THE LAST NIGHT
Fighting on the walls with the defenders of the upper part of the city late in the afternoon Actæon saw Rhanto coming down a street near the ramparts.
He had not seen the shepherdess since his return to Saguntum, and now he noticed the changes wrought by the sufferings of the siege, and by the grief which was breaking her reason.
She walked absorbed, with bowed head, unconscious of her surroundings, and in her tangled hair were little faded flowers which at every step dropped their withered petals. Her torn and dirty tunic gave glimpses of her emaciated body, which still preserved the grace and freshness admired by the Greek. Her breasts had developed somewhat, as if pain had matured her figure; her eyes dilated by dementia, seemed to fill her whole face, shedding a mysterious light about her, an aureole of fever.
She advanced slowly, raising her head at times, looking up at the men on the wall, and finally stopping at the foot of the stone steps she murmured in a supplicating voice, like the convulsive sobbing of a child:
"Erotion! Erotion!"
Behind the mantelets of the besiegers the defenders noticed fresh activity, as if a new attack against the city were being attempted, but in spite of it the Greek came down from the wall in his eagerness to see the girl.
"Rhanto, shepherdess, do you know me?"
He addressed her tenderly, taking one of her hands, but she tried to spring away from him, as if she had been startled from a sleep. Then she grew faint, and fixing her enormous, frightened eyes on the Greek, she exclaimed:
"You! Is it you?"
"Do you recognize me?"
"Yes, you are the Athenian; you are my master; the lover of Sónnica the rich. Tell me, where is Erotion?"
The Greek did not know how to answer, but Rhanto continued speaking without awaiting his reply.
"They tell me he is dead; even I saw him lying at the foot of the walls; but it is not true; it was a bad dream. It was his father, Mopsus the archer, who died. Since then he runs away from me as if he wishes to weep alone for his father's death. He hides from me by day. I see him from afar, upon the walls, among the defenders, but when I climb up to search for him I find none but armed men, and Erotion disappears. He is only faithful to me at night. Then he seeks me, he comes to me. Scarcely do I conceal myself at the foot of the stairway and rest my head upon my knees than I see him coming, looking for me in the darkness, strong and loving, with his quiver at his side and his bow slung across his shoulders. When he comes the ferocious dogs which slink through the shadows, sniffing in my face and staring at me with their gloomy eyes, are frightened away. He comes to me, he sits beside me; he smiles, but he is ever silent. I speak to him and he answers me with a tender glance, but never with a word. I seek his shoulder, to lean my head upon it as in other days, and he flees, he disappears as if dissolved in shadow. What does it mean, good Greek? If you see him, ask him why he hides from me. Tell him not to run away!——He loves you so much, so much! How often has he talked to me of you and of your country!"
She was silent a moment, as if these words had aroused within her a whole past of recollections. With a painful effort, which was reflected in her face, she caught at them and arranged them in her mind. Slowly surged through her memory again the image of those happy days before the siege when she and Erotion ran hand in hand through the valley and had for their house all the groves of the Saguntine domain.
She smiled at Actæon, looking at him affectionately, and she recalled their several meetings; their first interview on the Road of the Serpent when he had just disembarked, poor and unknown. Then, the touch of paternal protection with which he greeted them when he found them in the fields climbing the cherry trees and quarreling playfully over the red fruit, and that surprise beneath the leafy fig trees, when she, in her virginal beauty, was acting as a model for the young sculptor. Did he remember? Had the Greek forgotten those days of peace and joy?
Actæon did indeed cherish them in his memory. He still retained the impression caused by the vision of the lovely shepherdess, and at the same moment his eyes searched the tattered tunic, seeking with an artist's delight the warm tones of her amber skin.
But Rhanto's mind, after evoking these recollections, began again to wander. Where was Erotion? Had Actæon seen him? Was he up there with the defenders? The Greek held her back catching her by the hand to prevent her climbing to the top of the wall.
The defenders were shouting wildly, shooting their arrows and throwing darts and stones. The besiegers had begun the attack. Projectiles came hurtling from outside the walls, passing over the merlons like dark-colored birds, as if the Africans were covering an assault with battering-rams and pickaxes to open a breach.
