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.
The beleaguered people saw Hannibal's army rapidly swelling. Each day
new tribes arrived. It seemed as if all Iberia, subjugated by the
prestige of Hannibal, were coming to camp around Saguntum, fired by the
fame of its riches. They came on foot or on horseback, dirty, savage,
covered with skins or dressed in esparto, carrying crescent-shaped
shields and short two-edged swords, eager to fight, and bringing with
them showy presents for the African, whose glory dazzled them.
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.
The beleaguered people guessed the mood of the enemy. Hannibal was
lying on his couch, and the army seemed depressed by the hero's
suffering. The wizards came and went through the tent, examining the
wound, and then they searched the surrounding mountains for mysterious
herbs to compound miraculous poultices.
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?
The merry Grecian city of rich merchants and of pompous Panathenaic
festivals presented the solemn aspect of every beleaguered town. The
people from the fields who had sought refuge in the city camped in the
streets and squares, distilling the odor of a sick and suffering flock.
In the temples the wounded dragged themselves to the bases of the
columns, groaning; above, on the Acropolis, a funeral pyre smoked day
and night consuming the bodies of those who had died on the walls, or
had fallen in the streets victims of strange diseases engendered by the
congestion of the population.
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?
Frequently impatience caused the whole city to be cruelly deceived. Some
mornings the lookouts posted in the tower of Hercules on the Acropolis
raised a furious clangor of cymbals on spying sails upon the horizon.
The people rushed to the crest of the hill, following with anxious eyes
the course of the white or red sails over the blue surface of the
Sucronian gulf. It was they! The Romans! The advance ships of the
succoring fleet bound for the port! But after hours of anguishing
expectancy, their hopes were crushed on seeing that they were passing
merchant ships from Massilia or Emporion, or hostile triremes which
Hasdrubal, the brother of Hannibal, was sending from New Carthage with
provisions for the army.
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.
Love for Actæon and hatred of the besiegers made her bold. She was
enraged at the Carthaginians. From the height of the Acropolis one
afternoon she had seen the flames pouring from the roof of her villa.
She saw the red tower of the dovecote topple, the beautiful groves which
surrounded her house cut down, leaving nothing but a mound of rubbish
and charred trunks; and she longed to be avenged, not for her lost
riches, but for the destruction of the secluded retreat sacred to her
love, and of the sumptuous dwelling crowded with memories. Moreover, she
was nervous from the insufferable deprivation of this new life within
the beleaguered city, where she was obliged to eat coarse food and to
sleep in a room in her warehouse among the valuables piled together in
the disorder of flight, almost mingling with her slaves, and deprived of
her bath. There was no water in the city, except that in the cisterns
which the magistrates distributed with great parsimony, foreseeing an
approaching scarcity.
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.
Danger had developed kindness in the people. Rich merchants elbowed
slaves as they shot their arrows from the cover of the merlons; more
than one opulent Grecian woman was seen to tear her linen tunic to bind
the wounds of rude mercenaries, and Sónnica the rich, she who used to
scorn the women of the city, now talked of forming a troop like that of
the Amazons who followed Hannibal. Rhanto, content with this new
situation, so blinded by joy that she could not see the anguish and
misery which the town endured, pulled her lover away in moments of
combat, snatched the bow from his hands, and dragging him from the
battlements, they hid beneath the hollow of a stairway at the foot of
the rampart, and made love with fresh ardor, their pleasure seeming the
more intense because threatened by the singing arrows and the cries and
exclamations of pain and fury overhead.
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.
The Saguntines were dazed at the sight of him. He shone like a coal of
fire upon his black horse; the sun wrapped him in a splendor which
blinded, as if he were a divinity. He wore the cuirass and helmet made
of gold from the rivers which the Galician tribes had brought him as a
present. The chieftain preferred the bronze armor which he had ever
worn in his battles, but his parade around Saguntum was like a
resurrection, and he wished the besieged to behold him dazzling and
majestic as a god.
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 Saguntines, pale with the rage of impotence, endeavored in vain to
stay the destruction. The besieging tower, rolling over a level tract
impelled by men hidden behind it, moved from place to place, scattering
death, and at times it drew so near that the besieged could hear the
voices of the bowmen who shot through the loopholes. Meanwhile, down
below, at the base of the walls, the slow and obstinate work of
undermining continued.
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.
Mopsus, the bowman, was the only one in the difficult situation who
inflicted damage upon the Carthaginians. With drawn bow he thrust his
head outside the merlons for an instant and shot, managing to send his
arrows into the loopholes of the tower, scattering death among the
soldiers who thought themselves secure. Erotion was at his side. Seeing
his father in a place of danger he repelled Rhanto at the foot of the
steps leading to the wall, paying no heed to her tears, and grasping his
bow he tried to imitate the old archer, challenging the men in the
tower.
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.
