From this height Actæon looked down upon the broad city, a wave of roofs between the seven hills, invading the heights and dispersing through the deep valleys. Almost at the side of the Palatine rose the Capitolium, the great fortress of Rome, on the naked crags of the Tarpeian rock, and the Greek passed from the summit of one to that of the other to examine the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, more famous than beautiful.
He turned his back on the rude temple of Mars, which occupied the highest point of the Palatine, and following a path between abrupt rocks he crossed to the Capitoline. On his way he met the priests of Jupiter, walking with sacerdotal rigidity as if ever offering sacrifices to their god. He saw the vestals wrapped in their flowing white veils, marching with a sturdy tread. Some milites were climbing up to the temple of Mars, their broad breasts encased in overlapping bands of copper, their bare thighs covered by strips of wool hanging from the waist; one hand resting on the pommel of their short swords while they talked with enthusiasm of the coming Illyrian campaign, without thought of the situation of their allies in Iberia.
Actæon entered the sacred precincts of the Capitoline, surrounded by frowning ramparts. It was the ancient mount Tarpeius, with its two summits united by an extensive flat. The higher part which lay toward the north was occupied by the Arx or citadel of Rome; on the south was the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, surrounded by massive columns.
The Greek entered the citadel, famous for its resistance during the invasion of the Gauls. On the margin of a pool before the temples huddled within the strong enclosure he saw the sacred birds—the geese which with their cackling in the silence of the night had protected Rome from the surprise of the invaders. Then he crossed the depression which divides the hill into two parts, and approached the great fane of Rome.
A stairway of a hundred steps led to the temple, constructed in the time of the last Tarquin in honor of the three divinities of Rome—Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva. The building consisted of three cellæ or parallel sanctuaries, with three doors opening beneath the same pediment. The one in the centre was sacred to Jupiter, and the smaller ones on either side to the two goddesses. A triple row of columns sustained the pediment, which was decorated with prancing horses coarsely sculptured. Two rows of columns ran down the sides of the temple forming a portico, in the shade of which the eldest Roman citizens strolled, discussing the affairs of the city.
The temple had been built by artists called from Etruria, and under the colonnade were statues acquired by the expeditions to Sicily and as a result of the many wars carried on by Rome. This rude nation was incapable of producing artists, but it had soldiers to supply it with art by means of war and loot.
The Athenian entered the sanctuary in the centre dedicated to Jupiter, and he saw the image of the god in terra cotta, holding a golden lance in his right hand. Before him continually smoked the Altar of Sacrifices. On leaving the temple he glanced at the gnomon or sundial, which at that height marked the time for all Rome.
It was now the hour to go to the Senaculum, the ancient building at the foot of the Tarpeian peak between the Capitolium and the Forum, which many years later was converted into the temple of Concord. On the steps which gave access to the temple Actæon met the two legates sent by Saguntum before the siege began; two old farmers who had gone away from home for the first time, and who seemed to be dazed by their long months of waiting in Rome, with their audiences which never terminated, and with their interviews and resultless supplications. The two perturbed Saguntines, impotent before a city which never responded definitely to their words, followed like automata the self-confident Greek who went everywhere as if he were in his own house, and who spoke many languages as if the entire world were his country.
The senators began to arrive. Some came from their business in the city and presented themselves garbed in the white toga with purple border, followed by their clients who turned their gaze in all directions as if to attract public attention to their majestic protector. Others came from the country, drawing up their carts before the steps of the Senaculum, and, handing the reins to a slave, ascended to the temple with their togas flung over their arms, dressed in the short cloak of coarse wool worn by farmers, and emitting the odors of their stables and crops. They were mature men who displayed in the firmness of their strong muscles the activity of their life of continued struggle with the soil and with enemies; old men with long beards and wizened faces, tremulous with age, who still revealed in their unflinching eyes reliance on their departing strength. The crowd from the Forum, surging toward the steps of the Senaculum, watched them with admiration and respect. They were the fathers of the Republic, the heads of Rome.
The two legates from Saguntum walked up the temple steps. Under the columns which sustained the pediment were numberless piles of loot from the last wars, deposited by the conquerors as they paraded through the Forum before the multitude, which had hailed them, waving branches of laurel. Actæon saw shields pierced by iron swords, rusted by blood; war-chariots with broken tongues, the gilded wheels bespattered with the mud of battles. They were spoils from the war with the Samnites. Farther on, standing along the wall, a row of hideous wooden dwarfs, dyed red and blue, stripped from the prows of Carthaginian ships after the great victory at the Ægates Islands; iron bars which had closed the gates of many cities conquered by the Romans; the golden standards decorated with fantastic animals which led the troops of Pyrrhus; the enormous tusks of the elephants which this descendent of Achilles had marched against the legions of Rome; the horned or eagle-winged helmet of the Ligurians; the darts of Alpine tribes, and, beside the door, as a trophy of honor, the armor of the glorious Camillus, paraded in triumph by the city after this great Roman had driven the Gauls from the Capitol. Along the walls, as a strange decoration, hung a long dark tissue, crisp as parchment. It was the skin of the great serpent which for a whole day held back the army of Atilius Regulus, when on his expedition to Africa he was marching to the conquest of Carthage. The horrible monster, insensible to arrows, devoured many soldiers before it succumbed beneath a shower of stones, and Regulus sent the reptile's skin to Rome as a testimony of the adventure.
The envoys from Saguntum had a tedious wait before a centurion ushered them into the Senaculum.
The Greek, sweeping his glance over the semicircle, was perturbed by the majesty of the assemblage. He recalled the entrance of the Gauls into Rome; the stupefaction of the barbarians in the presence of those Elders, firm in their marble chairs, wrapped like phantoms in their snowy garments which left uncovered only their silvery beards; their ivory staves held with a divine majesty, revealed again in the gleam from their steady eyes. None but barbarians intoxicated with blood-lust would dare to assault men of such patriarchal dignity.
They numbered more than two hundred. Between them were vacant seats of senators unable to attend, and over the concentric rows of marble chairs the white togas spread out like newly fallen snow upon a crust of ice. Behind them stood a row of columns in a semicircle, sustaining the cupola through which filtered a crepuscular light which seemed to favor meditation and concentration of the mind. A low stone balustrade surrounded the semicircle, and beyond it were grouped important citizens who had not the investiture of senators. In the centre the barrier was broken by a square pedestal sustaining the bronze she-wolf with the twins hanging to her dugs, and on the base in great letters, the device of supreme authority in Rome: "S.P.Q.R." A tripod sustained a brazier before the pedestal, and over the embers floated a blue cloud of incense.
The three legates seated themselves in marble chairs near the image of the wolf, before the triple row of white and motionless men.
Some rested their chins in their hands as if to hear better.
They might speak; the Senate would hear them; and Actæon, moved by the supplicating glances of his two companions, arose. In his mind impressions did not linger long; he had recovered from the emotion produced at first by the majesty of the assemblage.
