Sónnica

The horse reeled backwards with a shattered skull, blood spurting from his eyes. The Amazon, thrown from his back, fell on her knees a few steps away, covering herself with her shield. If she could hold out a moment she would be saved. Hannibal, forgotten by his disorganized men who were milling like a frightened herd in the confusion of battle, ran to her aid. Bodies of cavalry rushed from the camp to assist the audacious Amazons, and the mass of the besieged retreated in disorder toward the city.

Asbyte arose and advanced a step, raising her lance to thrust the giant; but at the same moment the enormous cudgel, brandished with both hands, crushed upon her like a toppling wall. Her crumpling bronze shield rung plaintively, her golden helmet parted on the seams, and Asbyte doubled up on the ground, her tunic stained with blood, like a wounded white bird folded in its fluttering wings.

Theron, despite his ferocity, stood appalled, resting on his club, oblivious to what was taking place about him, as if repentant for the frightful destruction which his power had wrought upon that beautiful woman.

"Answer me for that, Theron! Defend yourself, butcher of Hercules! Kill me if you can; I am Hannibal!"

Theron did not falter on finding himself alone. Hannibal! It was Hannibal the great warrior, who was now to fight with him absolutely alone! This singular duel, in view of the whole city looking on from the walls, seemed arranged by his god! He was to rid Saguntum of her direst enemy! Hercules had reserved this glory for him; and smiling with satisfaction he raised the mace, striding straight toward the African.

Hannibal eluded him, stepping backward, springing aside with feline agility, evading the encounter, until at last the priest was weary and wished to end the struggle before new combatants should arrive. He steadied himself on his colossal legs and hurled the club at Hannibal. The enormous tree trunk tore through the air, while Hannibal, seeing it coming, sprang aside. It grazed his shield with a thundering clang, and fell far away amid a cloud of dust.

The African bent his knees at the shock, but recovered himself, and flinging away his broken shield rushed at Theron with lifted sword.

The giant being heavy and muscular, ran with difficulty over the ground strewn as it was with dead and with the litter of the fight. He stumbled over a shield; his knees bent; he arose again; but this time completely nude. The lion skin had fallen from his shoulders, and lay among the wrack of battle.

His pursuer caught up to him. The giant felt the cold steel sink into the muscles of his back, and not caring to die like a fleeing slave in sight of his entire city he turned quickly, extending his columnar arms to crush his enemy between them; but before the two muscular masses could encircle and mangle him, Hannibal had buried his sword again and again in the side of the colossus, and Theron fell, pressing his hands against his wounds and gazing at his dark red blood.

He looked at Hannibal without anger, with a childlike expression of pain, and then he fixed his death-clouded eyes on the lofty Acropolis, where the roofs glistened in the sun.

"Father Hercules!" he murmured bitterly. "Why do you abandon your people?"

His enormous head raised a cloud of dust as it struck the ground. Hannibal bent over it and with his sword began to hew the robust neck, obliged to strike many blows to sever the network of corded tendons and stubborn muscles, which seemed to blunt the edge of the blade.

The chieftain removed his helmet, loosing his mass of curling hair; he grasped the head of Theron by its gory mane, and placing one foot in the attitude of conqueror upon the body of the priest, he showed it to the people on the walls.

He was magnificent with his sword in his right hand and holding out his other arm which sustained the head of the giant. The dark integument of his eyes, brilliant as the metal disks which hung from his ears, gleamed with pride and icy hate.

The Saguntines recognized the victor, and wails of surprise and peals of fury thundered along the wall.

"Hannibal! It is Hannibal!"

He still stood motionless, like a statue of victory, proudly defying the enemy, heedless of the storm of projectiles whizzing around him, until suddenly he dropped the head of Theron and sank to his knees, letting fall his sword.

Mopsus the bowman had shot an arrow through his leg.

From the walls all beheld how, in an outburst of angry pain he tore out the arrow-shaft, broke it into splinters, and flung them away. Then they saw no more. A host of the besieging army rushed forward and covered him, and his archers and slingers began to shoot against the battlements.

He saw Hannibal move away supported by two Carthaginian captains in golden cuirasses, accompanied by a multitude.

THE WALLS OF SAGUNTUM

The wounding of Hannibal gave the city some days of respite. The besiegers remained non-combatant in their camp, watching Saguntum from afar. The slingers came out in the mornings to exercise their arms by shooting against the wall, but aside from this, and from the arrow-shots with which they replied from the city, there was no further exchange of hostilities between the besiegers and the besieged.

Bands of cavalry overran the domain foraging, and the immense multitude of ferocious tribes finished the work of destruction, sacking the villas and country-houses. The groves were cleared away; each day they chopped down new trees in order to supply the camp with wood, and in these denuded spaces the tiled roofs and towers could no longer be seen. Only smoking and blackened ruins appeared here and there through the deserted fields. A mosaic on a level with the ground was often the only vestige of an elegant villa razed to its foundations by the invaders.

