CHAPTER XII.
SCIPIO SETS TO WORK.
CLEANOR, though he had no proofs of Hasdrubal's complicity in the crime just committed, could not rid himself of the suspicion that he had had something to do with it. No one profited by it more; he had been present when the deed was done, and had not spoken a word or lifted a finger to hinder it. Such a suspicion was enough in itself to make any post which brought him into close contact with the general distasteful to the young man. And Hasdrubal's personal habits were revolting to his taste. The man was given over to gluttony. He had a sufficiently clear intelligence and some military skill, but the enormous meals in which he indulged produced a condition of torpor which disabled him during a great part of the day.
Cleanor, therefore, was not a little pleased when, through the good offices of Gisco, he was attached to the staff of one of Hasdrubal's lieutenants, Himilco by name. Himilco had charge of a portion of the wall looking towards the sea, about four stadia in length. Cleanor had the duty, which he shared with another officer, of seeing that the sentinels were properly vigilant during the night. Each was responsible for two of the four watches, their practice being for one to take the first and fourth, the other the second and third.
At this time the chief interest of the siege was centred at this point, where it seemed not improbable that the Romans would have to suffer a very serious check. The second-in-command of the besieging force, who had a special charge of the fleet, an officer of more enterprise than judgment, had seen, as he thought, a chance of greatly distinguishing himself. Having taken advantage of a long spell of settled weather to stand-in more closely than usual to the shore, he had observed, or rather, it had been pointed out to him by a sharp-sighted young officer, a portion of the ramparts which appeared to be insufficiently guarded. The wall here ran along the top of a precipice, so steep and inaccessible that it might almost seem unnecessary to supplement by art the provision of nature. Such spots, however, while they seem to be the strongest, are often in fact the weakest part of a fortification.33 A fortunate chance put Mancinus—this was the Roman admiral's name—in possession of the fact that the cliffs were not by any means so difficult of access as they seemed. One of the fishermen who plied their trade along the coast had come on board the admiral's ship with a cargo of fish for sale. He was asked whether there was any way of scaling the cliffs, and replied that there was, and promised, in consideration of a couple of gold pieces, to act as guide. Mancinus accordingly, having waited for a dull night, landed a force of about a thousand men. The guide fulfilled his promise and showed them the path, which, thanks to the negligence of the besieged, they found entirely unguarded.
For a time everything went well. The sentinels had come to regard this beat as one which might be neglected without risk. When they chanced to be told off to this duty they were accustomed to sleep as unconcernedly as if they had been in their beds at home. About fifty or sixty of the assailants had mounted the walls by help of scaling-ladders when the alarm was given. The besieged had organized a flying detachment of five hundred men, whose business it was to be ready for any emergency, and to hurry at once to any spot where they might be wanted.
This force now came up at full speed, and the few who had mounted the wall were promptly dislodged. This done, the officer in command ordered the nearest gate to be opened, and sallied out at the head of his men. But he had not expected to find so formidable a force opposed to him. His division was completely overmatched, and was driven back within the walls, the Romans making their way through the gate—which there had been no time to shut—along with the retreating enemy.
Both sides were now reinforced, the Carthaginians by fresh detachments from the garrison, the Romans by Mancinus himself with another contingent from the fleet. The result of the fighting, which was continued throughout the night, was that the Romans retired from within the walls, but occupied a fairly strong position outside.
In earlier days, when the idea that Carthaginian territory could be successfully invaded had not occurred to anyone, a wealthy merchant of the city had built himself a mansion on a space of level ground between the wall and the cliff. The mansion was surrounded with spacious gardens and orchards, and these again were protected from trespassers by a deep ditch and a wall of unusual height. Here Mancinus intrenched himself. He still cherished the hope that he might make good his footing, and use the position as a starting-point for successful operations against the city. What a splendid achievement it would be if he could falsify what had come to be a commonly accepted belief, if it was to turn out that a Mancinus, not a Scipio, was the conqueror of Carthage! And indeed he was so far right that he always had the credit of having been the first to effect a lodgment within the boundaries of Carthage itself.34
For the present, however, his position was precarious. He had no stock of provisions with him, except that the men had been ordered to carry rations for three days. Supplies could, of course, be obtained from the ships, but only so long as the weather continued fine. A week of strong wind from the sea would reduce him to absolute starvation. Of water there was already a scarcity. The builder of the mansion had provided an ample supply for a large household, but there was nothing like enough for between two and three thousand men. And, apart from the difficulties about food and drink, the position was not one which could be permanently held. The wall round the mansion, for instance, was not a military fortification. It was meant to keep out trespassers, not to resist battering-rams.
This, then, was the state of affairs when Cleanor took up his command. Two days had passed since Mancinus had occupied the position outside the walls, and he was already in distress. The contingency for which he had made no provision had occurred. The wind was blowing strongly from the sea, and the captains of the fleet had thought it prudent to stand off from the shore. The Carthaginians were perfectly well aware of the condition of affairs. They had intercepted a messenger carrying an urgent appeal for help to head-quarters, and knew that, unless there was a change of weather, the Romans must be reduced to extremities. Their policy was, of course, to sit still and wait. There was, indeed, a good chance that if the battering-rams were vigorously applied to the walls, a breach might be made, and an assault successfully made. But an assault, whatever the result, would cost many lives. And of all men no one is more bound to be economical of life than he who commands the garrison of a besieged town; and this for the simple reason that he cannot hope to get recruits. In the course of two or three days more the Romans would have to capitulate, or fight at a terrible disadvantage. Scipio, it was true, was now daily expected, and, if he arrived in time, would be sure to make a vigorous effort to save his countrymen. But that he should arrive in time seemed almost impossible.
But the Carthaginians did not know Scipio. Cleanor himself—who, as has been seen, had had opportunities of estimating the remarkable qualities of the man—was taken by surprise, such were the energy and the promptitude with which the Roman acted. With that remarkable foresight which he did not scruple himself to attribute to divine prompting, and which we may anyhow describe as genius, he had made special preparation for such a contingency as had actually occurred. He had selected the ten swiftest ships out of the fleet which accompanied him from Italy, and had put on board them a picked force of five hundred men. With this squadron he had outstripped the slower sailers by not less than forty-eight hours, an invaluable saving of time as it turned out.
He reached Utica, which was about twenty-seven miles west of Carthage, at sunset on the day on which Mancinus had sent his appeal for help. Two of the three messengers who had been despatched on this errand had been captured, but one had contrived to elude the Carthaginian watchmen, and had reached Utica at midnight. Scipio did not lose a moment. His own men were ready for instant action, but they were scarcely numerous enough for the work which they might have to do.