He spoke deliberately, taking care, after the manner of a true Greek, to avoid lapses of style in expressing himself in that rude tongue, endeavoring to give to his words the emotion which he wished to inspire in the representatives of Rome. He described the desperate resistance of Saguntum, and her confidence in the support of the Republic, that blind faith which had inspired her people to hurl themselves outside the walls and repulse the enemy at the mere announcement that the Roman fleet had appeared upon the horizon. When he left the city it still had supplies for subsistence and courage to defend itself. But much time had elapsed since then—nearly two whole months. The ambassador had been compelled to make his way amidst adventures and perils, sometimes by sea, taking advantage of the routes of the merchant ships, again on foot along the coasts, and at this moment the situation of the city must be desperate. Saguntum would fall if they did not go to her succor, and what a responsibility for Rome if she abandoned her protégé after the latter had drawn Hannibal's enmity upon her for wishing to be Roman! How could other nations rely on the friendship of Rome when they knew the sad end of Saguntum!
The Greek ceased speaking, and the painful silence which fell over the Senate revealed the profound impression his words had made.
Then Lentulus, an aged senator, arose to speak. The sharp voice of the old man penetrated the silence as he told of the origin of Saguntum, which if it were Grecian on account of the merchants of Zacynthus having established their factories there, was also Italian on account of the Rutulians from Ardea who had gone thither in remote times to found a colony. Moreover Saguntum was the friend of Rome. To be more faithful to her she had beheaded some of her citizens who had worked in the cause of Carthage. What audacity for that young man, a son of Hamilcar, to ignore the treaties of Rome with Hasdrubal, and to dare to raise his sword against a city friendly to the Romans! If Rome looked with indifference upon this offense Hamilcar's lion-cub would grow in temerity, for youth knows no bridle when it sees its imprudence crowned by success. Moreover, the great city could not tolerate such daring. Outside, at the door of the Senaculum were the glorious trophies of war as a demonstration that he who revolted against Rome should fall conquered at her feet. They must be inexorable with the enemy and faithful to the ally; they must carry the war into Iberia and destroy the reckless one who defied Rome.
All the choler of the gloomy city, warlike and severe, spoke through the mouth of the aged man, who extended his rigid arm above his companions' heads, threatening the invisible enemy. The soldierly vigor of the veteran of ancient wars against the Samnites and against Pyrrhus, was aroused for a moment in the weak old man, and thrilled his muscles and caused his eyes to flash.
Actæon's two companions, who did not understand the Latin tongue, nevertheless divined Lentulus' words, and they were filled with emotion by the eulogy of the self-abnegation of their city. Tears streamed from their eyes, they rent the dark mantles in which they were clad as solemn messengers, and throwing themselves to the floor to express the vehemence of their grief after the custom of the ancients, they shouted, sobbing:
"Save us! Save us!"
The desperation of the two old men, and the dignified attitude of the Greek, who, frowning and silent, seemed the personification of Saguntum awaiting the fulfillment of pledges, moved the Senate and the multitude that surged outside the balustrade of the she-wolf. All were agitated and were exchanging words of indignation. Beneath the cupola of the Senaculum resounded a disorderly buzzing, the echo of a thousand mingled voices. They clamored for the Senate to declare instant war against Carthage, to call out the legions, to make ready the ships, to embark an expedition in the port of Ostia, and to hurl Rome against the camp of Hannibal.
A senator called for silence that he might speak. It was Fabius, one of the most famous patricians of Rome, the descendent of those three hundred heroes of that famous gens destroyed in a single day fighting for Rome on the banks of the Cremera. Prudence spoke through his mouth; his counsels were ever followed as being wisest; on this account the Senate recovered its calmness as soon as it saw that he had arisen to his feet.
With reposeful language, after lamenting the situation of the allied city, he said that it was not known whether it were Carthage that had broken into hostilities against Saguntum, or whether Hannibal had done so on his own account. A war in Iberia would be a grave matter for Rome, now that she was going to begin a nearer struggle with the rebel Demetrius of Pharos. It would be advisable to send an embassy to Hannibal in his camp, and if the African refused to raise the siege, let it go to Carthage to ask if its rulers approved the chieftain's conduct, and to demand that the latter be turned over to Rome in punishment for his audacity.
This solution seemed to please the Senate. Those who a few moments before had shown themselves warlike and uncompromising bowed their heads as if approving the words of Fabius. The thought of the insurrection in Illyria counseled prudence to the most violent. They remembered the enemy who was rising almost at their doors across the Adriatic, and who, with their fleets given over to piracy, might attempt an invasion of Roman territory. Egoism caused them to look upon this enterprise as more important than any oath, and in order to deceive themselves and to hide their own weakness, they exaggerated the importance of the embassy to Hannibal's camp declaring that the African would raise the siege and ask pardon of Rome as soon as he saw the Senatorial legates arrive.
Actæon received this change on the part of the assemblage with visible signs of impatience.
"I know Hannibal well," he shouted. "He will not obey you; he will scoff at you! If you do not send an army the journey of your legates will be useless!"
But the senators, eager to conceal the weakness to which their egoism drove them, protested loudly against the words of Actæon. Who spoke of scoffing at the Republic of Rome? Who imagined that Hannibal would scorn the envoys of the Senate? Let the stranger maintain silence—he who was not even a son of the city in whose name he spoke.
Actæon bowed his head. Then, turning to his aged companions, who did not understand the resolution of the Senate, he murmured: "Our city is lost! Rome fears to declare war against Hannibal and delays the clash of arms. When they become ready to help us Saguntum will no longer exist!"
The three Saguntine legates received an order to retire. The senators were about to appoint two patricians who should go as envoys of Rome.
As they left the Senaculum the eldest of the senators addressed Actæon:
"Tell your companions to prepare for the journey. To-morrow at sunset you will embark with the legates of the Senate in the port of Ostia."
CHAPTER IX
THE HUNGRY CITY
The trireme conveying the Roman legates had been on her voyage more than fifteen days.
She had sailed up the coasts of the Tyrrhenian Sea; she had then crossed the Sea of Liguria, bound by abrupt coasts, and had passed before Massilia, the prosperous Grecian colony, also allied to Rome. Then, audaciously crossing the broad gulf, she had turned her prow toward Emporion, and had skirted the coasts of Iberia.
The ambassadors from Rome were the patricians Valerius Flaccus, one of those who desired to maintain the peace with prudent words, and Bæbius Tamphilus who enjoyed the love of the Roman plebs because of his sympathy for their sufferings.
Actæon displayed impatience to reach Saguntum. He wished to confer with his friends and avoid the useless sacrifice of the city, explaining to them the mood of Rome so that they should not persist in a useless defense. For seven months Saguntum had held out in strenuous resistance. Autumn had not yet commenced when Hannibal's army had appeared before the city, and it was now near the end of winter.
The Greek reflected sadly upon the fond illusions he had cherished while making his adventurous and perilous way to Rome. He had hoped that his presence in the great city, and his story of the sufferings of the faithful ally, would arouse the Romans, and that the legions would shout for vengeance——but he was returning without soldiers, in a ship with ambassadors feigning interest in Saguntum but not deeply moved by her misfortunes——returning without other support than high-sounding, impotent words, and a bronze wolf on the end of a staff proclaiming the dignity of the embassy.
What of the enthusiastic and credulous multitude fighting on the walls, filling the yawning breach with their unflinching breasts, and who to gather fresh courage only needed to imagine the coming of the Romans!——What would they say? Then, with a sudden turn of thought, what of Sónnica, she so brave, sending him that he might save the city! How could she, accustomed to a life of luxury and ease, live in the misery and horror of that siege, which had endured until the stores of the city must be consumed, and the energy of its defenders exhausted!