Such of the Saguntines as had trafficked with the tribes of the interior recognized the new arrivals from the walls. They came from very far; some there were who had marched more than a month to reach Saguntum, and they pointed out the Lusitanians, athletic of figure, of whom horrible tales of ferocity were told; the Galicians, who lived on fish and by washing and melting the gold of their rivers; the Asturians, who worked in iron; and the gloomy Basques whose language other nations could not understand. Mixed with them came fresh tribes from Bætica, who had been slow in answering the Carthaginian's call; agile infantry, of olive skin, their hair hanging down their backs, dressed in short white skirts with broad purple borders, and carrying large round shields which served them as floats in crossing streams. The camp stretched along the river and spread over the extensive valley, scattering finally in groups of tents and huts as far as the eye could see. It was a veritable city, larger than Saguntum, which advanced and advanced as if it would swallow her walls.

The day following their courageous sally the Saguntines noticed great activity in the besieging camp—the funeral honors to the queen of the Amazons. They saw Asbyte's body borne in parade on a shield by the women-warriors; then, in the centre of the camp rose a column of smoke from the enormous pyre which consumed her remains.

In Saguntum some of the most daring urged another sally to take advantage of that moment of depression for falling upon the enemy and putting them to flight. But the besieging camp was well guarded; Hannibal's brother with the principal captains were on the watch to avoid a surprise; the army lay behind earthen breastworks thrown up around the camp as in a strong city, and they took advantage of this opportunity to accomplish new work for protecting it from the danger of attack. On the other hand the city was no less disheartened by the loss of the priest of Hercules. The people could not explain to themselves how the African chieftain had put the gigantic Theron to death before the eyes of all Saguntum, and the more superstitious saw in this a celestial sign, the omen that the tutelary gods of the city were about to abandon it.

The same determination as at the beginning was still displayed; all were resolved to defend themselves; but the mocking joviality of the early days of the siege had disappeared. They believed that they scented adversity round about them, and the ever swelling numbers of the enemy dispirited them. Each morning they beheld the besieging camp increased. When would Hannibal's allies cease to come?

There were still enough provisions, but there was lack of fruits and vegetables; and the rich, divining the future, gathered in all they could, seeing days of want ahead.

In the poor wards they killed the horses and beasts of burden, roasting the meat over flames kindled in the streets for the roofless refugees.

On the walls, as well as on the Acropolis, all gazed impatiently out to sea. When would the auxiliaries come from Rome? What were the legates from Saguntum to the great Republic doing?

Each disappointment increased the melancholy of the Saguntines. The enemy's ranks were ever swelling, and the allies failed to come! The city would be lost! The enthusiasm of the defenders was revived only when they found old Mopsus on the walls, who because of his sure aim at Hannibal was the hero of the city, and the valorous Actæon, who with the light spirits of an Athenian, jesting and merry in the presence of danger, knew how to inspire fresh courage.

Sónnica also appeared among them at the points of combat. She ran along the walls amidst the hissing arrows, and the poor citizens marveled at the bravery of the opulent Greek woman who scorned the missiles of the enemy.

This wretched life excited her, making her distinguished for warlike audacity. Occasionally she saw her lover, the soul of the defense; sometimes on the walls directing the slaves who were repairing them, at others on the Acropolis with Mopsus to examine the situation of the enemy. He wished to take advantage of the lull caused by Hannibal's wound to put the city into a better state of defense, and meanwhile Sónnica strolled along the wall talking with the young men, promising handsome rewards to those who most distinguished themselves, and exciting them to make an extraordinary sally in which the city should hurl itself en masse beyond the walls, crushing the enemy and sweeping them onward into the sea.

She went everywhere escorted by Erotion and Rhanto. Life in the narrow limits, and a community of danger, had drawn her to the two children, and they followed in her wake listening to her words with enthusiastic smiles, and applauding the rich woman's warlike suggestions.

Rhanto was no longer a shepherdess. One after another her goats had been devoured in Sónnica's house, and with no other occupation than following her mistress, clinging always to Erotion's hand, she regarded the situation as one of joy, and had no desire that it should ever cease. Even the frowning Mopsus, the father of her beloved, unprotesting found them together, and often smiled at seeing them tranquil and happy, walking along the walls without fear of the besiegers.

The respite lasted only twenty days. Breaking the silence of the camp the carpenters' hammers rung ceaselessly and the besieged saw gradually rising a great wooden tower several stories high, taller than the walls of the city.

Hannibal regained his strength, and was eager to continue the siege. In his desire that the enemy should see him without delay, he left his tent, in spite of his still open wound, he mounted his horse, and rode out of the camp to gallop along the walls, followed by his captains.

