Homo Sum — Complete by Georg Ebers (great novels .TXT) 📖

“Once, in the midst of the struggle, I saw Miriam too, clinging pale and trembling to a rock and looking on at the fight. I shouted to her to leave the spot, and go back to my father, but she stood still and shook her head with a gesture—a gesture so full of pity and anguish—I shall never forget it. With hands and eyes she signed to me that my father was dead, and I understood; at least I understood that some dreadful misfortune had happened. I had no time for reflection, for before I could gain any certain information by word of mouth, a captain of the heathen had seized me, and we came to a life and death struggle before Miriam’s very eyes. My opponent was strong, but I showed the girl—who had often taunted me for being a weakling because I obeyed my father in everything—that I need yield to no one. I could not have borne to be vanquished before her and I flung the heathen to the ground and slew him with my axe. I was only vaguely conscious of her presence, for during my severe struggle I could see nothing but my adversary. But suddenly I heard a loud scream, and Miriam sank bleeding close before me. While I was kneeling over his comrade one of the Blemmyes had crept up to me, and had flung his lance at me from a few paces off. But Miriam—Miriam—”

“She saved you at the cost of her own life,” said Petrus completing the lad’s sentence, for at the recollection of the occurrence his voice had failed and his eyes overflowed with tears.

Hermas nodded assent, and then added softly: “She threw up her arms and called my name as the spear struck her. The eldest son of Obedianus punished the heathen that had done it, and I supported her as she fell dying and took her curly head on my knees and spoke her name; she opened her eyes once more, and spoke mine softly and with indescribable tenderness. I had never thought that wild Miriam could speak so sweetly, I was overcome with terrible grief, and kissed her eyes and her lips. She looked at me once more with a long, wide-open, blissful gaze, and then she was dead.”

“She was a heathen,” said Dorothea, drying her eyes, “but for such a death the Lord will forgive her much.”

“I loved her dearly,” said Marthana, “and will lay my sweetest flowers on her grave. May I cut some sprays from your blooming myrtle for a wreath?”

“To-morrow, to-morrow, my child,” replied Dorothea. “Now go to rest; it is already very late.”

“Only let me stay till Antonius and Jethro come back,” begged the girl.

“I would willingly help you to find your son,” said Hermas, “and if you wish I will go to Raithu and Klysma, and enquire among the fishermen. Had the centurion—” and as he spoke the young soldier looked down in some embarrassment, “had the centurion found his fugitive wife of whom he was in pursuit with Talib, the Amalekite, before he died?”

“Sirona has not yet reappeared,” replied Petrus, “and perhaps—but just now you mentioned the name of Paulus, who was so dear to you and your father. Do you know that it was he who so shamelessly ruined the domestic peace of the centurion?”

“Paulus!” cried Hermas. “How can you believe it?”

“Phoebicius found his sheepskin in his wife’s room,” replied Petrus gravely. “And the impudent Alexandrian recognized it as his own before us all and allowed the Gaul to punish him. He committed the disgraceful deed the very evening that you were sent off to gain intelligence.”

“And Phoebicius flogged him?” cried Hermas beside himself. “And the poor fellow bore this disgrace and your blame, and all—all for my sake. Now I understand what he meant! I met him after the battle and he told me that my father was dead. When he parted from me, he said he was of all sinners the greatest, and that I should hear it said down in the oasis. But I know better; he is great-hearted and good, and I will not bear that he should be disgraced and slandered for my sake.” Hermas had sprung up with these words, and as he met the astonished gaze of his hosts, he tried to collect himself, and said:

“Paulus never even saw Sirona, and I repeat it, if there is a man who may boast of being good and pure and quite without sin, it is he. For me, and to save me from punishment and my father from sorrow, he owned a sin that he never committed. Such a deed is just like him—the brave—faithful friend! But such shameful suspicion and disgrace shall not weigh upon him a moment longer!”

“You are speaking to an older man,” said Petrus angrily interrupting the youth’s vehement speech. “Your friend acknowledged with his own lips—”

“Then he told a lie out of pure goodness,” Hermas insisted. “The sheepskin that the Gaul found was mine. I had gone to Sirona, while her husband was sacrificing to Mithras, to fetch some wine for my father, and she allowed me to try on the centurion’s armor; when he unexpectedly returned I leaped out into the street and forgot that luckless sheepskin. Paulus met me as I fled, and said he would set it all right, and sent me away—to take my place and save my father a great trouble. Look at me as severely as you will, Dorothea, but it was only in thoughtless folly that I slipped into the Gaul’s house that evening, and by the memory of my father—of whom heaven has this day bereft me—I swear that Sirona only amused herself with me as with a boy, a child, and even refused to let me kiss her beautiful golden hair. As surely as I hope to become a warrior, and as surely as my father’s spirit hears what I say, the guilt that Paulus took upon himself was never committed at all, and when you condemned Sirona you did an injustice, for she never broke her faith to her husband for me, nor still less for Paulus.”

Petrus and Dorothea exchanged a meaning glance, and Dorothea said:

“Why have we to learn all this from the lips of a stranger? It sounds very extraordinary, and yet how simple! Aye, husband, it would have become us better to guess something of this than to doubt Sirona. From the first it certainly seemed to me impossible that that handsome woman, for whom quite different people had troubled themselves should err for this queer beggar—”

“What cruel injustice has fallen on the poor man!” cried Petrus. “If he had boasted of some noble deed, we should indeed have been less ready to give him credence.”

“We are suffering heavy punishment,” sighed Dorothea, “and my heart is bleeding. Why did you not come to us, Hermas, if you wanted wine? How much suffering would have been spared if you had!”

The lad looked down, and was silent; but soon he recollected himself, and said eagerly:

“Let me go and seek the hapless Paulus; I return you thanks for your kindness but I cannot bear to stay here any longer. I must go back to the mountain.”

The senator and his wife did not detain him, and when the court-yard gate had closed upon him a great stillness reigned in Petrus’ sitting-room. Dorothea leaned far back in her seat and sat looking in her lap while the tears rolled over