The ship left the mouth of the Ebro, and struggling against contrary winds, at length, one morning, sighted the Acropolis of Saguntum. From the tall tower of Hercules shot up a cloud of smoke in greeting! They had recognized the vessel by the square rigging of the Roman men-of-war.
The sun was in the zenith when the ship, with reefed sails, and driven by the triple bank of oars, stood into the channel which gave entrance to the port of Saguntum. Within the harbor, above the reeds waving in the marshes, rose the masts of Carthaginian vessels anchored in the triple port.
The crew of the Roman ship beheld great troops of horsemen galloping along the beach. They were squadrons of Numidians and Mauritanians, waving their lances and uttering war cries as when charging in battle.
One horseman, with bronze armor and uncovered head, had called to them to heave to. Advancing alone, he urged his horse into the channel, approaching the ship until the waters rose to the animal's belly.
Actæon recognized him.
"That is Hannibal," he said to the two legates standing beside him on the poop, who were watching with astonishment the bellicose character of their reception before they had even cast anchor in the port of Saguntum.
Fresh squadrons continued to arrive, as if the news of the coming ship had spread alarm through the camp, attracting all the troops to the port. Behind the cavalry came the fierce Celtiberians at full speed, the Balearic slingers, all the foot-soldiers, of diverse races who figured in the besieging army.
Hannibal, even at the risk of drowning, pressed his horse forward into the waters of the channel to make himself heard on the ship, and ordering them to stop he held up his hand so imperiously that in an instant the oars dropped motionless along the hull.
"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked in Greek.
Actæon interpreted between the Romans and the Carthaginian chief.
"They are legates from Rome, coming to see you in the name of the Republic."
"Who are you, speaking to me in a voice that I seem to know?"
He shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked keenly until he recognized the Greek.
"Is it you, Actæon? Always you, restless Athenian! I thought you were within the city, yet you have managed to slip away to bring these men to me. Well and good! Tell them it is too late. Why waste words? A chieftain who lays siege to a city only receives ambassadors after he is inside the walls."
The Greek repeated Hannibal's words to the Romans, translating their replies.
"Listen, African!" said Actæon to Hannibal. "The envoys from Rome remind you of the friendship which they have contracted with Saguntum. In the name of the Senate and the Roman people they call upon you to raise the siege and to respect the city."
"Tell them that Saguntum has offended me, and that she was first in declaring war by sacrificing my friends and by refusing to respect my allies, the Turdetani."
"That is not true, Hannibal."
"Greek, repeat what I say to the Romans."
"The legates wish to land. They must speak to you in the name of Rome."
"It is useless. They cannot make me desist from my enterprise. Moreover, the siege has lasted long, the troops are excited and a camp like mine, composed of ferocious peoples from many countries, who are only restrained when in my presence, is no safe place for ambassadors from Rome. We had a battle only a few hours ago, and they are still fuming with wrath."
As he said this he turned toward his troops, and, as if taking the movement for an order, or perhaps divining in the eyes of their chieftain his hidden purpose, they advanced into the water as if to attack by swimming against the ship. Horsemen threatened with lances still dyed in the blood of recent battle; they raised their shields, on which the more savage Africans had hung as trophies the scalps of Saguntines killed in the last sally. The Balearians showed their white teeth in stupid grins, and taking clay balls from their pouches, they directed sling-shots against the Roman vessel.
"Do you see?" shouted Hannibal with satisfaction. "It is impossible to receive the legates in my camp. It is too late to talk. There is nothing left but for Saguntum to give herself up to me in punishment for her crimes."
The legates, scorning the projectiles from the slings, leaned over the side of the ship, thrusting forward their bodies covered by their togas, with an arrogance which seemed to defy the savage warriors.
Indignation at being received with such scorn blanched their cheeks.
"African!" shouted one of the legates in Latin, heedless that Hannibal could not understand, "since you will not receive the envoys from Rome we shall go on to Carthage to demand that they turn your person over to us for breaking the treaties of Hasdrubal. Rome will punish you when you become our prisoner!"
"What does he say? What does he say?" growled Hannibal enraged at the incomprehensible words in which he surmised a threat.
When Actæon explained, the chieftain burst into a loud laugh of derision.
"Go, Romans!" he shouted. "Go thither! The rich hate me and they would be glad to grant your demands and turn me over to the enemy; but the people love me, and there is no man in Carthage who dares to come into the bosom of my army to make me prisoner."
Arrows rained around the ship; clay balls rebounded from her sides, and the Roman pilot gave the order to recede. The oars moved and the vessel slowly began to put about, and dropped down the channel.
"But are we going to Carthage?" asked the Greek.
"Yes, in Carthage they will hear us better," replied one of the legates. "After what has taken place, either the Senate there will turn Hannibal over to us, or Rome will declare war on Carthage."
"You may go, Romans, but my duty lies here."
Before the two senators and the legates from Saguntum, who had witnessed the former scene with astonishment, could interfere, the Athenian flung one leg over the rail and sprang head first into the channel. He swam under water for some time, then came up, floating near the bank, to which the cavalry and foot-soldiers had rushed to take him prisoner.
Before his feet touched ground Actæon was surrounded by a horde of slingers who rushed into the water up to their middles to take possession of his clothing without having to divide it among their comrades. In an instant they tore off his Celtiberian sword, the pouch hanging from his belt, and a gold chain which he wore on his breast in memory of Sónnica. They were about to strip him of his traveling tunic, leaving him naked, and he had begun to receive blows from the barbarous and cruel crowd, when Hannibal rode up and recognized him.
"You have preferred to stay! I am glad of that. After having wrought me so much damage from the walls of Saguntum you have repented and you have come to join with me. I ought to leave you in the hands of these barbarians who would rend you to pieces; I ought to crucify you outside my camp so that that Greek woman whom you love could shudder at you; but I remember the promise I made you, and I shall keep it, and welcome you as a friend."
He ordered one of his officials to cover the Greek's wet garments with an endromis, a military cloak of long hair with a hood, worn by soldiers over their armor in winter. Then he bade him mount a Numidian's horse.
They took up their march toward the camp. The troops who had rushed to the entrance of the port slowly returned, while the ship fast dropped the land, spreading her glowing sails. On the Acropolis the smoke had dissipated, leaving only a few light clouds floating in the breeze. From afar one could guess the disappointment felt in the city by the unexpected flight of the Roman ship. With her seemed to vanish the last hope of the besieged. Hannibal's troops, as they retired, commented on the scene at the entrance to the port between their chief and the envoys from Rome. They did not understand the words which had been exchanged; but the energetic accent of the Roman as he spoke to Hannibal seemed to them a threat. Some, pretending that they had understood the ambassador, repeated an imaginary discourse in which the threat was made in the name of Rome to cut the throats of the whole army and to stretch Hannibal on a cross. They repeated these threats, each swelling them with inventions of his own, and when the troops met other detachments on the Road of the Serpent or in different parts of the valley, all declared they had seen the chains which the Roman legates displayed from the ship, and in which they expected to take their chieftain prisoner, and a howl of rage arose from the hosts of Hannibal.