With the reappearance of Hannibal the siege began fiercer than before. The Saguntines understood from the first moment that the besiegers had taken advantage of the cessation of hostilities to augment their offensive power. With great effort they dragged up the enormous wooden tower which they had constructed. Archers were stationed in the different stories to shoot through the loopholes in the sides. The upper platform dominated the wall in such wise that its catapult hurled great stones over the merlons, sowing death among the defenders.

Hannibal seemed everywhere at once, irritated by the tenacity of the Saguntines, and eager to terminate the siege without delay.

It was impossible to remain uncovered on the walls. The tower had been placed near the projecting part of the city which Hannibal considered the weakest. Darts and stones fell ceaselessly and while the defenders sought refuge behind the merlons, unable to step out into the crenels, the battering-rams pounded at the base under the protection of the tower, hammering against the walls, and gradually weakening them; and the Africans who had outlived the first assault now attacked the blocks of stone with more security, little by little opening a breach.

The more excitable citizens, raging with indignation at seeing their walls destroyed with impunity, leaned out into the crenels to shoot at those who operated the battering-ram and worked with pickaxes; but no sooner did they appear than a stone fell upon them, or they tumbled over with their bodies pierced by an arrow. The wall was strewn with the dead and dying. The wounded dragged themselves along contemplating with clouded gaze the shaft of the arrow sunk in their flesh.

In vain the besieged shot against the tower. Stones rebounded from its walls of logs with hollow clatter but without piercing them. It was bristling with arrows, moving like a monstrous elephant, insensible to wounds, and in vain the phalarics whistled through the air with their trail of sparks and smoke, for they could not set fire to the wet hides with which the upper part of the tower was covered.

The more prudent fled from those places where the besiegers concentrated their efforts, and the more audacious took their places ignorant how to repel the enemy, but with the stubborn determination of dying before he should advance a step.

But with the imprudence of youth he exposed almost his entire body beyond the merlon, and when he managed to plunge an arrow into the tower he laughed, standing in the open crenel insulting the besiegers with his boisterous peals of boyish laughter.

A stone from a catapult in the tower came whizzing and struck his head with a mournful crash. Blood and torn flesh spattered over those nearest him, and the boy, doubling up as if made of rags, rolled through the crenel and fell outside the wall. The arrows from his quiver struck roundabout his body with a metallic ring.

"Mopsus! Mopsus!" shouted Actæon, striving to restrain the bowman.

The old man had rushed out upon the wall, wholly unprotected, his eyes glassy, his gray beard quivering, impotent from grief and rage.

Three times he tried to draw his bow to shoot at the platform in the tower which held the catapult, but in spite of his efforts he could not bend his weapon. Grief, surprise, despair, at being unable to exterminate his enemies with a single blow deprived him of his strength.

The unequal struggle lasted almost throughout the day. The Saguntines defending this part of the wall could not repulse the advance of the enemy. They felt the dull thud of the pickaxes, the wall seemed to reel beneath their feet, and they could do nothing to prevent the progress of the besiegers.

Slowly the defenders began to retire. Actæon, saddened by the tragic death of his compatriot, and convinced that it was useless to remain at that point, advised them to retreat into the interior of the city. He fell back with some of his men, and soon a tower, eaten away at its base by the battering-ram, tottered and fell to the ground with a great roar of rubbish, and filled the air with dust. After this two other towers were battered down, and a long stretch of wall collapsed, burying in the débris the most obstinate defenders who had remained at their posts until the last moment.

An awe-inspiring acclamation, a howl of savage joy from without greeted the overthrow of the walls. From the city streets the desolated fields and one end of the camp could be seen through the open breach. Arms glittered in the dense atmosphere, reddened by the dust of the shattered walls; dark bodies of troops could be seen advancing, and trumpet blasts resounded.

From all sides of the city armed men gathered. The narrow streets near the wall vomited groups and more groups who came shouting and brandishing swords and axes, with the determined mien of those who had decided to die. Clambering over the rubbish they began to take position in the breach, and this open space, this broad gash in the city's girdle of stone, was protected by a motley crowd which flourished weapons and formed a solid unbreakable mass.

Actæon was in the first rank; near him he saw the prudent Alcon, who had exchanged his staff for a sword, and many of the peace-loving merchants whose astute faces seemed ennobled by the heroic resolution to die rather than give passage to the enemy.

When the besiegers advanced to the assault they had to clash with the entire city. The walking-tower, the battering-rams, and the catapults, availed them nothing; the struggle was hand to hand, and the besieged no longer used the phalaric, but the sword and the axe.

All in vain. The breach was a narrow throat. The Carthaginian army, in spite of superior numbers, had to contract its front to fight in such a constricted space, and in this equalizing of forces, the Saguntines retained an advantage, repelling the besiegers as often as they tried to climb over the mound formed by the fallen wall. Swords sunk into flesh producing atrocious wounds characteristic of ancient warfare; breasts were torn open by the brutal force of lances; combatants clinched entwining their arms like tendrils, linking their legs, making their panting chests wheeze like bellows, and rolling on the ground biting each other in the face. Often when the victor arose he proudly displayed a piece of bleeding flesh between his teeth.

