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Chapter 9 Chorsoman
Fearful of sleeping till after sunrise, Basil had bidden Felix arouse him this morning; and, as he had much to talk of with Veranilda, he betook himself to the garden very early.

Aurelia’s watchman was standing without, gazing anxiously now this way, now that, surprised by his mistress’s failure to return; on the appearance of Basil he withdrew, but only to a spot whence he could survey the garden. All impatience, the lover waited, as minute after minute slowly passed. Dawn was broadening to day, but Veranilda came not. An agony of disappointment seized upon him, and he stood at length in the attitude of one sickening with despair. Then a footstep approached, and he saw the slave whose watch he had relieved come forward with so strange a look that Basil could only stare at him.

‘My lord,’ said the man, ‘there is one at the gate of the villa who brings I know not what news for you.’

‘One at the gate? News?’ echoed Basil, his heart sinking with dread anticipation. ‘What mean you, fellow?’

‘Most noble, I know nothing,’ stammered the frightened slave ‘I beseech your greatness to inquire. They say—I know not what—’

Basil sped across the garden and into Aurelia’s dwelling. Here he found a group of servants talking excitedly together; at view of him, they fell back as if fear-stricken. From one, Aurelia’s old nurse, rose a wail of distress; upon her Basil rushed, grasped her by the arm, and sternly demanded what had happened. Dropping to her knees with a shrill cry, the woman declared that Aurelia had vanished, that some one from the city had seen her carried away before dawn.

‘Alone?’ asked Basil in a terrible voice.

‘Lord, I know not,’ wailed the woman, grovelling at his feet.

‘Is Veranilda in her chamber?’ he asked violently.

‘Gone!’ replied a faint voice from amid the group of servants.

‘Where is this messenger?’

Without waiting for a reply, he sprang forward. In the portico which led to the villa he heard his name shouted, and he knew the voice for Marcian’s; another moment and Marcian himself appeared, pale, agitated.

‘Why do you seek me?’ cried Basil.

‘You come from yonder? Have you seen Aurelia? Then it is true.’

Marcian told the news brought up from Surrentum by some person unknown, who, having uttered it in the porter’s ear, had at once fled.

‘Go call Venantius,’ said Basil, when he had heard the brief story, ‘and bring him straight to Aurelia’s house. They are gone; that slinking slave shall tell me how, or I will tear it out of him with his soul.’

Back he rushed, and found the nurse still crouching on the floor, wailing. He made her lead him to her lady’s chamber, and to that of Veranilda, where nothing unusual met their eyes. The watchman was then summoned; he came like one half dead, and smote the ground with his forehead before the young noble, who stood hand on dagger. A fierce interrogatory elicited clear and truthful answers; when Basil learned what Aurelia had whispered to her servant as she went forth, he uttered a groan.

‘Marcian! Venantius!’ he cried, for at that moment the two entered the atrium. ‘I understand it all. Why had I no fear of this?’

That Aurelia had been deceived and inveigled by one professing to be an Arian priest, seemed clear from the watchman’s story. For the originator of the plot, Basil had not far to look. This was the vengeance of Petronilla. But whither the two captives would be conveyed, was less easy to conjecture. Perhaps to Cumae. The thought stung Basil to frenzy, for, if Veranilda once fell into the hands of the Greeks, what hope had he of ever seeing her again?

‘Did Petronilla know?’ he asked of Marcian.

‘Who can say?’ answered his friend, easily understanding the curtailed question. ‘Like enough that she had sent to Cumae to learn all she could; and in that case, she found, you may be sure, ready instruments of her malice. Were it not better,’ Marcian added in an aside, ‘to tell Venantius what danger threatened Veranilda?’

The warlike Roman, who, aroused on an alarm, had instantly equipped himself with casque and sword, stood listening to what passed, sniffing the air and rolling his eyes about as if he desired nothing better than a conflict. The others now drew him aside into a more private place, and made known to him their reason for fearing that the Gothic maiden had been seized by emissaries from Cumae.

‘Had I heard that story before,’ said Venantius, all but laughing with angry surprise, ‘Veranilda would now be safe in my castle; for, instead of lingering, I should have come straightway, to rescue her and you. Holy Peter and Paul! You sported here, day after day, knowing that the hounds of Justinian had scent of the maid you carried away? You, Basil, might commit such folly, for you were blinded to everything by your love. But, Marcian, how came you to let him loll in his dream of security? Why did you conceal this from me? By Castor! it was unfriendly as it was imprudent. You robbed me of a sweet morsel when you denied me the chance of balking the Greeks in such a matter as this. Nay, the bird is caged at Cumae, be sure.’

Marcian’s brows were knit, and his eyes cast down as he listened to this reproof.

‘I had not thought of Petronilla,’ he murmured. ‘But for her, the danger was not pressing. That thick-skulled Hun at Cumae easily let himself be blinded, as I told you.’

‘How could I forget,’ cried Basil, ‘that Petronilla would risk damnation rather than lose her vengeance upon Aurelia But,’ he added, with sudden change from gloom to vehemence, ‘that woman is not beyond our reach. Only yesterday did she set forth for Rome, and she may have passed the night at Neapolis. A horseman will easily overtake her. Felix!’ he shouted. ‘Our horses!—she shall pay for this if my hands can get at her throat!’

