SCIPIO.
The old king's body was roughly embalmed, in order to give some time
before the celebration of the funeral. This was a more splendid and
impressive ceremony than had ever been witnessed in that region. The
news of Masinissa's death had been carried far into the interior
with that strange, almost incredible rapidity with which great
tidings commonly travel in countries that have no regular means of
communication. The old man had been one of the most prominent figures in
Northern Africa for a space more than equal to an ordinary lifetime. Nor
had he been one of the rulers who shut themselves up in their palaces,
and are known, not in their persons, but by their acts. His long life
had been spent, one might say, in the saddle. There was not a chief in
the whole region that had not met him, either as friend or as foe. Many
had heard from their fathers or grandfathers the traditions of his craft
as a ruler and his prowess as a warrior, and now they came in throngs to
pay him the last honours. From the slopes of the Atlas range far to the
west, and from the south as far as the edge of what is now called the
Algerian Sahara, came the desert chiefs, some of them men who had never
been seen within the walls of a city. For that day, at least, were
suspended all the feuds of the country, many and deadly as they were. It
was the greatest, as it was the last honour that could be paid to the
great chief who had done so much to join these warring atoms into a
harmonious whole.
The bier was carried by representatives of the states which had owned
the late king's sway. Behind it walked his three sons; these again were
followed by the splendid array of the war-elephants with their gorgeous
trappings. The wise beasts, whom the degenerate successors of the old
African races have never been able to tame,[6] seemed to feel the nature
of the occasion, and walked with slow step and downcast mien. Behind the
elephants came rank after rank what seemed an almost interminable
cavalcade of horsemen. The procession was finished by detachments of
Roman troops, both infantry and cavalry, a striking contrast, with their
regular equipment and discipline, to the wild riders from the plains and
hills of the interior.
The funeral over, there was a great banquet, a scene of wild and
uproarious festivity--a not unnatural reaction from the enforced gravity
of the morning's proceedings. Cleanor, who had the sober habits which
belonged to the best type of Greeks, took the first opportunity that
courtesy allowed of withdrawing from the revel.
He made his way to a secluded spot which he had discovered in the wild
garden or park attached to the palace, and threw himself down on the
turf, near a little waterfall. The fatigues of the day, for he had taken
a great part in the ordering of the morning's ceremonial, and the
exhausting heat of the banqueting hall had predisposed him to sleep, and
the lulling murmur of the water completed the charm.
When he awoke, he found that he was no longer alone. A stranger in Roman
dress was standing by, and looking down upon him with a kindly smile.
When the young Greek had collected his thoughts, he remembered that he
had already seen and been impressed by the new-comer's features and
bearing. Then it dawned upon him that he was the officer in command of
the detachment of Roman soldiers that had been present at the obsequies
of the king.
And, indeed, the man was not one to be hastily passed over, or lightly
forgotten. In the full vigour of manhood--he was just about to complete
his thirty-seventh year--he presented a rare combination of strength and
refinement. His face had the regularity and fine chiselling of the Greek
type, the nose, however, having something of the aquiline form, which is
so often one of the outward characteristics of military genius. The
beauty of the features was set off by the absence of moustache and
beard, a fashion then making its way in Italy, but still uncommon
elsewhere. To the Greek it at once suggested the familiar artistic
conception of the beardless Apollo.
But the eyes were the most remarkable feature of the face. They
expressed with a rare force, as the occasion demanded, kindliness, a
penetrating intelligence, or a righteous indignation against evil. But
over and above these expressions, they had from time to time a look of
inspiration. They seemed to see something that was outside and beyond
mortal limits. In after years it was often said of Scipio--my readers
will have guessed that I am speaking of Scipio--that he talked with the
gods. Ordinary observers did not perceive, or did not understand it. To
a keen and sensitive nature, such as Cleanor's, it appealed with a force
that may almost be called irresistible. All this did not reveal itself
immediately to the young man, but he felt at once, as no one ever failed
to feel, the inexplicable charm of Scipio's personality.
"So you too," said the Roman, "have escaped from the revellers?"
Cleanor made a movement as if to rise.
"Nay," said the other, "do not disturb yourself. Let me find a place by
you;" and he seated himself on the grass. "What a home for a naiad is
this charming little spring! But you will say that a Roman has no
business to be talking of naiads. It is true, perhaps. Our hills, our
streams, our oaks have no such presences in them. We have borrowed them
from you. Our deities are practical. We have a goddess that makes the
butter to come in the churn, curdles the milk for the cheese, and helps
the cow to calve. There is not a function or an employment that has not
got its patron or patroness. But we have not peopled the world of nature
with the gracious and beautiful presences which your poets have
imagined. Nor, I fancy," he added with a smile, "have your African
friends done so."
Cleanor, who would in any case have been too courteous to show to a
casual stranger the hostility which he cherished against the Roman
nation, felt at once the charm of the speaker's manner. He was struck,
too, by the purity of the Roman's Greek accent, and by the elegance of
his language, with which no fault could have been found except, perhaps,
that it was more literary than colloquial. He laughingly acknowledged
the compliment which the Roman had paid to the poetical genius of his
countrymen.
A brisk conversation on literary topics followed. Cleanor, who was
of a studious turn, had spent a year at Athens, listening to the
philosophical teachers who were the successors of Plato at the Academy,
and another year at Rhodes, then the most famous rhetorical school in
the world. Scipio, on the other hand, was one of the best-read men of
his age. He was a soldier and a politician, and had distinguished
himself in both capacities, but his heart was given to letters. In
private life he surrounded himself with the best representatives of
Greek and Roman culture. He now found in the young Greek, with whose
melancholy history he was acquainted, a congenial spirit. Cleanor, on
the other hand, who had something of the Greek's readiness to look down
upon all outsiders as barbarians, was astonished to see how wide and how
deep were the attainments of his new acquaintance.
The two thus brought together had many opportunities of improving the
acquaintance thus begun. Scipio had to carry out the details of the
division of royal functions mentioned in my last chapter. This was not a
thing to be done in a day. The three brothers accepted the principle
readily enough, though they felt that the one to whom the army had been
allotted had the lion's share of power. But when the principles came to
be applied there were endless jealousies and differences of opinion. It
required all Scipio's tact and personal influence to keep the peace
unbroken.
When this complicated business was finished, or at least put in a fair
way of being finished, an untoward event cut short Scipio's sojourn in
Africa. Two new commanders came out to take charge of the Roman army
before Carthage. Scipio knew them to be rash and incompetent, and was
unwilling to incur the responsibility of serving under them. Accordingly
he asked for permission to resign his command--he held the rank of
tribune.[7] The consuls, on the other hand, were not a little jealous of
their subordinate's reputation and, above all, of his name. A Scipio at
Carthage had a prestige which no one else could hope to rival, and they
were glad to get rid of him.
This interruption of an acquaintance which was rapidly ripening into
friendship had an important bearing on Cleanor's life. If anyone could
have reconciled him to Rome, Scipio was the man. Scipio gone, the old
feelings, only too well justified as they were, revived in full force.
Hostility to Rome became, indeed, the absorbing passion of his life. It
was a passion, however, which he concealed with the finesse natural to
his race. For the present his purpose could, he conceived, be better
served outside the walls of Carthage than within them. Accordingly he
accepted an offer from Mastanabal that he should undertake the duties of
a private secretary.
FOOTNOTES:
6: It is the Asiatic elephant only that has been domesticated in
modern times, and taught to utilize his strength in the service
of man.
7: About equivalent to a colonel in our army. There were five
tribunes in the legion or brigade, and these commanded in turn.