Hannibal's troops rushed up the mound like a hurricane, and on its approach the mass of defenders swayed, but none fell back; they must die firm at their post, for behind them was a compact multitude which forced them to be valiant, leaving no space for retreat.

Actæon did not know for a certainty whence came the voice. Perhaps it was an hallucination produced by faith; perhaps the invention of some enthusiast tired of being on the defensive.

"The Romans!" shouted a voice. "Our allies are coming!"

The news spread with the credulity born of danger. From one to another the story ran that the lookouts in the tower of Hercules had sighted a fleet bound for the port, and none asked who had brought the inspiring news to the breach in the walls. Everyone accepted it, adding by their own invention fresh details, and eyes shone with joy, blanched faces flushed, and even the wounded, dragging themselves over the rubbish heap, waved their arms exclaiming:

"The Romans! The Romans are coming!"

Suddenly, without command, by common instinct, as if impelled by an invisible force, they flung themselves through the breach, down the incline, falling like an avalanche upon the besiegers who were massed for the final assault.

The unexpectedness of the shock, the force of the surprise, the cry of "The Romans! The Romans!" which the Saguntines raised with such conviction, wrought disruption among Hannibal's barbarian tribes. They defended themselves, but the whole city fell upon them; even the women and children fought as on that morning when Theron died, and Hannibal's soldiers, broken into scattered groups, neither seeing nor hearing their chiefs, fled precipitately toward their camp.

The day was almost ended. The Saguntine soldiers reached the vicinity of the camp, while the unarmored citizens scattering throughout the battle field dispatched the wounded and tried to set fire to the besieging engines. They would have destroyed them all had it not been for Maherbal, Hannibal's lieutenant, who came out of the camp with some cohorts of cavalry. The besieged, unable to resist the cavalry on open ground, began slowly to retire. When night closed in they reoccupied the breach, commenting with joyful shouts upon the victory which mitigated their disappointment over the non-appearance of the Romans.

Actæon, with those Saguntines who had most distinguished themselves in the battles, set to work fortifying the city. He explained to the old men of the Senate how difficult it would be long to defend the opening. It was impossible to repeat the prodigy of that afternoon many times; and by the light of torches the people spent the whole night working behind the breach, throwing down tiled roofs and demolishing walls.

Merchants and slaves, rich city dames and women from the suburbs, all mingled together, wielding pickaxes, rolling stones and carrying baskets of clay. Even the Ancients of the Senate took part in this titanic work, which lasted throughout the night and a great part of the following day.

The labor was not finished until the next afternoon, and at the same moment the besieging army began to stir. It marched solidly to the assault, silently, sullenly, revealing the fixed determination of taking possession at the first onset of that breach which had put them to shame the day before.

They passed through the clouds of stones and arrows which the besieged hurled at them, and the cohorts leading on a run climbed up the pile of débris, struggling with the more audacious Saguntines, who still disputed passage through the breach. After a short conflict the besiegers made themselves masters of the entrance to the city, and they burst into exclamations of triumph.

Hannibal marched intrepidly at the head of his soldiers; but on gaining the crest of the pile in the breach he stepped backward with an expression of disgust.

Before him stretched a broad waste of demolished houses, and beyond the hills of débris rose a second monstrous wall, constructed in haste, as if an enormous broom had swept the desolated structures of the interior to the entrance of the city. Great, square-hewn stones, chunks of masonry, broken columns, were laid with the regularity of blocks in a wall, and the interstices were chinked with fresh clay. This wall quickly raised by a supreme effort of the whole city was taller than the previous one, and in the form of a curve it joined with the two curtains of the ancient walls which were still standing.

On the summit of their new wall the Saguntines showed themselves as resolute as the day before, and their bows and slings prevented the assault of the enemy, who ended by falling back, remaining under cover of the débris at the breach.

Hannibal stood outside the city wall, contemplating the heights of the Acropolis. He realized that he might gradually sacrifice his whole army if he continued attacking Saguntum on the level and weaker side where the besieged defended the ground so tenaciously. Calling Maherbal and his brother Mago, he laid before them the necessity of capturing a position on the hill, and of assaulting a portion of the immense Acropolis to attack the city from that direction, obliging it to surrender.

Several days went by without resumption of hostilities on the side toward the river. The engines of war had been moved over to the foot of the hill, and they directed their heavy projectiles against the farthest walls of the Acropolis. These were old and had not been repaired, since the Saguntines trusted in the impregnability of the steeps.

One night in the Forum, Actæon encountered Sónnica, who was seeking him, followed by Alcon the Prudent.

"The Elders have need of you," said the beautiful Greek woman, with a tone of sadness. "Behold Alcon, who wishes to speak with you."