Actæon, who since his return to Saguntum had again assumed control of the work of defense, must go up on the wall.
"Run away, Rhanto," he said hastily. "You will be killed here. Go to Sónnica's house——I will take you to Erotion. But fly! Hide yourself! See how the missiles are falling around us!"
He shoved her from the stairway with an energetic push which nearly drove her to her knees.
The Greek ran up hastily, hearing the ceaseless and deadly hisses rending the air about his head. Before he reached the merlons he heard a faint groan at his back, a gentle cry which recalled to Actæon's mind the bleating of a fawn when pierced by the huntsman's arrow. Turning he saw Rhanto half way up the steps, wavering, ready to fall backward, her breast covered with blood and pierced by a long feather-tipped shaft, still quivering from the swiftness of its flight.
She had started to follow him up the wall, but an arrow had caught her.
"Rhanto! Poor Rhanto!"
Obeying an impulse of grief which he could not explain to himself, but which was stronger than his will, he forgot the defense of the wall, the attack of the enemy, everything, to run toward the girl, who sank down with the gentle flutter of a wounded bird.
He took her in his strong arms and laid her at the foot of the steps. Rhanto sighed, moving her head as if trying to rid herself of the pain which had taken possession of her.
The Greek supported her by the shoulders, calling tenderly:
"Rhanto! Rhanto!"
In her eyes, enlarged by pain, the light seemed to condense. The expression of her face had now become sane; it lost, at moments, the vagueness of dementia. Pain seemed to have restored her reason, and in this supreme moment of lucidity the whole past arose clear in her mind.
"Do not die, Rhanto," murmured the Greek, impulsively, "wait; I will draw out that iron; I will carry you on my back to the Forum so that they shall cure you."
But the girl shook her head sadly. No, she wished to die. She wished to join Erotion, near the gods, among the clouds of rose and gold where wandered the Mother of Love, followed by those who had loved each other devotedly on earth. She had roamed for weeks like a shadow among the horrors of the besieged city, believing that Erotion still lived, searching for him everywhere; but Erotion was dead; she remembered it well now; she herself had seen his corpse.
"Since he is dead why should I live?"
"Live for me!" cried Actæon, stung with grief, unconscious of his surroundings, deaf to the cries of the defenders on the wall and to the footsteps of someone approaching on the street.
"Rhanto, shepherdess, listen to me! Now I understand why I longed to see you; why your memory came to me so often in Rome whenever I thought of Saguntum. Live and be to Actæon the last spring of his existence! I love you, Rhanto! You are my last love; the flower which blooms in the winter of my life! I love you, Rhanto! I have loved you since that day when I saw you revealed like a goddess. Live and let me be your Erotion!"
The girl, her face clouded by the shadow of death, smiled, murmuring:
"Actæon, good Greek, thank you, thank you!"
Her head slipped from between Actæon's hands and fell heavily on the ground. The Athenian remained motionless, mutely gazing at the body of the girl. The silence which suddenly fell on the wall seemed to arouse him from his painful stupor. The besiegers had suspended the attack. The Greek stood up, but he knelt again to press kisses on the still warm mouth of the shepherdess and upon her unquivering wide-open eyes, in which the red splendor of the setting sun was reflected as in quiet waters.
As he arose he was startled by Sónnica standing quietly before him, with cold, ironic stare.
"Sónnica! You!"
"I came to tell you to hasten to the Forum. A messenger from the hostile camp has presented himself at the gates of the city asking to speak to the Elders. The people are gathered in the Forum."
Despite the importance of the news Actæon did not stir. He was transfixed by Sónnica's cold rigidity.
"How long have you been here?"
"Long enough to see how you bade my slave farewell forever!"
She was silent for a moment, then as if impelled by a sentiment stronger than her will, she approached him with flashing eyes and with outstretched hands.
"Did you really love her?" she asked bitterly.
"Yes," he replied, faintly, as if ashamed of the confession. "I know now that I loved her——but I love you also."
They stood motionless, their eyes fixed upon the body which lay between them. It was like a cold intervening wall, suddenly risen and separating them forever.