He found abundance of help in Utica. At an earlier period of the war he had spent seven months in this town in command of a detachment quartered there. The influence of his extraordinary personality had made itself felt in Utica as it did everywhere else. Old and young in the city were devoted to him. What we should now call a battalion of volunteers had been raised, of which he had consented to be the honorary tribune. Late as it was, he sent a herald through the streets with notice that this force was to muster immediately at the harbour. In the course of little more than an hour the battalion had assembled at the place indicated for a rendezvous in full strength, not a single member, except some half-dozen incapacitated by sickness, being absent. A requisition also was made for lads and elderly men, and of these there was such a throng that the task for which they were wanted, carrying provisions and stores on board the squadron, might have been done five times over. All worked with such a will that before sunrise everything was actually ready, and the squadron was able to make a start.
Scipio's arrival had been observed at Carthage, the harbour of Utica being distinctly visible, notwithstanding the distance, through the clear atmosphere of the north African coast. He had himself taken pains to assure its being known, for he was not above utilizing to the utmost the impression made, as he was well aware, by his name. He had no sooner reached Utica than he ordered that some seamen, who were among the Carthaginian prisoners, should be set free, supplied with a fast-sailing pinnace, and commissioned to deliver at Carthage the message, "Scipio is come".
That he would hasten to the relief of Mancinus everyone in Carthage knew, and orders were issued accordingly that the position of that general should be attacked as soon as possible after dawn. This was prompt, but it was not prompt enough.
The night, indeed, was not lost. Battering-rams were brought to bear upon the wall surrounding the mansion, and several breaches were made, ready for the storming parties to enter as soon as it was light. Before morning, indeed, the wall was so shattered that it became practically indefensible, and Mancinus abandoned the idea of holding it against the assailants. He formed his men into a square, with the heavy-armed, who numbered about five hundred, outside, and the light troops, who had no protection beyond a steel cap and small target, within.
Himilco, who personally directed the attack, ordered a charge on a corner of the square, where the lines had been made up with Numidian auxiliaries. He hoped to find them less sturdy in resistance than the regular legionaries, who were all Italians. Cleanor, who was having his first experience of serious fighting, was in the front rank of the charge, and had the satisfaction of seeing the Roman line waver. But it wavered without breaking.
The Numidians were under the command of a deputy centurion, a Picenian mountaineer of huge stature and herculean strength. Springing to the front he killed a heavily-armed Carthaginian outright with one thrust of his pike. Then he struck Cleanor full in the breast. The finely-wrought cuirass of steel, a gift from the old king, withstood the blow, but the wearer was hurled backward with irresistible force and came to the ground with a shock which partially stunned him. When Himilco ordered a retreat he had to be supported by his companions.
But though the charge had been repulsed, the position of the Roman force was full of peril. The heavily-armed men in the front ranks were no protection to their less fully equipped comrades against the incessant showers of missiles which the archers, javelin-throwers, and slingers rained upon the helpless men inside the square. Their own armour was not always proof against them, still less against the stones which the catapults, now put in position on the city walls, discharged into their ranks. The whole body continued to edge away out of range of the walls, heedless of the fact that every step brought them nearer to the cliffs.
A catastrophe was imminent when Scipio's squadron came in sight. The decks were crowded, every available man putting himself as much in evidence as possible. This was Scipio's command, given in order to create an impression of greater numbers than he really possessed. The effect on the contending forces was instantaneous and great. The Carthaginian leaders felt themselves to be in the presence of a formidable antagonist, and stood on the defensive. The forces of Mancinus recovered the confidence which they had lost. Scipio's arrival was soon followed by the appearance of Mancinus' own ships. For it was one of the many instances of the extraordinary good fortune which seemed to attend on Scipio throughout his career, that no sooner had he appeared on the scene than the weather changed. The wind veered round, and now blew with moderate strength from the shore. It was still a couple of hours from noon when the whole force under Mancinus had re-embarked.
"We must never lose a moment," said Gisco to our hero, when they were talking over the events of the day, "if we are to keep up with this wonderful man. As to being beforehand with him that seems impossible. Who would have thought that, after coming all the way from Italy, he would have started again almost without giving himself time to sup! This is a very different thing from Piso's way of doing business."
CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE ROMAN CAMP.
THERE had been, as has been seen, not a few fluctuations of fortune in the conflicts which had followed after the landing of Mancinus. One result of this had been that a considerable number of prisoners had been taken on both sides. Both sides, also, were anxious for an exchange. The Carthaginians did not care to have any more useless men to feed than could be helped; the Romans feared, and not without reason, that their friends and comrades would be barbarously treated. Carthage had always had an evil reputation in this respect, and was only too likely to justify it, if ever she should be driven to extremities.
The envoy who conducted the negotiations on behalf of the city was a member of the Senate named Maharbal. He had made himself conspicuous as a leader of the peace, otherwise the pro-Roman, party, and was supposed, therefore, to be acceptable to Scipio. Cleanor accompanied him in the capacity of interpreter. The interviews would be conducted in Greek, a language which Scipio spoke fluently. As for Latin, there was no one in Carthage who was able to speak more than a few words of it; nor was there in the Roman camp any more knowledge of the Punic tongue. There could not be a greater proof of the irreconcilable hostility of the two nations than this mutual ignorance.
Cleanor's visit was paid at a very interesting time, for the Roman camp was undergoing, at the hands of the new commander, a very thorough process of cleansing. It had fallen, under the management of his incompetent predecessors, into a most deplorable condition. In the first place it swarmed with disreputable camp-followers. There was a crowd of sutlers, traders who sold to the soldiers various luxuries at the most extravagant prices, and bought from them their plunder for ridiculously small sums of ready money. There was a still greater multitude of soldiers' servants. Even a private trooper must have a slave to groom his horse; and an infantry soldier thought it a hardship if he had to clean and polish his own arms. As some of the officers had a whole establishment of attendants, there was a second army of servants actually more numerous than the first army of fighting men.
Scipio made short work with these useless and mischievous encumbrances. No sutler or dealer was allowed to remain in the camp, or even in the neighbourhood, unless he held the general's license. Even then he was not allowed to sell any articles but such as were contained in a very brief list authorized by the general, and at prices which had received his sanction. The purchase of articles from the soldiers was absolutely forbidden. Indeed, the trade ceased of itself, for plunder was rigidly prohibited. Any soldier who went further from the camp than the bugle could be heard made himself liable to be treated as a deserter. The reform in the matter of the soldiers' servants was no less radical. Two were allowed to a tribune, one to a centurion, and four, who were to be owned and employed in common, to a century or company of infantry and a troop of cavalry. All these were to be able-bodied men, who had learnt military drill; and they were liable on occasion to serve in the ranks.