"Listen, Athenian," said the Saguntine gravely. "The days are passing and our needed succor does not come from Rome. Is it because our legates have been unable to reach the territory of the allied nation, and that the Senate of the great Republic is ignorant of our situation? Is it because Rome imagines that Hannibal, repenting of his audacity, has raised the siege? We need to know what our ally thinks concerning us. We wish the Senate of Rome to know in detail what Saguntum is doing, and the Ancients, at my suggestion, have thought of you."

"Of me? And what do they wish?" asked Actæon in surprise, looking at the mournful Sónnica.

Actæon took the gold and the tablets which Alcon offered him, but not without making excuses, realizing the gravity of the undertaking.

"No one can perform the mission better," said the Saguntine; "that is why I have turned to you. Your life has been spent running over the world; you speak many tongues; and you are not lacking in finesse and valor. Are you acquainted with Rome?"

"No, my father's father made war against her, under orders of Pyrrhus."

"Then go to her now as a friend, as an ally, and may the gods grant that some day we shall bless the moment in which you came to Saguntum!"

Actæon was not eager to start. It seemed to him a shameful act to abandon the city at that critical moment, to leave Sónnica within a besieged town.

"I am a stranger, Alcon," he said simply. "No tie of blood unites me to your fate. Are you not afraid that I shall flee forever, leaving you abandoned?"

"No, Athenian, I know you, and that is why I have stood responsible for your fidelity to the Elders. Sónnica also has sworn that you will return if you do not fall into the power of the enemy."

The Greek looked at his beloved as if asking her whether he should go, and she bowed her head, resigned to the sacrifice. Actæon then expressed himself as ready.

He kissed Sónnica on the eyes again and again, and the beautiful Greek woman, restraining her tears, pleaded to be allowed to follow him along with Alcon as far as the summit of the Acropolis, that she might see him a few moments longer.

The three walked in the dark across the esplanades of the ancient city, along the walls of the Acropolis. They had blown out their torch in order not to attract the attention of the besiegers, and they went on, guided by the diffused light of the stars, which seemed to shine with more brilliancy, as if intensified by the cold of the night which was one of the first of winter.

Alcon was searching for a place on the wall of which he had been told by some of the Elders who were more familiar with the Acropolis. When they had found it the Saguntine groped in the dark until he reached the end of a heavy rope fastened to a merlon, and he flung it over into space.

The departure took place in absolute secret. The very Elders who had planned the journey for their ambassador and had arranged his flight, concealed themselves and did not witness it. Sónnica embraced Actæon, sobbing, and clinging to his neck.

"Go quickly, Athenian," said the Saguntine impatiently. "This first hour of the night is the best; many groups of soldiers are still stirring around the camps before going to sleep. You can pass through now without being observed, while later, in the silence of the night, the sentinels will challenge you."

"Have confidence in our gods," said Alcon, as a parting word. "Although it may seem as if they have abandoned us, they ever watch over Saguntum. Not long ago a fugitive slave from the camp revealed before the Elders that the Vaccæi and the Carpetani, exasperated by the robbery of the detachments which Hannibal sent to gather supplies, have revolted against him, and have beheaded his emissaries. It seems that Hannibal, with a part of his army, will have to abandon the siege and go to punish them. We shall have fewer enemies before us, and if you return with the legions from Rome, Saguntum will be for the Carthaginians what the Ægates Islands were for them in Sicily. Ah! How much better is peace!"

With this melancholy exclamation Alcon said farewell to the Greek, who descended the rope in silence. His feet soon rested upon a part of the rock on which the wall stood. He let go the rope and began groping his way down, catching hold, in his precipitous descent, of the scrawny olive trees which twisted over the heights as if complaining of the asperity of the rocks.

At the feet of the Greek, in the black solitude of the plain, glittered the light of camp fires. Perhaps they were advance guards of the camp watching that part of the mountain, or marauders who followed the army, and had established themselves there out of Hannibal's sight.

When he stood erect to explore the dark fields in order to circle away from the fire, someone suddenly caught him by the shoulders, and a hoarse voice murmured in his ears, between peals of loud and stupid laughter:

"Now I have you at last!——You can not hide yourself from me!"

Actæon squirmed from the clutching hands, and tugging at the broad knife he wore in his belt sprang in front of the unknown in an attitude of defense. It was a woman! By the dim starlight the Greek beheld her gesture of indecision and surprise.

"Are you not Geryon the slinger?" she murmured, holding her hands out to the Athenian.

They stared at each other, their faces almost meeting in the darkness, and the Greek recognized in the woman the unhappy lupa who had fed him the first night of his arrival in Saguntum. She seemed even more surprised than the Athenian at the meeting.

"Is it you, Actæon? It seems as if the gods put me in your path, although you scorn me. You are running away from the city, are you not? You must be tired of Sónnica the rich; you do not want to die like those merchants whom Hannibal the invincible will put to the knife! You are doing well! Fly! Fly far away!"

