those stand solitary, as if to mark the tomb of some warrior who has died afar from his own land; these sweep down in a long row, like a line of departed monarchs seen in the shady grandeur of tradition. There they stood, centuries before Diocletian laid the first stone of his palace; there they stand now, when his history is almost forgotten; there they will stand, when we are as he is. Well are they placed between the palace and the sepulchre--those witnesses of the mortality of ages. The common lot of man! why should any one shrink from the common lot of man! Why should we look with hope to this world's future, or turn back our eyes with lingering grief to the past, or nurse bright hopes of such young beings as these," and he laid his hand upon the head of Ammian, "or mourn with bitter regret for those who have changed the thorny couch of mortal life for the calm bed of the tomb? Give me a cup of wine!"
"A prodigy! a prodigy!" cried one of the slaves, running into the tent; "an omen! an omen! Tribune, the eagle, which has hovered over us all the way from Salona, has settled on the pole of the tent!"
"Get ye gone!" replied Marcian; "what have I to do with omens? I may have the heart without the wings of the eagle. Out upon ambition! and yet this very Diocletian, who founded the palace hard by, was a slave before he was an emperor. But he loathed, resigned, and refused to resume the power which he had acquired and proved. That eagle haunts me: twice has it hovered for hours over me while sleeping in the open field, and now it settles on my tent. These are strange accidents, and yet nothing more than accidents. Who should dream of ambition with those tombs before his eyes? Give me some wine!"
The attendant who stood near handed the goblet, which he had held ready filled for some minutes, to his master; and Marcian,[[5]] yet but half a Christian, turned and poured some of the wine upon the ground. "To the dead!" he said, looking mournfully round him, "to the dead!" and his eyes fixed full and sadly, upon Theodore.
The youth started suddenly on his feet, and grasped the tribune's hand, exclaiming: "My father! I adjure thee tell me! What of my father?"