Chapter 11 - Page 2

behind
teams of horses moving at a swift gallop. There were five wagons in
the train, bearing letters and light merchandise from the south. Hard
by was one of the wheelwright-shops that lined the great thoroughfare.
The train stopped only a moment for water and a new wheel, then rushed
along on its way to the capital. A light meal of bread and porridge,
half an hour of rest, and again, with new horses, the troop was in full
career. A sense of loneliness grew in the heart of the youth as he
journeyed. Lover and soldier had fought their duel, and the latter was
outdone. But the lover's courage was now sorely tried. Every mounted
courier hastening to Rome on the south road bore a letter from the
young man to her he loved. He met a legion of infantry going north,
and envied every soldier, sweating under a set pace of four miles to
the hour and a burden of sixty pounds--shield, helmet, breast-plate,
pilum, swords, intrenching tools, stakes for a palisade, and corn for
seventeen days.

A trireme was waiting for them on the Adriatic Sea, and Vergilius,
Manius, and their escort sailed to northwestern Macedonia, mounted
horses again, galloping over the great highway to Athens; crossed by
trireme to Ephesus, thence to Antioch by the long sea-road, and,
agreeably with orders, they began to leave their men at forts along the
frontier.

Events on the way filled him with contempt for his country and for
himself. Here and there he met people travelling under imperial passes
that gave them the use of the road and a right of free levy for
subsistence, often much abused. These travellers were people of
leisure from the large cities, wont to stretch their power to the point
of robbery. He saw them seizing slaves and cattle from terrified
agrarians; he saw Manius strike a man down for resenting insults to his
daughter; he saw the deadly toil of the oarsmen, the bitter punishment
of the cross.

His heart was now sore and sensitive. Was it the new love which had
flung off its shield of sternness and left it exposed to every lash
that flew? The misery of others afflicted him. Thoughts of injustice
grew into motives of action, the loss of faith into the gain of
unutterable longing. Who were these gods who heard not the cry of the
weak and were ever on the side of the strong? Were they only in those
hands of power that flung their levin from the Palatine? Could he, who
had learned to love innocence and purity, love also the foul harpy
which Rome had become? It seemed to him difficult to reconcile the
love of Arria and the love of Rome. Was the time not, indeed, overdue
when the wicked should tremble and the proud should bow themselves,
according to that song of the slave-girl?

From Antioch they turned