She glanced apprehensively at the camp fire as if she feared the approach of the soldiers who were warming themselves around it, laughing and drinking with a group of lupas from the port.

"What are you going to do?"

"I want to reach the coast, and follow along it until I find a fishing smack which will take me to Emporion or to Denia. I have money to pay my passage. Afterward I will look for a ship to take me away, very far away."

"You will not return, will you? I do not wish you to return. If you only knew how often I have thought of you while men were killing each other on the walls! I shall never see you again, but I would rather not see you than have you remain in the city or become the slave of my lover the slinger. Hannibal will finish all of them! Ah, cruel city! And how I long to see all those rich women fall before Hannibal's troops—those women who used to have us beaten when we came near them at the port!"

The poor harlot, extending her hand to the Greek, began to guide him through the fields.

They drew near the shore. As they passed several camp fires they were hailed by obscene calls from the soldiers and the women who thought them an amorous pair in search of a hiding-place. Some armed groups allowed them to pass without the slightest suspicion.

The murmur of the waves on the sand grew louder. They were walking through the rushes, sinking into the warm and oozy bottom of the lagoon formed by the overflow of the tide.

The poor lupa stood still.

"Here I leave you, Actæon. If you wished I would follow you as your slave! But you do not wish it; I know what I am——I can be nothing to you! You are going away forever, but I am content because you are fleeing from Sónnica. Before we part, kiss me, my divinity! No, not on the eyes——on the mouth——thus!"

THE ROME OF FABIUS THE DELAYER

When the sun's first rays reddened the walls of the Capitol the life of Rome had been astir for more than an hour.

The Romans arose from their couches by the light of the morning stars. Carts from the Campagna rolled in the darkness through the tortuous streets, slaves awakened by the crowing of the cock trudged along carrying baskets and farm utensils, and by the hour of dawn all the houses had their doors thrown open, and the citizens not employed in the fields gathered in the Forum, that centre of traffic and of public business, that had begun to be adorned with the earlier temples, but still retained broad barren spaces upon which in later centuries were to rise the architectural glories of Rome, mistress of the world.

Actæon had been in the great city for two days, lodged in an extramural inn established by a Greek. He never ceased to marvel at this austere Republic, existing almost in poverty, a hardy nation of farmers and soldiers who filled the world with their fame while they endured greater privation than any hamlet on the outskirts of Athens.

The Greek arrived at the Forum by sunrise, encountering the customary crowd—venerable Romans wrapped in their togas discoursing before the young men and their clients on the art of prudently placing money upon good security, the chief attainment of every citizen; and hungry Greek pedagogues scheming ever, in search of a situation among that sombre people more apt in war than in culture; old legionaries, their gray military cloaks covered with patches, their thoughts yearning back to the by-gone wars against Pyrrhus and Carthage, persecuted by debts and threatened with slavery by their creditors, in spite of the cicatrices all over their bodies; and the plebe, with no other clothing than the lacerna—a short cape of coarse cloth finished with the cucullus or pointed hood—the multitudinous Roman plebe, exploited and oppressed by the patricians, ever dreaming, as a remedy for their ills, of new divisions of the public lands which, by means of usury, gradually fell into the hands of the rich.

On the huge blocks of blue stone which paved the Forum the vendors of hot drinks established their great craters, beating on them with ladles to attract the people, and at the foot of the steps of the temple of Concord some Etruscan buffoons, wearing hideous masks, began their grotesque pantomime, attracting the children and the idle from all sides of the quadrangle.

It was cold; a damp and icy wind was blowing off the Pontine marshes; the sky was gray; and from the crowd stirring about the Forum rose a continuous and melancholy buzzing. Actæon compared this square with the bright Agora of Athens, and even with the Forum of Saguntum in its days of peace. The Grecian joyousness was lacking in Rome, the sweet and gladsome lightness of an artistic people, careless of riches, and if engaging in commerce doing so only that it may live more expansively. This was a people cold and sad, devoted to lucre and to the laying up of money, disdainful of ideals, with no other industry than agriculture and war, squeezing the last grain of wheat from their lands, and robbing the enemy; methodical, lacking initiative and youthfulness.

"This people," said the Athenian to himself, "seems never to have been as young as twenty. Even the children seem to be born old."

The father, who in Greece was a friend, in Rome was a tyrant. For the Latin city there existed no other member of the family than the father; the wife, the children, the clients, were almost on the level of slaves; they were instruments of toil, without rights and without name. The gods heard only him; in his house he was priest and judge; he could kill his wife, sell the children three times over, and his authority over the offspring persisted down the years; the conquering consul, the omnipotent senator, trembled when in his father's presence; and in this gloomy and despotic organization, more stern even than that of Sparta, Actæon divined a latent force cradled in mystery which some day should burst its bonds, clasping the world as in an embrace of iron. The Greek detested this gloomy nation, but it held his admiration.

