"Not to-morrow; now, at once!"
He approached the owner of the show, the cunning and grey-bearded
Greek, Mirmes, and without explanation flung into the skirt of his
robe a handful of gold pieces.
"Is that dancing-girl your slave?"
"Yes. What does your excellency desire?"
Mirmes, evidently astonished, was staring now at Agamemnon and now at
the gold.
"What's your name, girl?"
"Phyllis."
He bestowed money on her also, without stopping to reckon it.
The Greek murmured some words in the ear of the smiling Phyllis, who
tossed up the pieces and threw sparkling glances at Agamemnon. He
said--
"Come with me!"
Phyllis threw over her shoulders a dark cloak and glided with him into
the street, asking submissively--
"Whither?"
"I don't know."
"To your house?"
"Impossible. I live at Antioch."
"And as for me, I only arrived in this city this morning. What, then,
are we to do?"
"Wait a moment; I saw just now in a lane near this the temple of
Priapus open. Let us go there!"
Phyllis led him on hastily, laughing. The companions of Agamemnon
desired to follow him, but he said to them--
"It is unnecessary--remain here."
"Be careful! At any rate take a weapon, the quarter is dangerous..."
and drawing from under his dress a dagger with a jewelled hilt, one of
the friends of Agamemnon respectfully tendered it to him.
Groping at every step into thick darkness, Agamemnon and Phyllis made
their way up a narrow passage out of the market-place.
"Here! here it is! Fear nothing--go in!"
They found themselves in the vestibule of a little vacant temple, its
ancient and massive columns ill-lighted by the flicker of a lamp.
"Push-to the door!" and Phyllis, softly laughing, threw her warm cloak
upon the ground. When Agamemnon took her into his arms, it seemed to
him that round his body had coiled some warm lithe snake, with wide
and terrifying eyes. At that moment from the interior of the temple
came harsh cacklings, and such a gust of beating wings went past that
the lamp nearly went out. Agamemnon disengaged his arms from Phyllis'
waist and stammered--
"What in the world was that?"
In the dense darkness white forms were slipping by them like so many
ghosts. Thoroughly frightened, Agamemnon crossed himself.
"What is it? May the Holy Cross protect us!"
Something stoutly nipped his leg. He yelled with pain and fear, but
seizing one of his unknown enemies by the throat, he poignarded
another. Deafening cries arose, followed by squeals and repeated
battlings of wings. The lamp flickered for the last time, and Phyllis
cried, laughing--
"They are the ganders! the holy ganders of Priapus! What a crime you
have committed!"
Pale and trembling, the conqueror stood holding in one hand the bloody
dagger and in the other two slain ganders. A crowd carrying torches
burst with shouts into the temple, led by Scabra, the old priestess of
Priapus. This dame had been peacefully supping in a neighbouring
tavern when the trumpeting of the ganders had raised the alarm.
Gathering a train of nocturnal prowlers she had rushed to the rescue.
Hook-nosed, with unkempt grey hair, and eyes blazing like two steel
points, the old priestess looked nothing less than a fury. She
shouted--
"Help! help! The temples are desecrated, and the holy ganders of
Priapus slain! And see here, here are the foul Christians!"
Phyllis fled, enveloping her face in the cloak, while the crowd
dragged off Agamemnon, so cleanly taken aback that he never thought of
relaxing his grip upon the ganders.
Scabra sent for the clerks of the market, the agoranomes. But with
every moment the crowd grew larger, and Agamemnon's companions ran to
support him. It was too late. From dens, wine-shops, alley stalls, a
world of loiterers rushed up, attracted by the noise. All faces wore
the expression of gleeful curiosity peculiar to idlers. The blacksmith
appeared with hammer over his shoulder; the two old women had
forgotten their quarrel; the floury baker jostled the lame cobbler,
and behind them came the genial red-headed boy, shouting, and beating
on his pan, as if calling to arms.
Meantime Scabra continued screaming, her nails fixed in the clothes of
Agamemnon--
"Ah, just wait! wait a minute! let me get at that cursed beard of
yours! I wont leave a hair in it! Out, carrion! food for crows! And
you aren't worth the rope you will cost, thief!"
Finally the sleepy guardians of the market appeared; persons of
curious demeanour, themselves liker common rogues than keepers of the
peace.
Such a deafening din of laughs, oaths, and screams now ensued that
nobody was audible. One shouted, "He's an assassin!" another, "A
thief!" a third, "Let's burn him!"
Suddenly above the hubbub rang out the masterful voice of a tawny
half-naked giant, the attendant in a public bath, an individual with a
demagogue's gift for oratory:
"Citizens, listen to me, and mark what I say! I've long been watching
this rascal and his companions! They are writing down our names! They
are Cæsar's spies!"
Scabra, at last putting her threat into execution, seized Agamemnon's
beard in one hand and his tresses in the other. He strove to repulse
her, but she pulled with might and main, and to the general surprise
black hair and beard both remained in the hands of the old woman, who
stumbled and fell. Instead of Agamemnon, an athletic young man with
fair curling hair and short beard stood before the people.
In its astonishment, the crowd was momentarily silenced; but the voice
of the bath-slave was soon heard clamouring anew:
"See, citizens, they are disguised informers!"