Felix appeared, but not in answer to his master’s summons; he came precipitately, followed by a swarm of frightened slaves, to announce another surprise. Before the villa stood a hostile multitude, folk of Surrentum, who demanded admittance, and, if denied, would enter by force. At this news Venantius hastened to muster his troop of archers and spearmen. Basil and Marcian, having made sure that all entrances were locked and barred, went to the front gate, and through a wicket surveyed the assailants. These seemed to be mainly of the baser class; they had armed themselves with all sorts of rude weapons, which they brandished menacingly, shouting confused maledictions. From the porter Basil learned that those who had first presented themselves at the door had demanded that ‘the heretics’ should be given up to them; and by listening to the cries, he understood that the wrath of these people was directed against the Arian servants brought hither by Aurelia. Through the wicket he held colloquy with certain leaders of the throng.

‘The heretics! Yield to us the accursed heretics!’ shouted a burly fellow armed with an ox-goad.

‘For what usage?’ asked Basil.

‘That’s as they choose. If they like to come before the bishop and turn Christian—why, a little correction shall suffice. If not, they have only themselves and the devil to blame.’

By this time Venantius and his retainers stood in the forecourt. To him, the routing of such a rabble seemed a task not worth speaking of, but some few would no doubt be slain, and Basil shrank from such extremities.

‘Would you give up these trembling wretches?’ asked Venantius scornfully, pointing to the four slaves, male and female, Arians either by origin or by conversion to please Aurelia, whom she had brought from Cumae. On their knees they were imploring protection.

‘Nay, I will fight for their safety,’ Basil answered. ‘But if we can frighten off this tag-rag without bloodshed so much the better.’

Venantius consented to make the attempt. On the upper villa was an open gallery looking over the entrance, and fully visible from where the invaders stood. Hither the armed men ascended and stood in line, the bowmen with arrows on string. Their lord, advancing to the parapet, made a signal demanding silence, and spoke in a audible to every ear in the throng.

‘Dogs! You came on this errand thinking that the villa was defenceless. See your mistake! Each one of these behind me has more arrows in store than all your number, and never shot bolt from bow without piercing the mark. Off! Away with your foul odours and your yelping throats! And if, when you have turned tail, any cur among you dares to bark back that I, Venantius of Nuceria, am no true Catholic, he shall pay for the lie with an arrow through chine and gizzard!’ This threat he confirmed with a terrific oath of indisputable orthodoxy.

The effect was immediate. Back fell the first rank of rioters, pressing against those in the rear; and without another cry, with only a low, terrified growling and snarling, the crowd scattered in flight.

‘There again I see Petronilla,’ declared Basil, watching the rout with fierce eyes. ‘I’ll swear that, before starting, she set this game afoot. I must after her, Venantius.’

‘Alone?’

‘Mother of God! if I had your men! But I will make soldiers of my own. Some of the likeliest from our folk here shall follow me; enough to stay that she-wolf’s journey till I can choke the truth out of her.’

Venantius, his eyes fixed on the descending road by which the rabble had disappeared, caught sight of something which held him mute for a moment. Then he gave a snort of surprise.

‘What’s this? There are no Greek soldiers in Surrentum.’

Yet unmistakable soldiers of the Imperial army were approaching. First came into sight a commanding officer; he rode a little in advance of the troop, which soon showed itself to consist of some two score mounted men, armed with bows and swords. And in the rear came the rabble of Surrentines, encouraged to return by this arrival of armed authority.

‘That is Chorsoman,’ said Marcian, as soon as he could distinguish the captain’s feature, ‘the commander at Cumae.’

‘Then it is not to Cumae that they have carried her!’ exclaimed Basil, surmising at once that the Hun was come in pursuit of Veranilda.

‘Time enough to think of that,’ growled Venantius, as he glared from under black brows at the advancing horsemen. ‘What are we to do? To resist is war, and this villa cannot be held for an hour. Yet to yield is most likely to be made prisoners. Marcian!’

Marcian was watching and listening with a look of anxious thought. Appealed to for his counsel, he spoke decidedly.

‘Withdraw your men and go down. Resistance is impossible. Chorsoman must enter, but trust me to manage him. I answer for your liberty.’

Venantius led his men down to the inner court. Basil, careless of everything but the thought that Veranilda was being borne far from him, he knew not whither, went to get horses ready, that he might pursue Petronilla as soon as the road was free. Marcian, having spoken with the porter, waited till a thundering at the gate announced Chorsoman’s arrival, then had the doors thrown open, and stood with a calm smile to meet the commander.

‘Fair greeting to your Magnificence!’ he began with courtesy. ‘Be welcome to this villa, where, in absence of its mistress, I take upon myself to offer you hospitality.’

Chorsoman had dismounted, and stood with half a dozen of his followers behind him in the portico. At sight of Marcian his face became suspicious.

‘By mistress,’ he replied gruffly, stepping forward, ‘I suppose you mean the daughter of Maximus. Where is she?’

Marcian would have continued the conversation within, but the ............
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