The African was flattered at the flood-tide of indignation surging around him. The soldiers, barring his way, acclaimed him with greater enthusiasm; he heard voices in every tongue crying death to Rome, calling upon the chieftain to make the final assault upon the city, to take possession of it before the ambassadors should reach Carthage and plot the downfall of the youthful hero.
"Take care of yourself, Hannibal!" said an old Celtiberian planting himself before his horse. "Your enemies in Carthage, Hanno's faction, will unite with Rome to work your ruin."
"The people love me," said the chieftain, arrogantly. "Before the Carthaginian Senate hears the Romans, Saguntum will be ours, and the Carthaginians will acclaim our triumph."
With saddened heart Actæon beheld the desolation of the fields which used to be so joyous and so fertile. There were no other ships in the port but men-of-war from New Carthage. The seamen slept in the fane of Aphrodite after having rifled the temple of its valuables. The warehouses had been pillaged and destroyed; the wharves covered with filth; in the fields not a vestige of the ancient villas remained. The ferocity of the barbarian tribes from the interior, their hatred for the Greeks of the coast, had incited them to even tear up the multicolor pavements and to scatter the fragments. The whole valley was an immense, desolated plain. Not a tree was standing. To combat the cold of winter they had felled the groves of fig trees, the broad plantations of olives, the stocks of the grapevines of the vineyards, destroying even the houses to warm themselves with the rafters from the roofs. Nothing remained standing but ruined walls and low shrubbery. A fungoid vegetation which grew rapidly, fertilized by bodies of men and animals, extended over the valley, obliterating the ancient roads, creeping up the ruins, and choking the beds of the streams which, their irrigating ditches broken, scattered their waters until the low fields were converted into ponds.
It was the devastating work of a continually swelling army composed of a hundred and eighty thousand men and of many thousands of horses. In a short time they had devoured the Saguntine domain. The soldiers after destroying all that was not of immediate use, extended their rapacity to surrounding zones, constantly broadening their radius of destruction as the siege was prolonged.
Supplies now came from a distance of many days' journey; sent by remote tribes in the hope of a reward of booty which Hannibal knew how to instill into their minds, telling them of the riches of Saguntum. The elephants had been sent to New Carthage some months before, as they were useless in the siege and difficult to maintain in this devastated region.
Over the domain flew crows in undulating black clouds. From the thicket rose the stench of rotting horses and mules. By the roadsides, their members pinned to the ground by rocks, lay the bodies of barbarians put to death because of hopeless wounds, and whose bodies their compatriots, according to the customs of their race, left abandoned to the birds of prey. The immense agglomeration had vitiated the atmosphere of the valley. They lived in the open, and yet, the filth of the multitude, and the vapors of death, seemed disseminated between the mountains and the sea as a heavy atmosphere replete with sickness and death.
Actæon, coming from a distance, was the more sensitive to this stench of the camp, and he thought of the beleaguered people with sadness. Looking toward the city he guessed the horrors hidden behind those reddish walls after a resistance of seven months.
They approached the camp. The Greek saw that this concentration of military forces had assumed the aspect of a permanent city. Few tents of canvas or of skins were left. The winter, which now was drawing to a close, had compelled the besiegers to construct stone huts with thatched roofs, and wooden houses which looked like towers and served as supports to the earthworks thrown up roundabout the camp.
Hannibal, as if reading Actæon's thought, smiled savagely while his eyes swept the work of destruction wrought by his army outside the city.
"You find all this greatly changed, eh, Actæon?"
"I see that your troops have not been idle while you were off punishing the rebels in Celtiberia."
"Maherbal, my chief of cavalry, is an excellent aide. When I returned he showed me two of the walls of Saguntum destroyed, and a part of the city in our power. Do you see that citadel near the Acropolis, inside the walled district? Well, that is ours. The catapults, which you can see from here, shoot into Saguntum, which has become reduced to half its former size—and they still dream of defending themselves! They still hope for auxiliaries from Rome! Stubborn brutes! They have constructed a line of walls for the third time, and thus they have gone on losing ground and persisting in the defense until nothing is left to them but the Forum, where I shall knife every man, woman, and child whom I find alive—O, proud and indomitable city! I will make you my slave!"
The African turned to his old-time companion and changed the conversation.
"Your eyes are opened at last, and you have come to me. Are you going to follow me with enthusiasm? Will you join me in that series of enterprises of which I spoke to you one day at sunrise here on this very road? Perhaps you will become a king because of having followed Hannibal, as did Ptolemy following Alexander. Are you resolved?"
Actæon hesitated a moment before replying, and Hannibal read indecision in his eyes—the desire to deceive.
"Do not lie, Greek; lies are for enemies, or for preserving life. I am your friend, and I have promised to respect your safety. Can it be that you do not mean to follow me?"
"Well, of a truth, I do not," said the Greek with resolution. "I wish to return to the city, and if you truly have affection for the companion of your youth, let me go."
"But you will perish inside that city! Do not expect mercy if we force our entrance through the breach!"
"I shall die," said the Athenian simply, "but there, inside those walls, are men who received me as a compatriot when I was wandering hungry over the world; there is a woman who took me in when I was poor, and gave me love and riches. They sent me to Rome that I might bring them a word of hope, and I must return, even though it be only to give them sorrow and pain. What does it matter if you set me free? To-morrow perhaps you can kill me. I shall be one more mouth to feed, and surely hunger must reign in Saguntum. Perhaps when I tell them the truth, when they see me return without assistance, their courage may weaken and they may give up the town to you. Let me pass through the lines, Hannibal; with this, it may be that without desiring to do so, I shall forward your plans."
Hannibal looked at him in surprise.
"Madman! I never believed an Athenian capable of such a sacrifice. You are such a light-hearted people, so given to perfidy, so false when you wish to satisfy your egoism! You are the first Greek I ever found faithful to the city which adopted him. Carthage had worse luck with the mercenaries from your country! It is impossible to make anything of you; you are only half a man! Love overmasters you; you are not satisfied as I am with the woman who wanders around the camp, or whom one takes when a city is assaulted and afterwards turns over to the soldiers. You bind yourself to a woman, you become her slave, and you seek an inglorious death in a dark corner of the world, like a mercenary in the service of a handful of merchants, merely for the sake of seeing her again. Go, madman, go! I give you your liberty—I wish to hear no more about you. I was ready to make you a hero and you answer me like a slave. Go in to Saguntum, but know that the protection of Hannibal abandons you from this moment. If you fall into my hands inside the city you will be my prisoner, never my friend!"
Digging his heels into his horse's ribs, Hannibal dashed into his camp, contemptuously turning his back upon the Greek. In a moment a young Carthaginian approached, who, without a word, nor even a glance at him, grasped his bridle-reins and proceeded toward Saguntum.
As they gained the outposts of the besieging army the Carthaginian pronounced a word and Actæon passed on amid the hostile gaze of the soldiers who had heard of the scene at the port, and were clamoring with rage, thinking of the chains which the legates from Rome had the insolence to show to their chief. That Greek who was about to enter the besieged city must have been a companion of the legates, and many placed an arrow in the bow to shoot at him, but were restrained by a cold and haughty glance from the young Carthaginian who spoke in the name of Hannibal.
