“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 of throats, “Venus Victrix!”

The chariot was advancing, but less rapidly.  Cornelia rose and looked forth again, not this time to be rebuked.  Down the moon-lighted street were moving several infantry cohorts from the palace; the avenue was clear, the mob and hostile soldiery had melted away like a mist; a mounted officer came flying down the street ahead of the legionaries.

“The ladies are safe, Imperator!” Drusus was reporting with military exactitude.  “I have lost twelve men.”

Caesar galloped along beside the chariot.  He had his horse under absolute control, and he extended his hand, first to Fabia, then to Cornelia.