Scipio, still acting on the principle which had made him announce his arrival to the Carthaginians, kept nothing secret from the envoy and his escort; he took pains, on the contrary, that they should see and learn everything that was to be seen or learnt. He invited them to be present at a general assembly of the army, which was summoned during their stay in the camp to hear an address from himself. Maharbal knew, as has been said, next to nothing of Latin, and Cleanor did not know enough to enable him to follow Scipio throughout. Nevertheless, they could see that the effect of the speech was remarkable. The orator held his audience, so to speak, in the hollow of his hand. He was not speaking smooth things to his army; on the contrary, he told them that they were robbers rather than soldiers. He laid down for them for the future a most rigid discipline; he gave them no hope of indulgence. But he was heard with profound attention and without a murmur of dissent or complaint.
The next morning Cleanor saw the banished multitude embark. A stranger spectacle, a more motley crowd, and a more curious miscellany of property was never beheld. One man was disconsolately watching while a score of wine casks, full of some poisonous liquid which he had hoped an African sun would sell for him, was hoisted on board; another had with him a troop of performing dogs; a third was conducting a troop of singing and dancing girls, whose rouged cheeks and tawdry finery looked melancholy enough in the merciless light. The exiles were not by any means silent; they cursed and quarrelled in a perfect Babel of languages; but they did not dare to linger. A cordon of soldiers kept them rigidly within the boundaries of the place of embarkation. Vessel after vessel took on board its cargo with a marvellous regularity and speed. Before evening the camp had been brought back to a primitive severity and simplicity which were worthy of the best times of the Republic.
In the matter of the exchange Maharbal found the Roman general liberal to the point of generosity. He was not careful to exact a very close correspondence in the dignity or the number of the prisoners to be given up and received. When every Roman had been accounted for, a considerable balance of Carthaginians still remained in Scipio's hands. The envoy offered to redeem them at the price which had been customary in former wars, two pounds and a half of silver per man. Scipio smilingly refused to receive it. "Your Hannibal," he said, "used to empty our treasury, for it was seldom but he had more prisoners to give than to receive. You must let me have the satisfaction of feeling that for once I am able to be generous."
It was easy to transact business on such terms. When all was settled the general invited the Carthaginian and his interpreter, whom he had greeted in a most friendly fashion, to share his evening meal. He had thoughtfully arranged that the two young officers who were his aides-de-camp, and as such were commonly guests at his table, should not be present. He felt that their company would not be agreeable to Maharbal and still less to the young Greek. The only other guest was a person whom Cleanor especially was delighted to meet. This was the historian Polybius, who had already acquired a considerable reputation as a soldier, a statesman, and a man of letters. Cleanor, during his sojourn at Athens, had heard his character as a politician hotly debated; that he was an honest man no one doubted. Personally he was prejudiced against him as a partisan of Rome. But he found it impossible to resist the charm of his conversation.
The hours passed only too quickly in such delightful company, and when the time came to separate, Cleanor felt that he had not said a tenth part of what he wanted to say to his new acquaintance. As they were making their farewells, Polybius, who had heard from Scipio an outline of the young Greek's story, found an opportunity of saying a few kindly words.
"I could wish," he whispered, with a friendly pressure of the hand, "that things were otherwise with you. Mind, I don't blame you, or doubt but that you are quite loyal to conscience in what you do. But, believe me, you are on the wrong side. Is there anyone in Carthage whom you can compare in anything that makes the worth of a man with our noble Scipio? I know something of what you feel, though I have not the same cause, for I also am a Greek and have lost my country; but the gods give the sovereignty to whom they will, and who are we to fight against them? Farewell for the present! but I am sure that we shall meet again, and under happier circumstances."
"I thank you for saying so," replied Cleanor; "but the future looks very dark to me."
And, indeed, as he made his way back to the city, listening with but half his mind to Maharbal's enthusiastic praises of the courtesy and liberality of the Roman commander, he felt his spirits sink into a deeper depression than he had ever known before.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE MEGARA.
COURTEOUS, and even generous, as Scipio had showed himself in the matter of the exchange of prisoners, he was not a man to let slip a single advantage that might fall into his hands, or, when he delivered a blow, to hesitate to strike with all his force. He allowed a short time for his army to get used to the new condition of things. This he could well afford, for the season was yet early. When he found his army restored to a sound condition, physical and moral, at once hardened to labour and amenable to discipline, in a word, thoroughly efficient, he proceeded to act. It was as a keen, well-tempered sword in his hands, and he struck with promptitude and energy.
His first plan was to follow the line of attack which Mancinus had initiated. The weak spot in the defences of a wealthy city is commonly found in the buildings which are allowed to grow up in times of peace outside the fortifications. Life in a walled city is often both irksome and unhealthy. The poor, always compelled to put up with a narrow space whether within walls or without them, is indifferent, but the rich man wants his garden and his playground, wants room for the health of his family or his own entertainment. In this way a suburb, mainly consisting of residences of the wealthy, had grown up outside the northern walls of the city. It presented, only on a larger scale, much the same features as the locality which Mancinus had fixed upon as his point of attack. But it had a fortified wall of its own. This had in process of time become a necessity. For more than four centuries after its foundation Carthage had never seen a foreign invader on its soil. But there came a time when its enemies discovered that it might be most effectually attacked at home. Therefore, splendid houses which offered a rich prize to the plunderer could no longer be left without a defence, and the Megara had to be surrounded with a fortification, which started from the city wall and joined it again. But the space which had to be inclosed was great, and the new wall was neither so strong, so well furnished with towers, nor so adequately garrisoned as the old. It was meant, in fact, rather for a protection against a sudden attack than as a permanent defence.
Scipio resolved on a night assault, an operation possible only to a thoroughly well-disciplined army. He divided his force into two columns, taking personal command of the one which was actually to attack. The other was to make a demonstration, which was not to be developed into an assault except the officer at its head saw a particularly favourable opportunity. As the two points threatened were more than a couple of miles apart—so great was the circuit of the Megara wall—the attention of the garrison was effectually distracted. Scipio's column succeeded in reaching its destination unobserved, and its sudden approach, coupled with the alarm simultaneously raised on the other side, threw the garrison into confusion.
