Volume Iii Part 23 (1/2)
”It holds still. But if it break--”
”Then I, as once before, am the bolt of Rome! Forward!”
Syphax led up the snorting horses.
Cethegus swung himself into the saddle.
”Away! Where is your brother Marcus?”
”At the bulwark by the Forum.”
As Cethegus and Lucius were galloping off, they were met by a ma.s.s of mercenaries, Isaurians and Abasgians, who fled from the river.
”Fly!” they cried. ”Save the Prefect!”
”Where is Cethegus?”
”Here--to save you! Turn back. To the river!”
He galloped on. The reflection of the burning masts plainly showed the way. Arrived at the river bank, Cethegus dismounted. Syphax placed his horse out of harm's way in an empty storehouse.
”Torches!” cried Cethegus. ”Into the boats! There lie a dozen ready.
Bowmen, into the boats! Follow me! Lucius, go into the second boat. Row up to the chain. Place yourselves close to it. Whatever comes up the river--shoot! They cannot land below the bolt, the walls are too high and descend straight into the water. They _must_ come up here to the chain!”
Already a few boats, filled with Goths, had ventured too near. Some caught fire at the burning masts; others were upset in the crush and confusion. One, which had approached within half an arrow's length of the chain, drove helplessly down the stream again: all the crew had been killed by the arrows of the Abasgians.
”Do you see! There goes a boat of corpses! Resist to the last man.
Nothing is lost! Bring torches and firebrands! Kindle the wharf there!
Fire against fire!”
”Look there, master!” cried Syphax, who never left the Prefect's side.
”Aye, now comes the struggle!”
It was a splendid sight.
The Goths had seen that the bolt of chains could never be forced by small boats, so they had hewn away so much of the burning bolt of masts that a s.p.a.ce was left in the middle just broad enough to permit the pa.s.sage of a s.h.i.+p of war.
But to try to pa.s.s up the river, exposed to the arrows of the Abasgians, between the flaming ends of the masts, and propelled only by their oars, might be more dangerous for the large vessel than for the ”boat of corpses.”
The Goths hesitated and stopped just before the burning beams.
But suddenly there arose a strong breeze from the south, rippling the surface of the water.
”Do you feel the wind? It is the breath of the G.o.d of Victory! Set the sails! Now follow me, my Goths!” cried a joyful voice.
The sails were set, and the wings of the royal galley, the ”Wild Swan,”
spread wide to the breeze.