t in the boat. The stillness became awkward. The Magnus, flushed
and embarrassed, turned to Septimius. "I was not mistaken in
understanding that you were my fellow-soldier in years past?" His
answer was a surly nod. Pompeius, however, reined his rising feelings,
and took up and began to re-read some tablets on which he had written
an address in Greek, to be delivered before the king. Agias rowed on
with the energy of helpless desperation. They were very close to the
quay. A company of the royal body-guard in gala armour stood as if
awaiting the distinguished visitor. For a moment the young Hellene
believed that Achillas was sincere in his errand.

The boat drew up to the landing; one or two of the rowers sprang to
the dock and made her fast. Agias was unshipping his oar. His thought
was that he must now contrive the escape of Cornelia. Pompeius half
rose from his seat; the boat was pitching in the choppy harbour swell;
the general steadied himself by grasping the hands of Philip the
freedman. Suddenly, like the swoop of a hawk on its prey, Agias saw
the right hand of Septimius tear his short sword from its sheath. A
scream broke from the Hellene's lips; before the Magnus could turn his
head, the blow was struck. Pompeius received the blade full in the
back, and staggered, while Salvius and Achillas likewise drew and
thrust at him. Agias gazed on, paralyzed with horror. The general
seized his red paludamentum, threw it over his face, groaned once, and
fell. Even as he did so Septimius struck him across the neck,
decapitating the corpse. The brutal boatmen tore the blood-soaked
clothes off of the body, and flung it overboard, to drift ashore with
the current. And so it ended with Pompeius Magnus, Imperator, the
Fortunate, the favourite general of Sulla, the chieftain of "godlike
and incredible virtue," the conquerer of the kingdoms of the East,
thrice consul, thrice triumphator, joint ruler with Caesar of the
civilized world!

Agias hastened back to Cornelia to tell her that the danger was past,
that there was no need of a flight to Cleopatra; but he was sick at
heart when he thought of the treachery in which he had shared, albeit
so unwillingly.

Chapter XXIII

Bitterness and Joy

I

Cornelia knew not whether to be merry or to weep when the report of
the fate of Pompeius reached her. That she would be delivered up to
her uncle was no longer to be dreaded; but into the hands of what
manner of men had she