They arrived at the ruins of the first walled quarter. The van of the besieging army was within the shelter of the walls. The Greek dismounted, and breaking a thorny branch from a bush he walked on, holding it aloft as a signal of peace.
He stood before the wall which had been built under his direction one night to hold back the invader. Upon it he saw the helmets of only a few defenders. The besieger was directing his attacks against the upper part. That side of the city where the early battles had taken place was almost abandoned. The guardians on the wall greeted Actæon with loud shouts of surprise and joy, and they lowered a rope of esparto to help him climb up by means of the rough places on the wall, until he could enter through a crenel near the top. All surrounded the Greek eagerly. It seemed as if he were in the presence of spectres. Their bodies appeared ready to slip out of their ample armor; their faces, sad, yellow, parchment-like, were hidden beneath the visors of their helmets; their fleshless, wrinkled hands could barely sustain their weapons, and a strange, golden effulgence glowed in their eyes.
Actæon parried their flood of questions with kind words of encouragement. He would speak opportunely; he must first render an account of his mission to the Elders of the Senate. They must be calm; before night they should know all. Filled with commiseration in the presence of these heroes, he lied mercifully, declaring that Rome would not forget Saguntum, and that he had come in advance of the legions sent by the allies.
From the houses nearby, from the streets close to the wall, issued men and women drawn by news of the arrival of the Greek. They surrounded him, they questioned him; all wished to be first to receive the news to scatter it through the city. Defending himself from them, Actæon gazed with horror at their lean, yellow faces, their earthy skin outlining the prominent sutures of their skulls; their sunken eyes in their black orbits shining with an unearthly light, like fading stars reflected in the depths of a well, and their emaciated arms, which creaked like canes as they moved them with nervous emotion.
He started onward, escorted by the multitude, preceded by boys absolutely nude, horrible to look at, with skins ready to break from the pressure of their ribs outlined one above the other, with enormously large heads above their fleshless necks. They staggered painfully, as if their tottering, thread-like limbs could not bear the weight of their bodies; some, to lessen their suffering, dragged themselves along the ground, lacking the strength to stand.
Actæon beheld a deserted corpse lying in a corner, the face covered with strange flies which glinted in the sunshine with metallic reflections. Farther on at a cross street, some women were trying to raise to his feet a naked youth beside whom lay his abandoned bow. The Greek noted with horror his sunken, inward-curving abdomen, a palpitating whirlpool of skin between the protruding hip bones which threatened to burst from the body. It was a mummy still showing a flickering spark of life in the eyes, opening and shutting its parched and blackened lips as if feeding on the unnourishing air.
He continued on his way down the lengthy streets, but no more people joined the group. The doors of many houses remained closed, despite the clamor of the crowd, and Actæon contrasted this solitude with the great multitude of people during the early days of the siege. Dead dogs lying in the gullies, as emaciated as the people themselves, polluted the atmosphere. At street crossings lay skeletons of horses and mules, clean and white, holding not even a scrap of flesh to satisfy the repugnant insects buzzing in the atmosphere of the doomed city.
With his gift of keen observation, the Greek's attention was fixed by the warriors' weapons. He saw only cuirasses of metal; those made of leather had disappeared. The shields displayed their texture of osier or bull-tendon, destitute of their coverings of hide. In one corner he saw two old men fighting over a black and stringy morsel; it was a bit of crow boiled in water. Many two-storied houses had been demolished to obtain stones for use in the new wall which barred the advance of the enemy.
Desolating hunger had swept everything with cruel touch. Even the most fetid and repugnant matter had been turned to account. It was as if the besiegers had already broken into the city and had carried off everything of worth, leaving nothing but the buildings behind as silent witnesses to their rapine. Hunger and death stalked hand in hand beside the desperate Saguntines.
On approaching the Forum a woman pushed her way through the people toward the Greek and flung her arms around his neck.
"Actæon, my love!" cried Sónnica.
The privations of the siege had left deep marks upon her. She did not present the appearance of extreme emaciation as did most, but she was thin and pale, her nose sharpened, her cheeks transmitting an interior light, the arms which clung to him thin and hot with fever. A blue circle surrounded her eyes, and her rich tunic hung loose in empty folds; her body, in growing thinner, seemed to have gained in height.
"Actæon——my love!" she cried again, "I had lost hope of ever seeing you! Bless you, bless you for coming back!"
She walked beside him, one of her arms around his neck. The multitude looked upon Sónnica with veneration; she had sacrificed herself for the poor, sharing with them each day the shrinking supplies of her store-houses.
Actæon recognized Euphobias the philosopher in the crowd, his garments more ragged than ever, almost naked, but with an appearance of relative vigor which contrasted strangely with the starving appearance of the majority. Lachares and the elegant young friends of Sónnica bowed to him from a distance with a distraught expression. They had the look of starving men, but they concealed their pallor beneath rouge and other cosmetics, and they wore their richest vestments as if to console themselves for their privations with the pomp of useless luxury. The young slave boys who accompanied them moved their emaciated limbs, covered by gold-embroidered garments, and gazing at their pendants of pearls, they yawned painfully. The crowd halted in the Forum. The Elders had gathered in the temple near the quadrangle. Above, on the Acropolis, the Carthaginians who occupied a part of the hill, kept up a continual bombardment, and great stones from the catapults fell constantly. Some of these reached the Forum, and the roofs of many houses and walls were pierced and shattered by the enormous projectiles.
Actæon entered the temple alone. The number of Ancients had diminished. Some had died, victims of hunger and pestilence; others, with juvenile ardor, had rushed forth to defend the walls, and there encountered death. The prudent Alcon seemed to enjoy great ascendancy, and he figured at the head of the assembly. Events had justified the prudence which had caused him in other days to declare against the warlike enterprises of the city and their fondness for alliances.
"Speak, Actæon," said Alcon. "Tell us the truth, the whole truth! After the misfortunes the gods have already sent us, we can bear even greater."
The Greek looked at the men, wrapped in their flowing mantles, holding their tall staves of authority, awaiting his words with an anxiety which they made an effort to conceal behind majestic calmness.
He related his audience by the Roman Senate; he told of the caution which had impelled it to favor conciliatory measures; of the arrival of the legates off Saguntum; of their extraordinary reception by Hannibal, and of the departure of the ambassadors for Carthage to demand the punishment of the chieftain and desistance from the siege of Saguntum.
As the sad tale proceeded the calmness of the Elders gradually dissipated. Some, more violent, arose to their feet and rent their garments, crying aloud with grief; others, in their excitement, beat their foreheads with clenched fists, raging with fury on hearing that Rome had not sent her legions; and the eldest among them, without sacrificing their dignity, wept unashamed, allowing their tears to stream down their fleshless cheeks into their snowy beards.
"They have forsaken us!"
"It will be too late when help arrives!"
"Saguntum will perish before the Romans can reach Carthage!"
The assemblage remained long in a state of desperation. Some, motionless in their seats from weakness, implored the gods to let them die ere they should behold the downfall of their people.
It seemed as if the hordes of Hannibal were already clamoring at the temple doors.
"Restrain yourselves, Elders!" admonished Alcon. "Remember that the citizens of Saguntum stand waiting outside these walls. If they suspect your despair, discouragement will spread abroad, and this very night we will become the slaves of Hannibal!"