While he stood struggling with the rigid bow which seemed to rebel
against him, the enemy's projectiles were hissing around his head.
Finding himself powerless, aged in an instant by grief, gazing down upon
the mangled body of his son, and unable to avenge him, he uttered a
moan, and summoning all the strength of his will he sprang outside the
wall, and fell upon the corpse of Erotion. His head struck against the
stones with a resounding thud, a stream of blood ran from it, and father
and son formed a motionless pile a short distance from the assailants,
who continued pounding with the battering-rams, and digging at the base
of the wall.
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.
"The assault! The Carthaginians are coming!"
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.
Hannibal, on foot, guided the phalanxes, which marched with lowered
lance or lifted sword. He was fighting like a soldier, anxious to end
this siege which was delaying his plans, believing this to be the
decisive moment, and that a supreme effort might make him master of the
city. With sharp words he encouraged the soldiers in the different
idioms of their tribes, reminding them of the great riches within the
city, of the beauty of the Greek women, of the large numbers of slaves
inside those walls, and the Balearians attacked with lowered head,
holding before them their wooden spears with points hardened by fire;
the Celtiberians roared their war songs, beating on their breasts as on
sonorous drums, drawing their sharp two-edged swords, and the Numidians
and Mauritanians, dismounting from their horses, moved from place to
place, cautious and sly, hurling upon the besieged the missiles which
they carried in their girdles hidden beneath their white vestments.
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.
Thus the battle raged for hours. The mounds of dead between besieged and
besieger made the advance difficult. The sun had sunk low in the west,
and Hannibal was exasperated by the stubborn resistance which mocked his
efforts. Still trusting in his lucky star he ordered the trumpets
sounded for the final assault; but at that instant an unheard of thing
occurred which disconcerted the chieftain and sowed confusion among his
troops.
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.
Hannibal ran bellowing with rage, maddened at seeing that the besieged
repelled his troops for the second time. Such was the blindness of his
anger that he rushed in among the enemy, and several times came near
falling beneath their blows.
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.
Euphobias the philosopher, who remained idle in spite of the insults of
those who worked, ironically recalled the memory of the primitive
founders of the city, the Cyclopes who moved stones as big as mountains
and had thrown up the base of the Acropolis.
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.
Hannibal paled with wrath on seeing that all his efforts had served only
to make him master of a pitiful little piece of ground covered by heaps
of ruins and that by prodigious skill the walls which he had battered
down had risen again beyond in a single night. Saguntum would destroy
her houses to refortify herself with new barriers, cutting off his
passage! He would have to conquer the ground inch by inch, street by
street, and it might cost him months and years to narrow it down, first
around the Forum, then up to the hill of the Acropolis, before he could
succeed in making it surrender.
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.
Moreover the number of defenders was insufficient to garrison the
extensive precincts of Saguntum, while the besieger had at his disposal
an immense armed multitude which could hurl itself against several
places at once.
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.
"They wish you to start for Rome this very night. Here is gold! Take
also these tablets which will serve as credentials, so that the Senate
shall recognize you as an embassador extraordinary from Saguntum. We are
not sending you to a festival. The exit is difficult, and it will be
even more difficult to find, on these enemy-infested shores, anyone to
convey you to Rome. You should start to-night; this moment, if possible;
letting yourself down from the walls of the Acropolis, on the side
toward the mountains where there are fewer enemies; to-morrow may be
too late. Fly, and return soon with the aid which we await with
anguish!"
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.
"Farewell, Alcon! Tell the Elders that the Athenian Actæon will be
crucified in Hannibal's camp or he will appear before the Senate of Rome
presenting your suit."
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."
Actæon freed himself from Sónnica's arms, and leaning over the walls he
grasped the rope in the darkness.
"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.
Actæon watched the plain and picked his way cautiously, crouching along
by a stony ridge, stopping often to listen, holding his breath. He
thought he was being shadowed, that someone was skulking behind him.
Not far away blazed a great fire, and against its lurid smoke
silhouettes of men and women were outlined.
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.
The miserable harlot, in lowered voice, told the Greek why she was
there. She was the favorite of Geryon, a Balearic slinger. He had left
his companions a moment before, and had got out of her way so as not to
have to give her the wages he had just received, and in searching for
him she had stumbled upon Actæon. He might return, or his companions
might approach, attracted by their voices; it was dangerous for Actæon
to remain where he was.
"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.
"Come!" she murmured; "I will conduct you to the beach, and from there
you can continue on your way without other help than that of the gods.
Seeing you with me they will think you are a Celtiberian soldier with
his woman, looking for a place to spend the night. Come! I fed you the
first night you came here, and I will save you on this last."
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 Athenian, with tender commiseration, moved by the kindness of the
miserable creature, kissed the dry and flaccid lips, from which escaped
the insufferable odor of the wine of the Balearic slingers.