Actæon was shamed by the grief which his words caused her who had so loved him. Sónnica seemed stunned by his immense deception, and she gazed frigidly at the body of the slave with the eyes of an implacable Nemesis.
"Go, Actæon!" she said. "They are waiting for you in the Forum. The Elders are calling for you to serve as interpreter for the messenger from Hannibal."
The Athenian advanced a few steps, and then stopped, gently imploring mercy for the body.
"It will be deserted. Night is coming on, and——the hungry dogs——the soulless men who look for corpses——"
He chilled with horror to think that the beautiful body which had thrilled him with admiration might be devoured by the beasts.
Sónnica replied with a gesture. He might go. She would stay on guard, and, mastered by her chill hauteur, he turned and hastened toward the Forum.
As he reached the quadrangle it was growing dark. In the centre burned the great fire which was lighted every night to combat the mortal springtime chill.
The Elders brought their ivory chairs to the foot of the temple steps to receive Hannibal's messenger in the presence of the populace. The news had circulated throughout the city, and the people flocked to the Forum, eager to hear the propositions of the besieger. New groups poured in each moment along the streets leading to the great square where the waning life of the city was concentrated.
Actæon placed himself near the Elders. He glanced around for Alcon, but failed to see him. The aged senator was still in the hostile camp, and the coming of this emissary must be in consequence of his interview with Hannibal.
A senator explained the circumstances. An unarmed enemy had presented himself before the walls, waving an olive branch. He asked to speak to the Senate in the name of the besiegers, and the assembly of Elders thought it wise to summon the whole city to participate in this supreme deliberation.
Orders to admit the messenger had been given, and soon an armed group was seen approaching, making its way through the crowd, conducting a man with uncovered head, unarmed, and carrying a branch in his right hand as a symbol of peace.
As he passed before the fire the ruddy glow of the flames fell full upon his face and the Forum reverberated with a clamor of indignation. They had recognized him:
"Alorcus! It is Alorcus!"
"Traitor!"
"Ingrate!"
Many hands reached for their swords to fall upon him; above the heads of the multitude menacing arms brandished spears; but the presence of the Elders, and the sad smile of the Celtiberian restrained them. Moreover, the people felt the weakness of hunger; they had little strength left for indignation, and they were eager to hear the messenger, to learn the fate reserved for them by the enemy.
Alorcus advanced until he stood before the Elders, and the great concourse subsided into profound silence, interrupted only by the crackling of the wood in the fire. All eyes were fixed on the Celtiberian.
"Alcon the prudent is not with you?" he began.
They glanced around in surprise. It was true; until then the absence of the man who was first in all public acts, had not been noticed.
"You look for him in vain," continued the Celtiberian. "Alcon is in the camp of Hannibal. Heart-broken over the condition of the city, realizing that it is impossible to persist longer in the defense, he has sacrificed himself for you, and at the risk of his life he came to Hannibal's tent a few hours ago to beg him, with tears, to have compassion upon you."
"And why has he not returned with you?" asked one of the Elders.
"He was afraid and ashamed to repeat Hannibal's words to you——the conditions which he imposed for the surrender of the city."
The silence grew more oppressive. The multitude divined in the terror of the absent Alcon the frightful demands of the conqueror which made all hearts beat fast with dread even before hearing them.
Fresh groups of people kept straggling in to the Forum. Even the defenders of the city abandoned the walls, attracted by the event, and stood at the entrances of the streets around the quadrangle, the flames from the bonfire glinting on their bronze helmets and on their shields of varied shapes, round, rectangular, and oval. Actæon also saw Sónnica make her way through the crowd and seat herself near the group formed by the elegant young gallants who admired her.
Alorcus continued speaking:
"You know me well. A moment ago I heard threats, I saw menacing gestures when you recognized me. I understand your indignation at seeing me before you. Perhaps I am an ingrate; but remember that I was born in other lands, and that my father's death placed me at the head of a people whom I have to obey and to lead in their alliances. Never have I forgotten that I was the guest of Saguntum; I cherish the memory of your hospitality, and I am as interested in the fate of this city as if it were my native land. Ponder well your situation, Saguntines! Valor has its limits, and no matter how much you exert yourselves the gods have decreed the ruin of heroic Saguntum. They show it by having forsaken you, and your courage is all in vain before their immutable will."
