“Nay,” put in the other officer, “he is an astrologer; make him prophesy—make him play tricks.”
“Ay,” cried the others who had sauntered up, “let the fellow show his art. If he is a magician he can pass the gates, Paulus or no Paulus.”
“Right willingly, good Sirs,” I answered; for I saw no other means of entering. “Wilt thou, my young and noble Lord”—and I addressed him who was with Paulus—“suffer that I look thee in the eyes; perhaps I may read what is written there?”
“Right,” answered the youth; “but I wish that the Lady Charmion was the sorceress. I would stare her out of countenance, I warrant.”
I took him by the hand and gazed deep into his eyes. “I see,” I said, “a field of battle at night, and about it bodies stretched—among them is thy body, and a hyena tears its throat. Most noble Sir, thou shalt die by sword-thrusts within a year.”
“By Bacchus!” said the youth, turning white to the gills, “thou art an ill-omened sorcerer!” And he slunk off—shortly afterwards, as it chanced, to meet this very fate. For he was sent on service and slain in Cyprus.
“Now for thee, great Captain!” I said, speaking to Paulus. “I will show thee how I will pass those gates without thy leave—ay, and draw thee through them after me. Be pleased to fix thy princely gaze upon the point of this wand in my hand.”
Being urged by his comrades he did this, unwillingly; and I let him gaze till I saw his eyes grow empty as an owl’s eyes in the sun. Then I suddenly withdrew the wand, and, shifting my countenance into the place of it, I seized him with my will and stare, and, beginning to turn round and round, drew him after me, his fierce face drawn fixed, as it were, almost to my own. Then I moved slowly backwards till I had passed the gates, still drawing him after me, and suddenly jerked my head away. He fell to the ground, to rise wiping his brow and looking very foolish.
“Art thou content, most noble Captain?” I said. “Thou seest we have passed the gates. Would any other noble Sir wish that I should show more of my skill?”
“By Taranis, Lord of Thunder, and all the Gods of Olympus thrown in, no!” growled an old Centurion, a Gaul named Brennus, “I like thee not, I say. The man who could drag our Paulus through those gates by the eye, as it were, is not a man to play with. Paulus, too, who always goes the way you don’t want him—backwards, like an ass—Paulus! Why, sirrah, thou needst must have a woman in one eye and a wine-cup in the other to draw our Paulus thus.”