Slowly the Elders recovered their composure, and silence reigned. All awaited the counsel of Alcon the Prudent. He spoke.
"You do not entertain the thought of immediate surrender of the city, do you?"
A roar of indignation from the Senate answered him.
"Never, never!"
"Then, in order to keep hearts beating with hope, to prolong the defense a few more days, you must lie; you must inspire in the Saguntines a deceptive confidence. Provisions are exhausted; those who man the walls, weapons in hand, have eaten the flesh of the last horses that remained in the city. The plebs are perishing of hunger. Every night hundreds of corpses are gathered and burned on the Acropolis for fear of their being devoured by wandering dogs pressed by hunger, which have turned into veritable wild beasts that attack even the living. There is a complaint that some of the foreigners sheltered in the city, in company with slaves and mercenaries, lie in wait by night near the walls to eat whatever bodies they find. The cisterns of the city are almost dry; there is but little water left, and that is thick with mud; and yet no one in Saguntum talks of surrender, and the defense must be continued. We all know what awaits us if we fall into the hands of Hannibal."
"I have talked with him," said Actæon, "and he is inexorable. If he enters Saguntum every man of us will become his slave!"
The assembly stirred again with indignation.
"We will die first!" shouted the Elders.
Hastily they agreed upon what must be said to the people. They swore by the gods to conceal the truth. They would prolong the sacrifice in the hope that aid from Rome might come in time. Composing their countenances so that none should divine their despair, the Elders walked out of the temple. Swiftly the news flashed through the city. The legates had proceeded to Carthage to waste no time in the camp; there they would demand the punishment of Hannibal. The legions which Rome was sending to the support of the Saguntines would arrive at any moment.
The crowd received this specious fabrication with cold insensibility. The sufferings of the siege had deadened their feelings. Besides, they had been fired so many times with hope of the coming of the Romans that they doubted and would not believe until they saw the fleet itself.
Actæon mingled with the starving crowd searching for Sónnica. He found her surrounded by Lachares and the young gallants. Near them stood Euphobias, smiling at Sónnica, but not venturing to approach.
"The gods have protected you on your journey, Actæon," said the parasite. "You look better than we who have remained in the city. One can plainly see that you have fed."
"But you, philosopher," said the Greek, "are not so lean and emaciated as the others. Who maintains you?"
"My poverty. I was so accustomed to hunger in times of plenty that now I scarcely notice the famine. Observe the advantages of being a philosopher and a beggar!"
"Trust not the words of that monster," said Lachares with repugnance. "He is as beastly as a Celtiberian. He eats daily; but he should be crucified in the middle of the Forum as a warning. He has been seen at night wandering near the walls with a band of slaves in search of dying men."
The Greek turned from the parasite with disgust.
"Do not believe it, Actæon," said Euphobias. "Now they envy me my beggar's parsimony, as in other times they jeered at it. Hunger is my ancient companion, and she respects me."
All drew away from the parasite, and Actæon followed Sónnica to her house. The beautiful Greek woman was living almost alone. Many of her servants had been killed on the walls; others had perished in the streets, victims of pestilence. Some slaves, unable to resist the torments of hunger, had run away to the besieging camp. Two aged slave-women lay groaning in a corner, amidst stacks of luxurious furniture and chests filled with riches. The great warehouses in the lower story were empty. A gang of boys had taken possession, and passed the time watching cat-like in hopes of some stray rat issuing from a corner, that they might fall upon it as an animal of inestimable value.
"Tell me of Rhanto!" the Greek said to his beloved.
"Poor child! I see her only occasionally. She will not stay here; I have her brought to me so that I can watch over her, but at the first opportunity she slips away. Grief over Erotion's death has caused her to lose her reason. Day and night she wanders along the walls. She goes where the battle rages fiercest, and she passes among flying missiles as if she does not see them. By night I hear from afar the strange dirges which she chants to her Erotion; sometimes she appears crowned with a wreath of those flowers which grow on the walls, and she asks for the son of Mopsus, as if he were hidden among the defenders. The people believe that she is in communication with the gods, and they look upon her with awe and ask her what will be the fate of Saguntum."
The two spent the night amidst the piled up riches in the warehouse wrapped in costly tapestries, insensible to their surroundings, as if they were still in the rich villa on the domain, at the end of one of those banquets which had so scandalized many of the Saguntines.
Days passed. The city was growing weaker, but the people, still firm in their resolution, continued the defense, with stomachs faint from starvation. The besiegers made no violent assaults. Hannibal guessed the condition of the city, and, desirous of avoiding further shedding of the blood of his troops, he allowed time to pass, maintaining only a rigid blockade, waiting for hunger and pestilence to complete his triumph.
The mortality in the streets increased. There was no longer any one left to gather up the dead; the crematory fire on the Acropolis had gone out. Corpses, abandoned in the doorways of their homes, were covered with loathsome insects, and birds of rapine audaciously came down by night into the heart of the city disputing the prey of vagabond dogs which prowled the streets with lolling tongues and flaming eyes.
Vile smelling people of savage aspect, possessed by the delirium of starvation, dragged themselves cautiously through the streets armed with clubs, stones, and missiles. They went foraging as soon as night fell. Euphobias guided them, giving counsel with majestic emphasis, as if he were a great captain commanding his army. When they managed to kill a crow or a savage dog they carried it to the Forum and roasted it over a bonfire, quarreling violently over the noisome morsels, while the rich citizens stood aloof, faint with hunger but nauseated by such horrors.
Spring had set in. It was a gloomy springtime, revealed to the besiegers by little flowers growing up among the weeds in the crevices of the towers and on the roofs of the houses. Winter was over, and yet it was cold in Saguntum, with a tomb-like chill which the besieged felt in the very marrow of their bones. The sun shone, but the city seemed obscured by a fetid mist which imparted to people and to houses a leaden color.
One morning, on his way to the upper part of the mount where the defense continued, Actæon met the prudent Alcon in the Forum. This loyal citizen revealed discouragement in his dejected appearance.
"Athenian," he said, with a mysterious expression, "I am resolved that this must end. The city can resist no further. She has waited long enough for aid from Rome. Let Saguntum fall, and let Rome be filled with shame because of her infidelity to her allies. This day I shall go to Hannibal's camp and sue for peace."
"Have you considered it carefully?" exclaimed the Greek. "Do you not fear the indignation of your people when they see you treating with the enemy?"
"I love my city well, and I cannot remain impassive and witness its sacrifice, its interminable agony. Few are aware of the actual conditions, but I can tell you, Actæon, because you are discreet. We are much worse off than the people realize. There is not a scrap of meat left for those who are defending our walls. This morning there was nothing but mud in the bottom of the cisterns. We have no water. A few days more of resistance and we shall be forced to eat dead bodies like those soulless creatures who feed by night. We shall have to kill the children to placate our thirst with their blood."
Alcon was silent for a moment; he passed his hand over his forehead with a gesture of pain as if to obliterate terrible recollections.