The vague words of Alorcus augmented the dread of the people. They feared the conditions set by Hannibal, and they read their harshness in the Celtiberian's hesitation in pronouncing them.
"The conditions! Tell us the conditions!" they shouted from all sides of the Forum.
"The proof that I have come in your sole interests," continued Alorcus, as if he did not hear their cries, "lies in the fact that as long as you were able to resist with your own strength, and while you expected assistance from the Romans, never did I come to counsel your submission. But your walls can no longer defend you; every day hundreds of Saguntines perish from hunger; the Romans will not come; they are far away, and occupied with other wars; in place of sending you legions they send you legates, and thus I, seeing that Alcon hesitated to return, face your indignation to bring you a peace rather necessary than advantageous."
"The conditions! The conditions!" demanded the multitude, with a formidable howl which shook the Forum.
"Remember," said Alorcus, "that what the conqueror offers you is a gift, for to-day he is master of everything you possess—your lives and your estates."
This terrible truth, falling upon the multitude, produced silence. "Saguntum, which, for the greater part is already in ruins, and whose extremes his troops already occupy, he takes from you as a punishment; but Hannibal will permit you to build a new city in the place which he will designate. All your riches, those in the public treasury as well as those in your houses, shall be turned over to the conqueror. Hannibal will respect your lives and those of your wives and children, but you must depart from Saguntum to a place which he will indicate, unarmed, and with but two garments each. I understand that these terms are stern, but your misfortune commends them to you, for it is worse to die, and to have your families fall as booty of war into the hands of a triumphant army."
Alorcus ceased speaking, but still the Forum remained in silence, a silence profound, threatening, like the leaden calm which precedes the tempest.
"No, Saguntines! No!" shouted a woman.
Actæon recognized the voice of Sónnica.
"No, no!" answered the multitude, with a thundering echo.
They swayed and surged from place to place; compact masses crowded against each other, possessed with fury, as if they would rend themselves in pieces to give vent to the wrath produced by the conditions of the conqueror.
Sónnica had disappeared; but Actæon saw her return to the Forum followed by a cordon of people, slaves, women, soldiers, bearing upon their backs the rich furniture from the villa which had been stored in the warehouse; the chests of jewels, the sumptuous tapestries, ingots of silver, and boxes of gold dust. The multitude observed this procession of riches without guessing Sónnica's purpose.
"No! No!" repeated the Greek woman, as if talking to herself.
She was infuriated at the conqueror's proposals. She imagined herself departing from the city with no other fortune than the tunic she wore and another over her arm, compelled to beg along the highway, or to labor in the fields as a slave, persecuted by the fierce soldiers of many nations!
"No! No!" she repeated energetically, making her way through the crowd to the fire in the centre of the Forum.
She was magnificent with her auburn hair loosened in her excitement, her tunic rent by struggling through the multitude, her eyes flashing with the expression of a Fury who found an acrid satisfaction in destruction. Of what use were riches? Of what use was life? Her desperate energy was spurred by the bitterness which she had tasted an hour ago before the body of her slave.
She gave the signal by hurling into the bonfire an image of Venus in jasper and silver which she carried in her arms, and which disappeared in the flames as if it were a clod. The wretched and starving crowd which followed imitated her with intense relish. The destruction of so many riches made them howl with joy, and they danced in their gladness—they, so poor, who had passed their lives in the deprivation of slavery! Into the flames fell dainty caskets of ivory, cedar, and ebony, and as they clashed against the firewood they burst open, spilling treasures within—collars of pearls, clusters of topazes and emeralds, diamond earrings, the whole scale of precious stones, which sparkled for an instant against the half-burnt wood like gleaming salamanders. Then came the tapestries, the silver-embroidered veils, the tunics of spun-gold flowers, the golden sandals, the chairs with lion claws, the couches with metal clamps, mirrors, lamps, bottles of perfume, rich inlaid marble tables, all the splendors of Sónnica the rich. The poverty-stricken multitude, transported by this sacrifice, applauded with bellowing enthusiasm as it saw the fire grow and grow with so much fuel, until the flames mounted to a great height and scattered ashes and sparks over the roofs of the houses.