But aside from these crude monuments, the extensive, gigantic city, which of itself could arm over a hundred and fifty thousand men, presented a savage and wretched aspect, almost like that of those tribes which Actæon had seen on his trip through Celtiberia.

The crude simplicity of this city of farmers, money lenders, and soldiers, was reflected in the appearance of its inhabitants. Patrician matrons spun wool and hemp at the doors of their houses, clad only in tunics of coarse weave, and wearing bronze ornaments on their breasts and in their ears. The first coinage of silver had taken place subsequent to the war with the Samnites; the clumsy and heavy copper as was the current money, and the rich Grecian objects of virtu brought by the legions after the war with Sicily almost received adoration in the homes of the patricians, but were viewed askance by many as amulets which might corrupt the old sturdy Roman customs. Senators who owned extensive territories and hundreds of slaves, paraded their togas covered with patches in civic pride through the Forum. In all Rome there existed but a single table-service of silver, the property of the Republic, which passed from the house of one patrician to that of another when an envoy arrived from Greece, an ambassador from Sicily, or an opulent merchant from Carthage, habituated to Asiatic refinements and in whose honor banquets had to be given.

"This is mine, according to the law of the Quirites. I have paid for it with this metal duly weighed."

Farther on, a legionary with hungry face was adjusting a loan with an old man, offering as security his helmet and his greaves, and pronouncing the formulas of the law in such a case:

"Dari spondes?" (Do you promise to give?) the soldier asked.

"Spondeo" (I promise), replied the lender.

The bargain was closed with these sober words, the alteration of a single syllable in which was sufficient to annul the operation, for the Romans professed a superstitious respect for the letter and formula of their laws.

In another group they were discussing the points which a slave must have in order to be useful to his master and to be maintained by him; and throughout the entire Forum this grave people, austere, and without ideals, talked only of possessions, and of the manner of increasing them.

"Although your father is consul," said the red-headed man, "you must not forget, Scipio, that in order to be a good citizen and to serve the Republic, it is necessary not only to know how to use the lance and to manage a horse, but to know how to till the soil, and to be familiar with the secrets of cultivation. Some day you may command our armies, and you will not only have to conquer lands for Rome, but cultivate them, so that they will produce abundantly. Do you realize that?"

"Yes, Cato," said the youth.

"Every day you should learn a month of the calendar which our forefathers made. With that well fixed in your memory it will be easier for you to command your slaves promptly and well in their work in the fields. Yesterday I taught you the month of May; repeat it, Scipio."

"Month of May," recited the boy wrinkling his brows in order to better concentrate his mind. "Thirty-one days. The nones fall on the seventh day. The day has fourteen and a half hours; the night nine hours and a half. The sun is in the sign of Taurus; the month is under the protection of Apollo. Wheat should be weeded. Sheep should be shorn. The wool should be washed. Young steers should be put under the yoke. The vetch should be mown in the meadows. The lustration of the crops should be performed. Sacrifices to Mercury and to Flora."

The Athenian followed not far behind. The words of that man, old at twenty years, taught him more than his observations. Rome seemed to speak through his mouth in that lesson given to the son of one of her consuls.

The austere gesture of Cato displayed immense scorn for the imported refinements which had begun to break down the sturdiness of his native land.

"In the country the good citizen should not lose a day. If the weather prevent his going out he should entertain himself cleaning the stables and barnyards, fixing up the old utensils, and seeing that the women mend the clothing. Even on feast days something can be done; irrigate the young vineyards, wash the sheep, go to the city to sell oil or fruit. No time should be lost in consulting haruspices and augurs, nor in devotion to cults which oblige the citizen to abandon his house. The gods of the household or of the nearest cross-road are sufficient. The lares, the manes, and the silvani are sufficient to protect a good citizen. Our fathers had no others, but nevertheless they were great."

The youthful Scipio listened attentively, but his eyes were fixed on two young men from the Campagna, who with the cucullus fallen over their shoulders, were having a boxing match close to a vendor of mulled wine. The young man's cheeks flushed with emotion seeing the blows exchanged by the athletes with quivering muscles.

But Scipio was restless and scarcely heard him.

The rustics had ceased boxing, and the youth, eager to be off, glanced far away toward the river.

"Cato, this is the time for athletics. I must go to the bank of the Tiber to train myself in running and in pugilism, and to take an hour for swimming afterward."

"Go when you will, and heed my advice. After the lesson, athletics and the cold bath, which harden the body, are excellent. The citizen who wishes to serve his country must not only be prudent but strong."

The boy walked away, and Cato retracing his steps met the Greek who was following him. Actæon's appearance attracted him, and he approached.

"Greek," he said, "what do you think of our city?"

"It is a gloomy town, but a great one. I have been in Rome only three days."

"Are you, perchance, the messenger from Saguntum, who will appear before the Senate to-day?"

Actæon replied in the affirmative, and the Roman leaned on his arm with grave familiarity, as if he were an old friend.