But the assault received a check. A deserter had indicated the spot where the wall might be most easily scaled. It had been used as a short cut by marauders, stragglers, and others who did not care to go in or out by the gate. Some stones had been broken down at the top of the wall, while at the bottom there was a natural rise in the ground which diminished the height. But the place had not escaped the vigilance of the officer whose business it was to inspect this portion of the fortification. The stones had been replaced and the rise in the ground levelled. A determined attempt was then made at various points with the scaling-ladders. But an assailant who is mounting a ladder is at a considerable disadvantage when matched with an antagonist who has a firm footing on the wall above. Here and there, indeed, especially where a bit of the wall lay in shadow, the ladder could be applied and the wall scaled unobserved by the guard. But these successes could not be followed up. The soldiers who thus made good their footing on the top were few and far between; unable to help each other, they could not hold the ground that they had won. The only decided advantage obtained in this direction was the capture of one of the small towers disposed at intervals along the wall. This tower had been deserted by its guard, who had hurried to repel a scaling-party, and was occupied by the Romans in their absence.
Scipio saw that he was losing men to no purpose, and ordered the retreat to be sounded. But his quick eye had detected a place which seemed to promise better. Some resident in Megara had felt the same impatience of being kept within walls to which the whole suburb itself owed its first existence, and had built, in a spot which commanded a wide view over the sea, one of those towers which we now commonly call "follies". The place was of course deserted when the war broke out, but it was not destroyed, as it ought to have been, for it was dangerously near the wall. So near, indeed, was it that it was quite possible to throw a bridge across the intervening space; fortunately, too, it was not very far from the tower mentioned above as having been occupied by the assailants. A considerable force of archers and slingers was brought up to the spot, and they kept up so vigorous a discharge of missiles that this portion of the wall, some fifty paces or so in length, was absolutely cleared of its defenders. Two scaling-ladders, hastily lashed together, served sufficiently well for a bridge. Across this two or three scores of active young soldiers, picked out for their courage and strength, made their way in rapid succession, and descending from the wall on the inner side, hastened to open one of the gates. Before an hour had passed, Scipio, with nearly four thousand men, was within the walls of the Megara.
For a time the panic was as great as if Carthage itself, and not a suburb, which never could have been seriously defended, had been taken. The garrison of the Megara fled in wild confusion to the inner city, the gates of which were blocked with a crowd of frantic fugitives. Cleanor, who had joined the flying division as a volunteer, found himself carried back towards the city walls by a quite irresistible torrent of panic-stricken men.
Then a rally took place. In the first place the fugitives were compelled to halt, if for no other reason than because they could not get through the gates. Then the old instinct of obedience and discipline reasserted itself, especially in the mercenaries, among whom the panic had been most severe. Little by little the officers were able to restore some kind of order, and even to recover some of the lost ground. The defenders had the inestimable advantage of knowing the locality. To the mercenaries, indeed, most of whom had never been inside Carthage, the place was as strange as it was to the Romans; but the flying division consisted entirely of native troops, and these were thoroughly at home among the lanes and alleys of the Megara, where indeed most of them had their family residences.
Cleanor had an hour or so of very lively adventure in the company of an officer of the division, and could not help feeling a certain regret when he heard the Roman bugles sound the recall. Scipio, in truth, had found that his position was not by any means desirable. The Megara was almost covered with detached houses, each surrounded by its gardens and orchards, these again being intersected by running streams, some of which were of considerable depth, and had branches winding in all directions. Any adequate military occupation of such a region would require a much larger force than he had at hand, and would serve no useful purpose. And he could not quite trust his men. They had accepted his reforms with wonderful docility, but here they were in the presence of almost overpowering temptations. Many of the houses in the Megara were full of the accumulated wealth of centuries. A few minutes among such possessions would enrich a soldier with more than he could hope to acquire in twenty campaigns. In fact, it was only too probable that the men would take to plundering, and quite certain that, if they did, they would be destroyed in detail. There were abundant reasons, therefore, why the Roman general should order a retreat. Even as it was, his losses were not inconsiderable.
"I wonder whether anyone has been paying a visit here?" said Cleanor's companion to him as they approached one of the houses in the Megara. "This is my father's place."
It should be explained that the non-combatant population had fled from the Megara as soon as it was attacked. Even before that many persons had deserted their houses for safer quarters within the city itself.
"It is a very likely place," the Carthaginian continued, "for a man to lose his way in. Perhaps we may lay our hands on a prize. Come this way; I know the best place for waiting."
The two young men, taking a couple of soldiers with them, made their way down a narrow lane which skirted the garden of the house. The moon had set by this time, but there was a dim light of dawn. After a few minutes of waiting, the party could plainly hear that someone was approaching.
"There must be two men at least," whispered the Carthaginian; "and they have missed the path, for they are crashing through the shrubs. By Dagon! we have them, for there is a bit of deep water that they must get over. Let us come a little further on. Mago, you know the hand-bridge; go as quick as you can and secure it."
He had scarcely finished speaking when the party for which they were watching came in sight. It consisted of three persons, and there was now enough light to distinguish them. One was a Roman officer. He wore the ornaments of a tribune, and might have been some twenty years of age.35 His two companions were private soldiers, and light-armed. The three, forcing their way through the shrubbery, which here was particularly dense, came upon the water. It was evidently an entirely unexpected obstacle.
"Caius," said the officer, addressing one of the men, "how is this to be managed?"
"We can jump it," the man answered, "with the help of our spears. When we are on the further side, you, sir, must do the best you can, and we will help you out."
"Very good," said the officer, "jump!"
"Let them go," whispered the Carthaginian to Cleanor, "we don't want them; but the officer will be a prize worth having."
Each of the two soldiers planted his spear in the bed of the stream, and swung himself across without much difficulty. The tribune, having first thrown his sword to the other side, jumped his furthest. No run was possible, for the shrubs were thick on the bank; still it was a good leap—excellent, indeed, considering the weight of the young Roman's armour. The breadth of the water was about twenty-four feet, and the tribune had cleared eighteen. His companions were in the act of reaching out one of their spears for him to grasp when the Carthaginian and his party showed themselves. The young Roman understood the situation in a moment.
"Save yourselves," he gasped, as soon as he could speak, "I am lost!"
After a moment's hesitation the men obeyed. To stay would have been a useless sacrifice, for they must have been inevitably cut down while they were attempting to save their companion.
"Speak to him," said the Carthaginian. "Try him with Greek; the Roman gentlemen mostly know it. But perhaps we had better help him out of the water first."
"DO YOU YIELD?" SAID CLEANOR WHEN THE ROMAN HAD REACHED THE SHORE.
"Do you yield?" said Cleanor in Greek, when the Roman had reached the shore.
"I see no choice," replied the young man in the same language.
Giving his promise that he would not attempt to escape, he received his sword, and accompanied his captors to the city. A few inquiries, made and answered in Greek, satisfied them that they had indeed, as the Carthaginian had anticipated, secured a prize. The tribune was a Scipio, a kinsman not very distantly related to the commander.