"Hannibal wants riches!" shouted Sónnica in a hoarse voice which resembled a howl. "Come, pile here your treasures, and let the African lay siege to the fire for them!"
No need of urging them to imitate her! Many of the Elders who had withdrawn at the first moment of confusion now returned to the Forum carrying chests beneath their white mantles, and flung them into the fire. They were the hoarded treasures from their houses.
Above the heads of the multitude furniture and rich fabrics passed from hand to hand until they tumbled into the immense furnace, which whirled its flames higher and higher, crowned by a white and luminous smoke.
It was a holocaust in honor of the dead and silent gods on the Acropolis. Houses seemed to turn themselves inside out to fling their adornments and riches upon the fire. The men pursued their work of destruction silently and gloomily; but the women seemed mad, and they danced around the huge bonfire, disheveled, screaming, their eyes bulging from their sockets, hypnotized, caressing the flames with their garments, intoxicated by the glare, scratching their faces unconscious of their acts, and bellowing curses with mouths foaming with rage. Crazed by the infernal round, unable to resist the fascination of the lambent flames, one of them sprang and fell into the fire. Her hair and clothing blazed for an instant like a torch, and she sank among the white-hot coals. Another hurled into the roaring crematory, as if it were a ball, the babe she had borne in her arms clinging to her empty breast, and then, as if repentant for her crime, she followed the child into the burning pile.
The conflagration had extended to the wooden roofs of the houses around the Forum. A chaplet of flame began to inwreathe the square. The heat and smoke were stifling, and the furniture seemed to travel automatically above the heads of the crowd toward the incandescent kiln through the dense sooty atmosphere. Lachares and his elegant friends began to talk of death. Those effeminate beings discussed with sublime tranquility the manner of their end. They did not wish to follow Sónnica, who had just armed herself with sword and shield to sally forth against the besieging camp and die fighting. It was repugnant to them to think of struggling with rude, half-savage soldiers, to inhale their wild-beast odors, and to fall with their painted faces cleft by a blow, covered with blood, and wallowing in gore like a beheaded ox; neither did it please them to stab themselves—that was a means reserved for heroes. They preferred to die in the flames; they recollected the sacrifice of the Asiatic queens who perished in a fire of perfumed woods. What a pity that this fire smelled so ill! But it was not a moment for refinements; drawing their mantles over their eyes, shoving their little slaveboys before them with their depilated and perfumed arms, one after the other the elegant young gallants walked into the fire with tranquil step, as if still dwelling in those days of peace when they strolled through the Forum, gratified by the scandal caused by their feminine adornments.
Sónnica gathered her tunic around her waist in order to run with greater freedom, leaving disclosed the resplendent whiteness of her limbs.
"We are going to die, Euphobias," she said to the philosopher, who stood absorbed in contemplation before this spectacle of destruction.
For the first time the philosopher failed to display his insolent and ironic manner. He was grave and frowning; gazing at the people whom he had so often ridiculed, beholding the heroism of their death.
"Die?" he exclaimed. "Must we die? Do you think so, Sónnica?"
"Yes; he who is not willing to be a slave must die. Get a sword and follow me!"
"No, if I must die I will avoid the fatigue of running and the exertion of striking blows. I will die placidly in the sweet indolence which ever embellished my life."
Slowly, deliberately, he walked over to the fire, covered his face with his patched and mended mantle, and laid himself in the flames as calmly as he used to drop down on the porticos of the Forum in the old days of peace.
On the steps of the temple the Elders were stabbing themselves in their breasts with a dagger. Before breathing his last, each passed the weapon on to his nearest companion, and they died trying to maintain themselves erect in their chairs of state. Groups of women caught up torches lighted at the great fire, and scattered like furious bacchantes throughout Saguntum, setting fire to doors, and flinging burning brands upon the wooden roofs.