"It is different now," said Actæon, with energy. "Saguntum is an ally, and if Hannibal makes war upon her it is on account of the love which the city professes for Rome."

"Yes; that is why we Romans are interested in her fate; but do not hope for much from the Senate. It is more anxious about the pirates of the Adriatic who harrow our coasts, that rebellion of Demetrius of Pharos in Illyria, against whom we are about to send an army under command of the consul Lucius Æmilius."

"Try to convince the Senate with your arguments. I am convinced; I see in Carthage the sole enemy of Rome. Would that they were all of my mind! They would then accept the audacious challenge of the son of Hamilcar and would declare war against Carthage, going to meet her in her own territory! Happen what may, we are invincible. Italy is a compact mass, and as advance sentinels of our camp, we have in the Orient Illyria, on the side which looks into Africa we have Sicily, and in the Occident is Sardinia, while the lands which Carthage dominates form an extensive belt of nine hundred leagues which runs along a great part of the coasts of Africa and all those of Iberia; but so narrow, and peopled by so many different races, that it can easily be broken. Though Rome might lose a hundred battles, she will always be Rome, but one defeat for Carthage is enough to dissolve the nation."

"If only they all thought as you do, Cato!"

"If the Senate thought as I do it would scorn Demetrius of Pharos, and its legions would have been in Saguntum days ago. Perhaps by such means a danger would be avoided, because who knows where that young African will go, and what he may not dare if he succeed in conquering without hindrance a city allied to Rome! That is why I, a free citizen, give lessons as a pedagogue, as you have just witnessed. That boy is the son of the consul Publius Cornelius Scipio, and all the virtues of his family are revived in him. Perhaps he may be the one destined to bar Hannibal's way, to destroy the insolent power of that Carthage against whom we are ever clashing."

On being left alone Actæon realized that he was hungry. It would be some time before the Senate would assemble, and wearied of the noisy stir in the Forum he passed on, walking around the base of the Capitoline, following a street broader than the others, lined with stone buildings, which displayed through their open doors the relative abundance of patrician families.

He entered a bakery and rapped on the stone of the deserted counter with an as. A plaintive voice answered from a kind of cavern. The Greek peered into the gloomy grotto and saw a mill for grinding wheat, and yoked to it a man, who was turning it with great effort.

The slave came out almost naked, wiping off the sweat which was streaming down his forehead, and taking the money offered by the Greek handed him a round loaf. Then he stood looking Actæon over with curiosity.

"Do you own the bakery?" Actæon asked.

"I am nothing but a slave," he replied sadly. "My master had to go to the Forum to see the dealers in wheat. You are a Greek, are you not?"

Before Actæon deigned to answer, he hastened to add with melancholy pride:

He recited in Greek some verses from the Prometheus of Æschylus, astonishing Actæon by the purity of his accent and by the expression which he communicated to his words.

"Can it be that here in Rome your masters dedicate you to poesy?" asked the Athenian, laughing.

"I was a poet before I became a slave. My name is Plautus."

Glancing around as if fearing to be surprised by some member of his master's family he continued talking, happy at being able to free himself from the torment of the mill.

"But how have you fallen into such a wretched situation after having been the entertainer of your people?"

"I committed the madness of founding the first theatre in Rome, in imitation of those in Greece. It was a wooden enclosure on the outskirts of the city. I borrowed money; I contracted debts; the populace came to laugh, but they gave little. I was ruined, and the wise laws of Rome condemn him who cannot pay to become the slave of his creditor. This baker who used to laugh at my comedies, and who gladly loaned me sacks of copper, is now getting even for his former show of admiration by making me turn his mill, because I cost less than an ass. Every peal of laughter in the past is transformed into a blow with a stick dealt across my back. The fate of poets! You Greeks also thanked Æschylus for his verses by pelting him with stones, yet he was ever a freeman."

Plautus became silent, but after a melancholy smile he added:

Hope shone in his glance, as if he saw the realization of the dreams with which he embellished his gloomy den, while, panting like a beast, he turned the enormous cone of stone.

A noise was heard from within the house, and before his master's children could see him Plautus ran to yoke himself again to the mill-spindle, while the Greek left the place, astounded by this episode.

What a people this, which converted its debtors into slaves and turned its poets into beasts of burden!

The Greek sauntered back through the Forum munching his loaf of bread. He was waiting for the Senate to assemble, and to pass away the time he climbed to the crest of the Palatine Hill, the sacred ground which was the cradle of Rome. He visited the Lupercal Grotto where Romulus and Remus had been suckled by the she-wolf. At the entrance to the narrow cave, denuded by the winter, the Ruminal fig tree extended its naked branches, the famous tree in the shade of which the twin founders of the city had frolicked. Near it on a granite pedestal stood the wolf, in dark and lustrous bronze, the work of an Etruscan artist, with the hideous half-open fauces, and her belly bristling with a double row of gleaming teats to which two naked children clung, sprawling on the ground.