"Let him be your prisoner," said Cleanor's companion to him. "He may bring you promotion, which I am pretty sure of in any case. Though, indeed," he added after a pause, "I strongly suspect that it will be all the same for most of us, promotion or no promotion, a year hence."
CHAPTER XV.
THE PRISONERS.
THE Roman became so unwell, from the shock of his sudden immersion following on a night of unusual exertion, that Cleanor found it necessary to take him to his quarters. They were sitting together at the morning meal a few hours later, when Cleanor's soldier-servant announced that someone had called to see him on urgent business. It was the Carthaginian officer in whose company he had been during the adventures of the night preceding.
"What about the young Roman?" asked the new-comer, who seemed to be in a state of great agitation. "Did you give him up at head-quarters, or did you bring him here by accident?"
"He is here," replied Cleanor. "He seemed so weak that I thought it best to bring him home with me."
"That is well," said the Carthaginian, "though really I can hardly say whether it is well. Do you know what has happened?"
"I have heard nothing. My chief has released me from duty for four-and-twenty hours, and I have taken the chance of getting a good long sleep."
"Well, there have been most horrible doings. Hasdrubal was in a towering rage this morning when he heard what had been going on in the Megara. The fact is"—the speaker lowered his voice to a whisper—"that, between you and me, he was too tipsy last night to appear. I am told that they could not make him understand anything. That did not make him more amiable this morning. Then he has been blamed for letting the Megara remain as it is, and especially for the tower, which certainly ought not to have been allowed to stand. And lastly, there has been more talk of capitulation during the last few days. People were very much struck with Scipio's liberality in the matter of the prisoners, and have begun to think that better terms might be got from him. Well, all these things have been working him up to a great pitch of fury. So this morning he had all the prisoners that were taken in last night's business, some threescore altogether, brought down to the wall at the point nearest to the Roman camp, and there he tortured them to death in the cruellest way. We Carthaginians are not so squeamish as you Greeks; but I tell you that I felt fairly sick at what I saw, and I did not see a half or even a quarter of the horrors that took place. Some had their eyes or their tongues torn out, some were flayed alive; and when he had done with them, he had them flung down from the wall. 'Tell your general,' he shouted out, when the last of the poor wretches was tossed down, 'tell your general that I sha'n't charge him more than one copper coin apiece for them.'"
"But this is mere madness," cried Cleanor. "What can he have been thinking of? What was his motive?"
"That is easily explained," replied the Carthaginian. "When it was all over he turned to one of the senators, who is supposed to favour peace—he had compelled the man to come with him—and said: 'We have heard the last of capitulation, I fancy, for some time. What terms do you think your dear Scipio will be disposed to give you after this?' And now about your prisoner. I have come straight to warn you. We must think what is to be done. One thing, of course, is certain—you can't keep him here. Some bird of the air would carry the matter. Hasdrubal, too, has his spies everywhere, and knows everything, and you would hardly like to give him up. He seemed a nice young fellow."
"Give him up!" cried Cleanor—"certainly not. I should deserve to be crucified myself if I did."
"You might tell him what has happened, and put him in the way of taking the matter into his own hands. The Romans seem never to trouble much about killing themselves."
"That seems but a mean way of getting out of the difficulty. The man is my guest. I have eaten and drunk with him. He sha'n't be harmed, if I can help it. I don't love the Romans, but I could not behave so to the very worst of them, and least of all to a Scipio."
"But you'll get into very serious trouble yourself."
"Well, trouble or no trouble, I am determined to save him somehow. Meanwhile, many thanks to you for warning me. But there's no good in your mixing yourself up in the matter."
"Good! but mind this, the sooner he is out of the way the better for him, if not for you. Farewell!"
"Well," said the young Roman, when his captor returned, "this is a very pleasant way of being a prisoner, but I suppose it can't last. You must do your duty; pray, don't get yourself into trouble on my account."
Cleanor was in a state of extreme perplexity. To hand over a gallant young soldier to a merciless savage such as Hasdrubal was impossible. Yet it seemed scarcely dutiful to Carthage to let a valuable prisoner escape; and, again, if he could make up his mind to this, how was such an escape to be managed?
"Doing my duty," he said, after a few minutes of silent reflection, "happens to be more than usually difficult."
After another pause he went on, "After all, there is nothing for it but to tell you the simple truth. Hasdrubal has put all the prisoners to death, and to a horribly cruel death."
The prisoner grew pale. He was young, and life was dear to him. As a Roman, too, he knew the hideous traditions of Carthaginian cruelty. In a few moments he had recovered himself and his voice was firm.
"I can bear," he said, "what my countrymen have borne. Or, if you would make me feel that I have been more fortunate than they, give me back my sword for a moment."
"Hasdrubal's deed is a crime," replied the young Greek, "and I will not make myself an accomplice in it. Your sword I will certainly give you if I can see no other way."
Again he reflected, then his face lighted up. He had thought of a way of escape out of part at least of his difficulty.
"There is another way, and I will ask you to follow it without any questioning. I will certainly not give you up to Hasdrubal, nor will I suffer you to give up your life for mine. Your sacrifice, too, would be useless. Hasdrubal will say, if he should come to know about you, that he wanted you alive, not dead, and will be as furious with me for letting you kill yourself as for letting you escape. So put that thought out of your mind. Now about escape; I have had half a hundred plans in my mind during the last half-hour, but the best, I might say the only one, seems to be this. All Carthage is hard at work on some ramparts of earth that are being made in the rear of the south wall, just where the ground dips a little. Men of all ranks are working at them, and even women and children. All are volunteers, no wages are given, and no questions are asked. You can't miss the place, for there is a steady stream of people going backwards and forwards to it. Most of the men wear a rough sort of workman's tunic. I can give you one, and I can furnish you with a spade. Work on there till it is dark. No one will think it strange, for people who are employed in the day often give two or three hours to work at the ramparts in the night. Then you must take your chance. Bide your time, and drop quietly down from the wall. One thing remember: don't on any account open your mouth. If anyone speaks to you, pretend to be dumb or that you don't understand. And there is one thing more which I ask, not because I think it necessary, but because I shall be able to answer for you better: swear by the oath that in your country you think most binding, that you will give to the besiegers no information as to what you have seen in the city."
The young man swore by Jupiter and the household gods of his own family that he would be absolutely silent on all that he had seen or heard. Shortly afterwards, equipped as Cleanor had described, he took his way to the earthworks. It is needless to say anything more than that, after nightfall, he easily made his escape.
