s giving orders with the same mechanical exactitude of the drill,
albeit his voice was high-pitched and strained--not entirely, perhaps,
because of the need of calling above the din.
"Form in line by fours!"
Cornelia raised her head above the chariot frame. The Romans had
worked their way down into a square formed by the intersection of
streets. Behind them and on every building were swarming the people;
right across the eastern avenue, where their escape lay, stood the
bristling files of one of Achillas's companies. Stones and roof-tiles
were being tossed in a perfect hail from the houses, and now and then
an arrow or a dart. The four chariots--one had only three horses
left--were standing in the little plaza, and the troopers were forming
before them. The arrows of the chariot warriors made the mob behind
keep a respectful distance. It was the triumph of discipline over
man's animal sense of fear. Even the mob felt this, when it saw the
little squadron fall into line with as much precision as on the parade
ground. A tile smote one soldier upon the head, and he tumbled from
his horse like a stone. His comrades never paused in their evolution.
Then, for the first time, Cornelia screamed with horror and fright.
Drusus, who was setting a new arrow to his bow, looked down upon her;
he had never seemed so handsome before, with the fierce light of the
battle in his eyes, with his whole form swelling with the exertions of
conflict.
"Down, Cornelia!" commanded the officer; and Cornelia did so
implicitly--to disobey him at that moment was inconceivable.
"At them, men!"
And then came a new bound from the horses, and then a mighty crash and
clash of bodies, blades, and shields, the snort of dying beasts, the
splintering of spear-shafts, the groans and cries of men in battle for
their lives. The car rose on one wheel higher and higher; Cornelia was
thrown against Fabia, and the two women clung to each other, too
terrified and crushed to scream; then on a sudden it righted, and as
it did so the soldier who had acted as charioteer reeled, his face
bathed in blood, the death-rattle in his throat. Back he fell, pierced
in face and breast, and tumbled from the car; and, as if answering to
this lightening of their burden, the hoofs of the hard-pressed horses
bit on the pavement, and the team bounded onward.
"_Io triumphe!_" It was Drusus who called; and in answer to his shout
came the deep Caesarian battle-cry from hundreds
|