Chapter 14
LYSIMACHUS, MEGACLES, Courtiers; _afterwards_ ASANDER.
_Lys._ Well, good Megacles, I hope you are prepared to carry out your function. It will be a busy and anxious day to-morrow, no doubt, and most of us will be glad when midnight strikes.
_Meg._ My Lord Lysimachus, I hope so. I have not closed an eye for the last two nights. As to the Procession, I flatter myself that no better-arranged pomp has ever defiled before Caesar's Palace. It will be long, it will be splendid, it will be properly marshalled. There is no other man in the Empire who knows the distinctions of rank or the mysteries of marshalling better than I do. Look at the books I have studied. There is the treatise of the Learned and Respectable Symmachus on Processions. That is one. There is the late divine Emperor Theodosius on Dignities and Titles of Honour. That is two. There is our learned and illustrious Chamberlain Procopius's treatise on the office and duties of a Count of the Palace. That, as no doubt you know, is in six large volumes. That is three, or, nay, eight volumes. Oh, my poor head! And I have said nothing of the authorities on Costume--a library, I assure you, in themselves. Yes, it has been an anxious time, but a very happy one. I wish our young friends here would devote a little more time to such serious topics, and less to such frivolities as fighting and making love. The latter is a fine art, no doubt, and, when done according to rule, is well enough; but as for fighting, getting oneself grimed with dust and sweat, and very likely some vulgar churl's common blood to boot--pah! it is intolerable to think of it.
_1st Court._ Well, good Megacles, I am afraid that the world cannot spare its soldiers yet for many years to come. So long as there is evil in the world, and lust of power and savagery and barbarism, so long, depend upon it, there is room and need for the soldier.
_Meg._ Certainly, my lord, certainly; and besides, they are very highly decorative too. Nothing looks better to my mind at a banquet than bright gay faces and lithe young figures set in a shining framework of mail. By the way, my Lord Lysimachus, it was kind of you to provide our procession with a strong detachment of fine young soldiers from Bosphorus. I have secured a prominent place for them, and the effect will be perfect. I trust the Lady Melissa will like it.
_Lys._ My lord, you are mistaken; there are no soldiers from Bosphorus here.
_Meg._ But I was with the Prince last night, and saw them.
_Lys._ I tell you you are mistaken. There are none here. Do you understand me? There are none here.
_2nd Court._ Nay, indeed, my Lord Megacles. We were trying, with a view to the pageant, how a number of young men of Cherson would look in the array of Bosphorus; but we gave it up, since we feared that they would bear them so clumsily that they would mar the whole effect.
_Meg._ Ah, that explains it; quite right, quite right. Well, I see I was mistaken. But I wish I could have had soldiers from Bosphorus. They are the one thing wanting to make to-morrow a perfect success, as the Lady Melissa said.
_Lys._ They are indeed, as you say. But, my Lord Megacles, pray do not whisper abroad what you have said here; these people are so jealous. They would grow sullen, and spoil the pageant altogether.
_Meg._ Ah, my lord, you have a good head. I will not breathe a word of it till the day is done.
_Lys._ Thanks, my lord, and as I know you will be weary with the long day's work and your great anxieties, I am going to lay a little friendly compulsion upon you. You must leave the banquet to-morrow and go to rest by eleven o'clock at latest.
_Meg._ Well, my lord, I am not so young as I was, and if I have your permission to leave before all is over, well and good. No one knows what an anxious day is before me, and I have no doubt I shall have earned my night's rest by then. But I have much yet to do, so with your permission I will wish you good night.
[_Exit_ MEGACLES, _bowing low to each with exaggerated gestures._
_Lys._ Poor soul, poor soul! If any fight comes, it would be as cruel to let him take his part with men as it would be if he were a woman or a child.
_Enter_ ASANDER.
Welcome, my Lord Asander. Hast thou seen our men, and are they ready for to-morrow?
_Asan._ I have just come from them, and they are ready, But I am not. I pray you, let this be; Send back these men to-night. I am oppressed By such o'ermastering presages of ill As baffle all resolve.
_Lys._ My Lord Asander, It is too late. Wouldst thou, then, break thy oath? Wouldst thou live here a prisoner, nor behold Thy father, though he die? Wouldst thou thy country Should spurn thee as the traitor whose malignance Blighted her hard-won gains? It is too late! It is too late!
_Asan._ I am grown infirm of will As any dotard. I will go on now So that thou dost no murder.
_Lys._ Why was it We came in such o'erwhelming force, but that We sought to shed no blood?
_Asan._ I will be ready, Though with a heavy heart. To-morrow night At stroke of twelve, when all the feast is done, And all asleep, we issue from the palace, Seize the guards at their posts, and open wide The gates to the strong force which from the ships At the same hour shall land. The citizens, Heavy with wine, will wake to find their city Our own beyond recall.
_Lys._ Ay, that's the scheme, And nought can mar it now. Good night, my lord. Sleep well; there is much to do.
_Asan._ Good night, my lords!
[_Exit_ ASANDER.
_Lys._ No bloodshed! Why, what fools love makes of men! I have seen this very lad dash through the ranks Of hostile spearmen, cut and hack and thrust As in sheer sport. There will be blood shed, surely, Unless these dogs have lost their knack of war As he has; but we have them unprepared, And shall prevail, and thou shalt be avenged My father slain, and thou, my murdered brother, Shalt be avenged! My lords, you know what work Is given each to do. Be not too chary Of your men's swords; let them strike sudden terror. Slay all who do resist, or if they do not, Yet slay them still. My lords, give you good night. To-morrow at midnight, at the stroke of twelve-- At the stroke of twelve!
[_Exeunt omnes._