When the day came to an end without any inquiry being made for the prisoner, Cleanor began to hope that the whole affair might escape notice. Just before midnight, however, he received a visit from his Carthaginian friend. "I have only a few moments," said the young man. "First, as to the prisoner—what have you done with him? where is he?"
"In the Roman camp by this time, I hope," replied Cleanor; and proceeded briefly to describe what he had done.
"Well," said the other, "as nothing has been seen or heard of him, he has probably made his escape; and a very lucky thing for him! But now about yourself. Hasdrubal knows, or will know to-morrow morning. One of the soldiers who was with us gave information. I will be even with him some day, the mercenary scoundrel! Happily, the chief was too tipsy to understand what was being told him. But he will be sober to-morrow morning, and then look out for yourself. But what do you mean to do?"
"Do?" replied Cleanor, "nothing, except tell him the truth."
"Well, you don't want for courage. But remember, he is the most merciless brute on earth. Don't flatter yourself that you will find him anything else."
"I have made up my mind. Let him do his worst. But a thousand thanks to you!"
"I wish we had a thousand men such as he in Carthage," muttered the young officer to himself as he went away—"as gentle as he is brave, whereas our people's fancy is to be cruel and cowardly."
Early on the following morning an orderly made his appearance at Cleanor's quarters. "The general understands," he said, "that you have a prisoner in your hands. You are to deliver him up."
Cleanor did not feel himself bound to make any explanation to an orderly, and simply replied that he had no prisoner in his hands.
"Then," said the man, "I am instructed to search your quarters."
"Search, but you will find nothing."
The man searched and went away. An hour or so afterwards he reappeared, this time with a guard of four soldiers. He had instructions, he said, to arrest Cleanor, son of Lysis, an officer of the guards of the south-west wall.
Cleanor surrendered himself without a word, and was at once marched to head-quarters. On his arrival he was handcuffed. Hasdrubal, who had never possessed much personal courage, was accustomed to take this precaution when any prisoner was brought into his presence.
"I have it on good authority," said the general, when Cleanor stood before him, "that you had a Roman prisoner in your hands on the night of the day before last. Why did you not deliver him up at once to the proper authorities?"
"Because he was ill. If this was irregular, I acknowledge my fault."
"Let that pass, then. Where is he now? How was it you suffered him to escape?"
"I did not suffer him to escape; I took care that he should escape."
"What!" cried the general in a furious voice—so far he had succeeded in keeping calm—"what! you deliberately let him go! This is sheer treason! What have you to say?"
"I could not let him be dealt with as the others were dealt with. To have given him up after that would have been a crime."
"What audacity! Who are you, paltry Greek that you are, to make yourself a ruler and a judge in Carthage? That is enough. It is your life for his life. Take him away!" he roared to the guards who had the prisoner in their charge.
Cleanor was taken back to the guard-room, and shortly afterwards transferred from that to a cell in the basement of the house, a squalid, stifling, ill-smelling place, dimly lighted by a strongly-barred aperture in the roof. Here he spent five days. Every morning his jailer opened the door just long enough to put within it a loaf of coarse rye-bread and a flagon of doubtful-looking water. He saw and heard nothing more during the day.
On the sixth day he was again brought before Hasdrubal. The general was, or seemed to be, in a different mood. He affected to be much disturbed at the prisoners squalid appearance, inquired how he had been treated, and when he heard the details declared that his orders had been entirely misunderstood. Cleanor knew exactly how much value was to be attached to these protestations, but prudently kept his counsel and thanked the general for his kind intentions.
"I have been wishing," Hasdrubal continued, "to have some conversation about a matter in which you might be very useful to Carthage, but you are really not fit for it. Let me at all events do what I can to repair this deplorable mistake."
He whispered some instructions to an attendant, and Cleanor was ushered out of the room, being treated with a politeness which was in strong contrast to the rude handling which he had received on the former occasion. He was provided with a bath and a change of clothes, and afterwards sat down to an excellent meal.
Later on in the day he was again summoned into the general's presence. "I cannot but think," said Hasdrubal, "that you were wrong in the matter of the prisoner, but you meant well; yes, you meant well, and it may turn out for the best after all. The prisoner who escaped was a Scipio, was he not?"
"Yes," replied the Greek, "he was a Scipio."
"The Scipios will feel that they owe you something for what you have done.... Does not that seem to give you an opening?"
"I don't understand," replied Cleanor, though he had little doubt, as a matter of fact, what it was that the general wanted.
"There are some things," continued Hasdrubal after a pause, "which I should much like to know, and I would gladly give ten talents to the man who would find them out for me."
"To put it plainly," said Cleanor, "you want me to go as a spy?"
"Well," replied Hasdrubal, "if you choose to put it so—yes."
"I cannot do it," said Cleanor.
"I know that it is a dangerous bit of work; a spy gets no mercy. But then, think—I won't say, of the reward, for I believe that you think little of that—think of the service you may be doing to Carthage."
"It isn't that I refuse to be a spy. A spy's work, I take it, is as lawful and honest as any other. But I am not going to trade on what I did for that young man. That would be base."
Hasdrubal checked himself with some difficulty. He could see that the young Greek was not one to be bullied into compliance; but he did not give up the hope of persuading him.
"Well, well," he said after a pause, "we must talk of this again. Perhaps we may find some way for you to help us without offending your conscience. Farewell for the present; and believe me that I am deeply concerned that you should have been put to inconvenience. It shall not happen again."
Cleanor found his quarters and his fare changed very much for the better. He had now an airy little chamber high up in the house, which commanded a view of the sea. He received a visit from the general's own physician, a countryman of his own, who claimed to be one of the great Æsculapid clan.
"A little reduced," said the man of science, after feeling his pulse and listening to the beats of his heart—"a little reduced, but that is not to be wondered at. I shall not have to exhibit any drug; a generous diet will do all that is wanted. And the general gives you the use of his own private terrace, so that you will not want for fresh air and exercise."
Time now passed pleasantly enough with the young man, though it was irksome to be shut up in idleness while so much was going on. And there was always the anxiety as to what Hasdrubal would do. The tiger was pleased for the time to sheath his claws, but the claws were there, and would be shown some day. Meanwhile he made the best of his position. The physician paid him a daily visit, told him the news of the siege, chatted with him on various subjects, played sundry games of draughts or soldiers,36 and, best of all, lent him some books.
More than once he was summoned to an interview with the general, who, however, did not again introduce the subject of the last meeting, but was always very communicative and friendly, flattering the young man by referring to him sundry military questions, and asking his advice. At the end of a fortnight he was unconditionally released, not a little to his surprise. And his release was followed by reappointment to his old command.
