A Struggle For Rome Volume Ii Part 63

"Ah--Cethegus!" gasped Kallistratos--and fell dead.

The Prefect saw him fall, and contracted his brows.

"Save the corpse, and spare his two G.o.ds!" he said briefly, and overthrew the ladder upon which Markja was standing; more he could neither say nor do, for already a new and more imminent danger attracted his attention.

Witichis, half thrown, half springing from his ladder, had remained standing close under the wall, amidst a hail of stone and metal, seeking for new means of attack.

For, since the first trial with the storming-ladders had been rendered futile by the unexpected and novel projectiles, he had scarcely any hope left of winning the wall.

While he was thus looking and waiting, the heavy marble pedestal of a "Mars Gradivus" fell close to his feet, rebounded and struck one of the slabs of the wall. And this slab, which seemed to be made of the hardest stone, broke into little pieces of lime and mortar.

In its place was revealed a small wooden door, which, loosely covered and concealed by the mortar, was used by the masons and workpeople as a means of exit and entrance when obliged to repair the immense edifice.

Witichis had scarcely caught sight of this wooden door, than he cried out exultingly:

"Here, Goths, here! Bring axes!" and he himself dealt a blow at the thin boards, which seemed anything but strong.

The new and singular sound struck the ear of the Prefect; he paused in his b.l.o.o.d.y work and listened.

"That is iron against wood, by Caesar!" he said to himself, and sprang down the narrow stairway, which led on the inner side of the wall into the faintly illuminated interior of the Mausoleum.

There he heard a louder stroke than all which had preceded it; a dull crash; a sharp sound of splintered wood; and then an exultant cry from the Goths.

As he reached the last step of the stair, the door fell cras.h.i.+ng inwards, and King Witichis was visible upon the threshold.

"Rome is mine!" cried Witichis, letting his axe fall and drawing his sword.

"You lie, Witichis! for the first time in your life!" cried Cethegus furiously, and, springing forward, he pressed the strong spike of his s.h.i.+eld so firmly against the breastplate of the Goth, that the latter, surprised, fell back a step.

The Prefect took advantage of the movement and placed himself upon the threshold, completely blocking up the doorway.

"Where are my Isaurians!" he shouted. But the next moment Witichis had recognised him. "So we meet at last in single combat for Rome!" cried the King.

And now it was his turn to attack. Cethegus, who wished to close the pa.s.sage, covered his left side with his s.h.i.+eld; his right hand, armed only with a short sword, was insufficient for the protection of his right side.

The thrust of Witichis's long sword, weakly parried by Cethegus, cut through the latter's coat of mail and entered deeply into his right breast.

Cethegus staggered; he bent forward; but he did not fall.

"Rome! Rome!" he cried faintly; and convulsively kept himself upright.

Witichis had fallen back to gain s.p.a.ce for a final thrust.

But at that moment he was recognised by Piso on the wall, who hurled a splendid sleeping Faun which lay near him down upon the King. It struck the King's shoulder, and he fell.

Earl Markja, Iffamer and Aligern bore him out of the fight.

Cethegus saw him fall, and then himself sank down upon the threshold of the door; the protecting arms of a friend received him--but he could recognise nothing; his senses failed him.

He was presently recalled to consciousness by a well-known sound, which rejoiced his soul; it was the tones of the tubas of his legionaries and the battle-cry of his Isaurians, who had at last arrived, and, led by the Licinii, fell upon the Goths, who were disheartened by the fall of their King.

The Isaurians, after a b.l.o.o.d.y fight, had issued through a breach in the outer wall (which had been broken outwards by the Goths who were inside).

The Prefect saw the last of the barbarians fly; then his eyes closed once more.

"Cethegus!" cried the friend who held him in his arms, "Belisarius is dying; and you, you too are lost!"

Cethegus recognised the voice of Procopius.

"I do not know," he said with a last effort, "but Rome--Rome is saved!"

And his senses completely forsook him.

CHAPTER XIII.

After the terrible exertion of strength in the general attack and its repulse, which had begun with the dawn of day, and had only ended at its close, a long pause of exhaustion ensued on the part of both Goths and Romans. The three commanders, Belisarius, Cethegus, and Witichis, lay for weeks recovering from their wounds.

But the actual armistice was more the effect of the deep discouragement and oppression which had come over the Gothic army when, after striving for victory to the uttermost, it had been wrested from them at the moment of seeming success.

All day they had done their best; their heroes had outvied each other in deeds of valour; and yet both their plans, that against Belisarius and that against the city, were wrecked in the consummation.

And although King Witichis, with his constant mind, did not share in the depression of his troops, he all the more clearly discerned that, after that b.l.o.o.d.y day, he would be obliged to change the whole plan of the siege.

The loss of the Goths was enormous; Procopius valued it at thirty thousand dead and more than as many wounded. On every side of the city they had exposed themselves, with utter contempt of death, to the projectiles of the besieged, and had fallen by thousands at the Pancratian Gate and before the Mausoleum of Hadrian.

And as, on the sixty-eight earlier attacks, the besiegers had always suffered much more than the besieged, sheltered as were these last behind walls and towers, the great army which, a few months before, Witichis had led against the Eternal City had been fearfully reduced.

Besides all this, hunger and pestilence had raged in their tents for a considerable period.

In consequence of this discouragement and the decimation of his troops, Witichis was obliged to renounce the idea of taking the city by storm, and his last hope--he did not conceal from himself its weakness--lay in the possibility that famine would force the enemy to capitulate.

The country round Rome was completely exhausted, and all seemed now to depend upon which party would be longest able to bear privation, or which could first procure provisions from a distance.

The Goths felt severely the loss of their fleet, which had been damaged on the coast of Dalmatia.

The first to recover from his wounds was the Prefect.

When carried away insensible from the door which he had closed with his body, he had lain for a day and a half in a state which was half sleep, half swoon.

When, on the evening of the second day, he again opened his eyes, his first glance fell upon the faithful Moor, who was crouched at the foot of the bed, and who had never ceased to watch him. The snake was twined round his arm.

"The wooden door!" was the first scarcely audible word of the Prefect.

"The wooden door must be replaced by--marble blocks----"

"Thanks, thanks, O Snake-G.o.d!" cried the slave; "now he is saved and thou too! And I, my master, have saved you." And he threw himself upon the ground and kissed his master's bedstead; his feet he did not dare to kiss.