"No one knows better than we Elders what occurs in the city," he continued. "The gods must shudder with horror when they see the deeds done in Saguntum since they abandoned her. Listen and forget, Actæon," he said in a low voice and with an accent of fear. "Yesterday two women, maddened by hunger, drew lots to choose which one of their children they should devour. We Elders have closed our eyes and our ears; we have not desired to see nor to hear, understanding that punishment would only serve to increase the horrors. The men who are fighting on the walls are chewing the leather from their weapons to deceive hunger. Their flesh is loosened from their bones, they weaken and fall as if wounded by an invisible stroke from the gods. We have resisted for nearly eight months; two-thirds of the city no longer exists. We have done enough to demonstrate before heaven and before man how Saguntum fulfills her oaths."
The Greek bowed his head, convinced by Alcon's arguments.
"Moreover the valor of the city is breaking down," continued the Elder. "Faith is dying. The omens are all against us. There are people who, during the night, have seen globes of fire rise from the Acropolis and fly toward the sea, plunging into the waters like shooting stars which cut through the blue of heaven with a stream of light. The people believe that they are the penates of the city, who, divining the coming destruction of Saguntum, are abandoning it to go and establish themselves on the other side of the sea whence they came. Last night, those who were watching up there in the temple of Hercules saw a serpent glide from beneath the tomb of Zacynthus, hissing as if it were wounded. It was blue, with golden stars—the serpent which bit Zacynthus and was the cause of the foundation of the city around the tomb of the hero. He crawled between the feet of the astonished watchers; he fled down the mount, and crept off across the plain in the direction of the sea. He also has abandoned us; the sacred reptile which was like the tutelary god of Saguntum."
"It may not be true," said the Greek. "It may be the hallucinations of a people tormented by hunger."
"That may be; but observe the women and you will find them weeping; in addition to their misery they are lamenting the flight of the serpent of Zacynthus. They believe the city defenseless, and many men on the walls will feel weaker to-day when they hear of the strange disappearance. Faith is the staff on which the people lean."
The two men remained silent for a while.
"Go," said the Greek, at last: "Speak to Hannibal, and may the gods incline his heart toward clemency!"
"Why do you not come with me—you who have traveled so much, and who possess the eloquence of conviction? You can help me."
"Hannibal knows me. I have refused his friendship, and he hates me. Go and save the city. My fate is sealed. The African will never abate his anger. He will pardon anyone but me. I will die rather than become his slave, or suffer myself to be put to death on a cross."
CHAPTER X
THE LAST NIGHT
Fighting on the walls with the defenders of the upper part of the city late in the afternoon Actæon saw Rhanto coming down a street near the ramparts.
He had not seen the shepherdess since his return to Saguntum, and now he noticed the changes wrought by the sufferings of the siege, and by the grief which was breaking her reason.
She walked absorbed, with bowed head, unconscious of her surroundings, and in her tangled hair were little faded flowers which at every step dropped their withered petals. Her torn and dirty tunic gave glimpses of her emaciated body, which still preserved the grace and freshness admired by the Greek. Her breasts had developed somewhat, as if pain had matured her figure; her eyes dilated by dementia, seemed to fill her whole face, shedding a mysterious light about her, an aureole of fever.
She advanced slowly, raising her head at times, looking up at the men on the wall, and finally stopping at the foot of the stone steps she murmured in a supplicating voice, like the convulsive sobbing of a child:
"Erotion! Erotion!"
Behind the mantelets of the besiegers the defenders noticed fresh activity, as if a new attack against the city were being attempted, but in spite of it the Greek came down from the wall in his eagerness to see the girl.
"Rhanto, shepherdess, do you know me?"
He addressed her tenderly, taking one of her hands, but she tried to spring away from him, as if she had been startled from a sleep. Then she grew faint, and fixing her enormous, frightened eyes on the Greek, she exclaimed:
"You! Is it you?"
"Do you recognize me?"
"Yes, you are the Athenian; you are my master; the lover of Sónnica the rich. Tell me, where is Erotion?"
The Greek did not know how to answer, but Rhanto continued speaking without awaiting his reply.
"They tell me he is dead; even I saw him lying at the foot of the walls; but it is not true; it was a bad dream. It was his father, Mopsus the archer, who died. Since then he runs away from me as if he wishes to weep alone for his father's death. He hides from me by day. I see him from afar, upon the walls, among the defenders, but when I climb up to search for him I find none but armed men, and Erotion disappears. He is only faithful to me at night. Then he seeks me, he comes to me. Scarcely do I conceal myself at the foot of the stairway and rest my head upon my knees than I see him coming, looking for me in the darkness, strong and loving, with his quiver at his side and his bow slung across his shoulders. When he comes the ferocious dogs which slink through the shadows, sniffing in my face and staring at me with their gloomy eyes, are frightened away. He comes to me, he sits beside me; he smiles, but he is ever silent. I speak to him and he answers me with a tender glance, but never with a word. I seek his shoulder, to lean my head upon it as in other days, and he flees, he disappears as if dissolved in shadow. What does it mean, good Greek? If you see him, ask him why he hides from me. Tell him not to run away!——He loves you so much, so much! How often has he talked to me of you and of your country!"
She was silent a moment, as if these words had aroused within her a whole past of recollections. With a painful effort, which was reflected in her face, she caught at them and arranged them in her mind. Slowly surged through her memory again the image of those happy days before the siege when she and Erotion ran hand in hand through the valley and had for their house all the groves of the Saguntine domain.
She smiled at Actæon, looking at him affectionately, and she recalled their several meetings; their first interview on the Road of the Serpent when he had just disembarked, poor and unknown. Then, the touch of paternal protection with which he greeted them when he found them in the fields climbing the cherry trees and quarreling playfully over the red fruit, and that surprise beneath the leafy fig trees, when she, in her virginal beauty, was acting as a model for the young sculptor. Did he remember? Had the Greek forgotten those days of peace and joy?
Actæon did indeed cherish them in his memory. He still retained the impression caused by the vision of the lovely shepherdess, and at the same moment his eyes searched the tattered tunic, seeking with an artist's delight the warm tones of her amber skin.
But Rhanto's mind, after evoking these recollections, began again to wander. Where was Erotion? Had Actæon seen him? Was he up there with the defenders? The Greek held her back catching her by the hand to prevent her climbing to the top of the wall.
The defenders were shouting wildly, shooting their arrows and throwing darts and stones. The besiegers had begun the attack. Projectiles came hurtling from outside the walls, passing over the merlons like dark-colored birds, as if the Africans were covering an assault with battering-rams and pickaxes to open a breach.
Actæon, who since his return to Saguntum had again assumed control of the work of defense, must go up on the wall.
"Run away, Rhanto," he said hastily. "You will be killed here. Go to Sónnica's house——I will take you to Erotion. But fly! Hide yourself! See how the missiles are falling around us!"
He shoved her from the stairway with an energetic push which nearly drove her to her knees.
The Greek ran up hastily, hearing the ceaseless and deadly hisses rending the air about his head. Before he reached the merlons he heard a faint groan at his back, a gentle cry which recalled to Actæon's mind the bleating of a fawn when pierced by the huntsman's arrow. Turning he saw Rhanto half way up the steps, wavering, ready to fall backward, her breast covered with blood and pierced by a long feather-tipped shaft, still quivering from the swiftness of its flight.
She had started to follow him up the wall, but an arrow had caught her.
"Rhanto! Poor Rhanto!"
Obeying an impulse of grief which he could not explain to himself, but which was stronger than his will, he forgot the defense of the wall, the attack of the enemy, everything, to run toward the girl, who sank down with the gentle flutter of a wounded bird.