He was not long left in ignorance of the causes which had brought about this unexpected result. The fact was that pressure, which he did not feel able to resist, had been brought to bear upon Hasdrubal. Tyrant and savage as he was, he stood in fear of his soldiers, and could not afford to neglect any strong feeling that they might show. The Greek contingent among the mercenaries was numerous, and constituted the most effective part of the force. With many of these men Cleanor was a personal favourite; most of them knew him by repute, and had heard with sympathy his melancholy story. Among the native Carthaginians also he had not a few well-wishers. Hasdrubal, accordingly, was made to understand that if anything should happen to the young man, it would be strongly resented. His superior officer gave him an outline of these facts, but added, with significant emphasis:
"Be on your guard with him, though that is easier to say than to do. He does not forget or forgive."
CHAPTER XVI.
BAAL HAMMON.
FOR some time after the events related in the last chapter the siege went on without any noticeable incidents. The fighting was nearly continuous, but there was nothing like a pitched battle. The besiegers did not again attempt an assault, nor did the besieged make a sally in force. Scipio's plan was to complete the blockade of the city, and then to await events, reserving his attack till famine and disease had exhausted the strength of the enemy.
The first step was to cut off all communication on the land side. Carthage stood on a peninsula, and Scipio's superiority in the field made him master of the isthmus by which this peninsula was joined to the mainland. This he covered from sea to sea by a huge fortification, which served at the same time for a camp. It had a ditch and a rampart both on the side that looked towards the city, from which it was distant little more than a bow-shot, and on that which faced the mainland. It was necessary, indeed, that it should be defensible both in the front and in the rear. It was one of the most formidable possibilities of the war that the Roman army might be attacked from behind by the native allies of Carthage. Scipio knew—it was a mark of his genius that he knew everything—that the emissaries of the city were unceasing in their efforts to raise an army of auxiliaries among the native tribes of Northern Africa. The wall had, as usual, towers at intervals over its whole length. One of these towers, built in the most solid fashion of stone, was carried up to such a height that it commanded a view of all that was being done within the city walls.
Of course the besieged did not allow this work, threatening as it was to the very existence of their city, to be carried on without interruption. Catapults, posted on the city walls, kept up a continuous discharge of missiles; unceasing showers of stones came from the archers and slingers, while bodies of infantry were kept in readiness to sally forth whenever and wherever they saw an opportunity of doing damage. The Romans had, so to speak, to build and dig with a workman's tool in the one hand and a weapon in the other, but they stuck to their task with indefatigable zeal and inexhaustible courage. The officers shared all the toils and dangers of their men, and the work progressed, not indeed without loss, but without interruption.
Meanwhile the city was in a state of constantly increasing excitement from another cause, not unconnected, however, with the war. The festival of Baal Hammon—otherwise Moloch—was approaching, and it was to be kept with unusual splendour, even, it was said, with rites of worship that had fallen into disuse for many years. For Carthage, though it had much of the unchanging temper of the East, was not wholly untouched by the spirit of progress, and some of the darker and more savage practices of her religion were no longer practised. But now again the fiercer instincts of the race were waking. It was a common topic of talk in the streets that the desperate fortunes of the state called for more effectual methods of propitiating the anger of heaven. Meetings of the Senate were held daily with closed doors, and it was known, though instant death was the appointed penalty of any indiscreet revelation by a senator, that the chief subject of debate was settling the details of the great Moloch feast.
Cleanor, in common with the other Greeks in the population, whether civil or military, heard but little of the matter. It was, in a way, kept from them by their companions and comrades, who knew that they regarded such proceedings without sympathy, not to say, with disgust. In the ordinary course the great day would have come and passed without his knowing anything about it beyond the fact that it was the chief festival of the Carthaginian year. But this was not to be.
He was returning to his quarters somewhat late in the evening, two days before the appointed time, when he felt a hand laid on the sleeve of his tunic, and heard himself called by his name in a voice which somehow seemed familiar, though he could not immediately connect it with any friend or acquaintance. He halted, and turned to the speaker.
It was a woman, poorly clad as far as he could see in the dim light, and of middle age, to judge from what appeared of her veiled and cloaked figure.
"Help, noble Cleanor!"
That strange faculty of remembering voices that most of us have, strange because it is a sheer effort of memory, unhelped by any accessories of shape and colour, did not fail him.
"What! is it you, Theoxena?" he cried.
Theoxena was his foster-mother, the wife of a poor schoolmaster at Chelys, who had been persuaded by her own need and the liberal offers of Cleanor's father to undertake the nurture of one of his twin-children. She had been resident for some years at Carthage, to which city her husband had migrated, tempted by the prospect of more liberal remuneration than he could hope for in his native place.
"Yes, sir, it is I," said the poor woman in a voice broken with tears. "And oh, in such trouble! If you could help me—but come in here. 'Tis but a poor place; but I cannot tell you my story in the street."
Her home was close at hand, and Cleanor followed her in. A poor place it was, but clean and neatly kept, and even with some little marks of taste and culture. In one corner of the room stood a capsa, a cylindrical case for holding manuscript rolls, and above it, on a bracket fastened into the wall, a statuette of Hermes. The chairs were of elegant pattern, though of common wood, and the mats on the floor, though worn and shabby, were of artistic pattern.
"Well, Theoxena," he said, "what is the matter? What can I do for you?"
"Oh, sir!" she answered, commanding her voice with an effort, "they have stolen from me my little Cephalus, the dearest, brightest little boy that ever was, and are going to offer him for a sacrifice to their dreadful Hammon."
"But how do you know? How did it happen?"
"You shall hear the story from Daphne, who was with him when he was stolen."
"And who is Daphne?" asked Cleanor.
Daphne, who had been sitting in a small chamber leading out of the main room, came forward on hearing her name, holding in her hands a piece of tapestry at which she had been working. She was a girl of fourteen or thereabouts, not actually beautiful, perhaps, but with a rare promise of beauty; her figure had something of the awkwardness of the time which comes between childhood and womanhood; her features still wanted that subtle moulding which the last critical years of girlhood seem able to give. But her eyes, blue as a southern sea with a noonday sun above it, were marvellously clear and full of light; her complexion was dazzlingly bright, and all the more striking from its contrast to the generally swarthy hue of the inhabitants of Carthage. Her hair was of a rich red gold colour, and would have been of extraordinary beauty if it had had its natural length. As it was, it was cropped almost close, though here and there a little curl of a new growth had begun to show itself.
"This, sir, is my Daphne," said the woman, laying her hand upon the girl's head. "We are good patriots, I am sure, for the dear girl gave up her beautiful hair—if you will believe me, it used to come down nearly to her ankles—to be made into a string for a bow. The bow-maker said it was the very finest he had had, though all the great ladies in Carthage did the same, I am told. Daphne," she went on, "tell the noble Cleanor about our darling little Cephalus."
"Remember," said the young man, who saw that the girl was trembling excessively, "remember that the noble Cleanor is your brother, even as Theoxena is his mother," and he lifted his foster-mothers hand to his lips and respectfully kissed it.
The girl began her story: "I took my little brother to walk in the garden—the garden, I mean, of Mago the senator, who kindly lets us use it, because the streets are so noisy and crowded, and the people are so rude." Cleanor did not wonder that she attracted more notice than she liked. "There is seldom anybody there; but that day there was an old man who began to pet dear little Cephalus, and give him sweetmeats and cakes. He seemed very kind, and I never dreamt of any harm; and besides, I was there, for I never leave Cephalus alone. Ah! but I did leave him alone that morning, wicked girl that I am." And she burst into a flood of tears. "But then what could I do? Hylax—that is the puppy that Cephalus is so fond of—began to fight with another dog, and Cephalus was frightened, and said, 'He'll be killed! he'll be killed! Do save him, Daphne.' He would himself have run to help, but I was afraid he would be bitten, though that would have been better than what did happen. So I told him to sit still where he was, and I ran to help Hylax. It took me a long time to get hold of him, for he was very angry, and would go on fighting though the other dog was much bigger. And when I looked round, the dear little boy was gone. I hunted all over the garden, and called him a hundred times, but it was no use. Mother hasn't blamed me once, but I can't help feeling that it was my fault."
"But what," asked Cleanor, speaking to Theoxena, "has put this dreadful idea of Hammon into your head?"
"Oh! I know from what my neighbours have told me that there is going to be a sacrifice such as there has not been for years and years, and that a number of children are to be put into the fire. The priests say that there must be a hundred, not one less. Some parents offered their own children—to think that anybody could be so wicked!—and these quite rich and noble people, I am told; but still there were not enough, so others had to be taken by force. Besides, the priests said that there must be children of every race that was in Carthage; and no Greek children could be got except by kidnapping them. And there was something, too, which Daphne did not tell you. She picked up a button where the old man had been sitting, and I have been told by someone who knows that it is of a kind that only the temple servants of Hammon use."
"I see," said Cleanor; "there seems very little doubt that it is so. But don't trouble; you shall have your son again. I have a hundred things to ask you, but that must be for another day; there is no time to be lost now. Farewell!"
The young man had spoken confidently enough to the agonized mother, but when he came to reflect on what he had to do he did not feel by any means confident. All night he was busy with the problem, but seemed, when the morning came, as far off a solution as ever. He could not even think where to go for counsel and help. His Greek comrades would feel with him, but they probably knew no more about the matter than he did. As to his Carthaginian fellow-officers, though he was on the best of terms with them, it was quite useless, and indeed impossible, to approach them. At last an idea occurred to him. The Greek physician who had attended him when he was in Hasdrubal's house might possibly be not only willing, but able to help him. Willing he would certainly be, for he was a Greek; able, possibly, seeing that his practice lay largely among Carthaginians of the highest class.
He lost no time in looking for his friend, and was luckily soon successful in his search.
"I am not surprised," said the physician when he had heard the story. "I knew that something of the kind was going on, though the priests keep it as quiet as they can. I was called in yesterday to see the wife of a senator. She was in a state of prostration, for which I could see no physical cause. Of course I diagnosed mental trouble, and put some questions in that direction. I got nothing but the vaguest answers. Just when I was going away I asked some question about her children. She said nothing, but the next moment she fell into the very worst fit of hysterics I have ever seen. I put two and two together, for I haven't been a doctor for forty years for nothing, and guessed the truth. And afterwards, when I was giving the maid in attendance some directions, I heard it for certain. The poor woman had given up her eldest boy, a beautiful little creature of six, to Moloch. And now about this Greek child. Well, we must not be seen on the street talking together. Come to my house about noon to-morrow, and we will talk it over."
Cleanor was punctual at the appointed time.
"I have been thinking it over," said the physician when he had satisfied himself that he could not be overheard. "And I don't see any chance of success except by bribery. I know where the child is—in the high-priest's house. I was called in two or three days ago to see a child who was ill there. I thought it strange, for the priests have no families. Still, it might be a child of a relative. But it was stranger still when, after I had prescribed for the little fellow and was going away, I heard the voices of other children. Then it was all explained by what I told you this morning. They keep the poor little creatures, when they have got them by persuasion or force, in the high-priest's house. That is one step, then. We know where the boy is. And the next, by great good luck, is made easy for us. The little fellow that I have been attending will certainly die. I feel almost sure that I shall not find him alive when I go this afternoon. Well, I shall have to report his death to the high-priest, who will have to find a substitute for him, and will, I suppose, kidnap another child. That is a horrible thing; but we can't help it. Now for my plan. You must bribe the attendant who will have to remove the child and see to its burial. That will be easy enough. He is a fellow of the lowest class, and will do anything for a score of gold pieces. And you must also bribe the priest who has the business of actually offering the children. That will be a more serious matter. The practice is for the high-priest to offer the first, and to hand over the rest to a subordinate. This is the man you will have to deal with. It isn't that it will be a matter of faith with him. Generally, in my experience—not always, mark that—but generally the nearer the altar the less the faith; and this man I know. But it is a dangerous affair, and, besides, the man can make his own terms. I should say that a hundred gold pieces will be wanted. Now, can you manage that? It isn't every young officer that has a hundred gold pieces to spare. I can help you a little, but a physician's fees are small and hard to come by."
"A thousand thanks!" said Cleanor, "but I have as much as will be wanted."
"Come again after dark," the physician went on. "You will have to settle with the men, for I must not appear in the matter, but I will arrange a way for you to see them."
"Everything is going as well as possible," said the physician when the two met again. "As I expected, the child was dead. And here I have made a little change in our plans. I thought that it might make complications if two were engaged in the affair. And the priest might object if he found his secret shared by an attendant of far inferior rank. It might mean, he would say, endless blackmailing. What I did, then, was to tell the man that there was something very strange about the child's illness, that I wanted to discover the real cause, and that I would give him a couple of gold pieces—to offer him more would have been suspicious—if he would let me have the body. That is disposed of, then. Now for the priest. He comes here to-night; he has long been a patient of mine, and he wants to see me. The fellow, who is one of the hardest drinkers in Carthage, would have been dead long ago but for me. You will see him, and tell him what he is to do, which, in a word, is to put a dead child for a living one, and what you will give him for doing it. That is the naked truth, but you will wrap it up as you think best."