He took her in his strong arms and laid her at the foot of the steps. Rhanto sighed, moving her head as if trying to rid herself of the pain which had taken possession of her.
The Greek supported her by the shoulders, calling tenderly:
"Rhanto! Rhanto!"
In her eyes, enlarged by pain, the light seemed to condense. The expression of her face had now become sane; it lost, at moments, the vagueness of dementia. Pain seemed to have restored her reason, and in this supreme moment of lucidity the whole past arose clear in her mind.
"Do not die, Rhanto," murmured the Greek, impulsively, "wait; I will draw out that iron; I will carry you on my back to the Forum so that they shall cure you."
But the girl shook her head sadly. No, she wished to die. She wished to join Erotion, near the gods, among the clouds of rose and gold where wandered the Mother of Love, followed by those who had loved each other devotedly on earth. She had roamed for weeks like a shadow among the horrors of the besieged city, believing that Erotion still lived, searching for him everywhere; but Erotion was dead; she remembered it well now; she herself had seen his corpse.
"Since he is dead why should I live?"
"Live for me!" cried Actæon, stung with grief, unconscious of his surroundings, deaf to the cries of the defenders on the wall and to the footsteps of someone approaching on the street.
"Rhanto, shepherdess, listen to me! Now I understand why I longed to see you; why your memory came to me so often in Rome whenever I thought of Saguntum. Live and be to Actæon the last spring of his existence! I love you, Rhanto! You are my last love; the flower which blooms in the winter of my life! I love you, Rhanto! I have loved you since that day when I saw you revealed like a goddess. Live and let me be your Erotion!"
The girl, her face clouded by the shadow of death, smiled, murmuring:
"Actæon, good Greek, thank you, thank you!"
Her head slipped from between Actæon's hands and fell heavily on the ground. The Athenian remained motionless, mutely gazing at the body of the girl. The silence which suddenly fell on the wall seemed to arouse him from his painful stupor. The besiegers had suspended the attack. The Greek stood up, but he knelt again to press kisses on the still warm mouth of the shepherdess and upon her unquivering wide-open eyes, in which the red splendor of the setting sun was reflected as in quiet waters.
As he arose he was startled by Sónnica standing quietly before him, with cold, ironic stare.
"Sónnica! You!"
"I came to tell you to hasten to the Forum. A messenger from the hostile camp has presented himself at the gates of the city asking to speak to the Elders. The people are gathered in the Forum."
Despite the importance of the news Actæon did not stir. He was transfixed by Sónnica's cold rigidity.
"How long have you been here?"
"Long enough to see how you bade my slave farewell forever!"
She was silent for a moment, then as if impelled by a sentiment stronger than her will, she approached him with flashing eyes and with outstretched hands.
"Did you really love her?" she asked bitterly.
"Yes," he replied, faintly, as if ashamed of the confession. "I know now that I loved her——but I love you also."
They stood motionless, their eyes fixed upon the body which lay between them. It was like a cold intervening wall, suddenly risen and separating them forever.
Actæon was shamed by the grief which his words caused her who had so loved him. Sónnica seemed stunned by his immense deception, and she gazed frigidly at the body of the slave with the eyes of an implacable Nemesis.
"Go, Actæon!" she said. "They are waiting for you in the Forum. The Elders are calling for you to serve as interpreter for the messenger from Hannibal."
The Athenian advanced a few steps, and then stopped, gently imploring mercy for the body.
"It will be deserted. Night is coming on, and——the hungry dogs——the soulless men who look for corpses——"
He chilled with horror to think that the beautiful body which had thrilled him with admiration might be devoured by the beasts.
Sónnica replied with a gesture. He might go. She would stay on guard, and, mastered by her chill hauteur, he turned and hastened toward the Forum.
As he reached the quadrangle it was growing dark. In the centre burned the great fire which was lighted every night to combat the mortal springtime chill.
The Elders brought their ivory chairs to the foot of the temple steps to receive Hannibal's messenger in the presence of the populace. The news had circulated throughout the city, and the people flocked to the Forum, eager to hear the propositions of the besieger. New groups poured in each moment along the streets leading to the great square where the waning life of the city was concentrated.
Actæon placed himself near the Elders. He glanced around for Alcon, but failed to see him. The aged senator was still in the hostile camp, and the coming of this emissary must be in consequence of his interview with Hannibal.
A senator explained the circumstances. An unarmed enemy had presented himself before the walls, waving an olive branch. He asked to speak to the Senate in the name of the besiegers, and the assembly of Elders thought it wise to summon the whole city to participate in this supreme deliberation.
Orders to admit the messenger had been given, and soon an armed group was seen approaching, making its way through the crowd, conducting a man with uncovered head, unarmed, and carrying a branch in his right hand as a symbol of peace.
As he passed before the fire the ruddy glow of the flames fell full upon his face and the Forum reverberated with a clamor of indignation. They had recognized him:
"Alorcus! It is Alorcus!"
"Traitor!"
"Ingrate!"
Many hands reached for their swords to fall upon him; above the heads of the multitude menacing arms brandished spears; but the presence of the Elders, and the sad smile of the Celtiberian restrained them. Moreover, the people felt the weakness of hunger; they had little strength left for indignation, and they were eager to hear the messenger, to learn the fate reserved for them by the enemy.
Alorcus advanced until he stood before the Elders, and the great concourse subsided into profound silence, interrupted only by the crackling of the wood in the fire. All eyes were fixed on the Celtiberian.
"Alcon the prudent is not with you?" he began.
They glanced around in surprise. It was true; until then the absence of the man who was first in all public acts, had not been noticed.
"You look for him in vain," continued the Celtiberian. "Alcon is in the camp of Hannibal. Heart-broken over the condition of the city, realizing that it is impossible to persist longer in the defense, he has sacrificed himself for you, and at the risk of his life he came to Hannibal's tent a few hours ago to beg him, with tears, to have compassion upon you."
"And why has he not returned with you?" asked one of the Elders.
"He was afraid and ashamed to repeat Hannibal's words to you——the conditions which he imposed for the surrender of the city."
The silence grew more oppressive. The multitude divined in the terror of the absent Alcon the frightful demands of the conqueror which made all hearts beat fast with dread even before hearing them.
Fresh groups of people kept straggling in to the Forum. Even the defenders of the city abandoned the walls, attracted by the event, and stood at the entrances of the streets around the quadrangle, the flames from the bonfire glinting on their bronze helmets and on their shields of varied shapes, round, rectangular, and oval. Actæon also saw Sónnica make her way through the crowd and seat herself near the group formed by the elegant young gallants who admired her.
Alorcus continued speaking:
"You know me well. A moment ago I heard threats, I saw menacing gestures when you recognized me. I understand your indignation at seeing me before you. Perhaps I am an ingrate; but remember that I was born in other lands, and that my father's death placed me at the head of a people whom I have to obey and to lead in their alliances. Never have I forgotten that I was the guest of Saguntum; I cherish the memory of your hospitality, and I am as interested in the fate of this city as if it were my native land. Ponder well your situation, Saguntines! Valor has its limits, and no matter how much you exert yourselves the gods have decreed the ruin of heroic Saguntum. They show it by having forsaken you, and your courage is all in vain before their immutable will."