Suddenly from the direction of the citadel where the attacks of the besiegers had been concentrated, arose an appalling commotion, as if half a mountain had toppled over. The walls had been abandoned by the defenders who had gathered in the Forum, and a tower which the Carthaginians had undermined some days before had fallen. A cohort of Hannibal's army, seeing the city destitute of the usual outposts and guards, rushed through the breach, and made a signal for Hannibal to enter with his hosts.
"Come on! come on!" shouted Sónnica with a hoarse voice. "This is our last night! I will not die in the fire! I choose to die fighting! I want blood!"
She flew from the Forum like a Fury, followed by Actæon who ran beside her calling her name, trying to gain a look from her. But the beautiful Greek woman was insensible in her rage, as if she had at her side someone she had never seen before. They were followed by a discordant crowd, armed citizens, women brandishing knives and darts, naked youths with no other defense than a spear. They poured out like a stampeded herd, their bronze corselets and their helmets with broken crests shimmering in the firelight, their weapons dyed in blood, and displaying through the tatters of their clothing emaciated limbs which seemed to dance in their loose skin, dried and wrinkled by hunger.
They passed out of Saguntum on the lower side, marching in the glare of the burning city straight upon the camp of the besieger.
A cohort of Celtiberians hurrying toward Saguntum was routed, put in disorder, harried by this troop of desperate beings who ran with lowered head, striking blindly at everything before them. Farther on they encountered other troops who advanced in battle form to meet the sally, and they collided with the line of shields, unable to stand in a struggle hand to hand.
The Saguntines, debilitated by the long siege, their strength exhausted by hunger and sickness, could not withstand the clash. The Celtiberians wounded mercilessly with their two edged swords, and the company of sick men, women, and children, fell rapidly beneath their blows.
Actæon, fighting with his shield before his face and his sword raised against two vigorous soldiers, saw Sónnica receive a stab in the head and drop her weapons, doubling up in agony.
"Actæon! Actæon!" she cried, forgetting her bitterness, the fire of her old love returning to her with death.
She fell face downward on the ground. The Greek started toward her, but at the same instant his ears buzzed as if an immense mass had crashed upon his head; in his side he felt the chill of the steel perforating his flesh; everything turned black, and he sank to the ground, as if falling into a dark and gloomy pit the bottom of which he would never reach.
* * * * * *
The Greek awoke. His chest was weighted down by a form as heavy as a mountain. He was not sure whether he really existed. His members refused to obey him. Only with a painful effort could he open his eyes and understand confusedly why he was there.
Gradually he realized that the something which oppressed his breast was the corpse of a gigantic soldier. Actæon thought he remembered having plunged his sword into the body of the warrior the instant that he fell into the dense and mysterious night.
He looked around. A ruddy glow, as of an endless aurora, scintillated on the abandoned weapons and outlined silhouettes of the bodies lying in heaps or scattered over the field contracted in weird postures by their final convulsions.
In the background a city was burning. The blackened and shapeless structures stood out against the curtain of flames, and through their restless splendor the walls of the Acropolis trembled.
Actæon remembered all that had happened. That city was Saguntum; the conquerors could be heard howling through the streets; they were covered with blood; setting fire to the houses still untouched; cursing a people which only gave itself up after consuming its riches; killing in their fury whatever living thing they encountered in their way, and stabbing the wounded.
As he realized this he knew that he was not dead, but that he was going to die. He knew it by the terrible weakness which overpowered him, by the mortal cold creeping up to his heart; by his mind which was growing dull, and was now but a flickering light.
What of Sónnica? Where could he find Sónnica? His last thought was to reach her body, which must be near. He wished to kiss her as her slave; to render her that tribute before he died. But as he made a supreme exertion, raising his head from the ground, a wave of warm and sticky liquid covered his face. It was his last blood.
Then he seemed to see, with the vagueness of a vanishing dream, a kind of black centaur, galloping over the slain, and looking at the blazing city, laughing with malevolent joy.
He passed near. His horse's hoofs ploughed into the body of the Celtiberian lying on his breast. The dying Greek recognized the horseman by the light of the conflagration.
It was Hannibal, his head uncovered, possessed by the fury of triumph, galloping on his jet-black horse which seemed to have caught the ferocity of the rider, whinnying, treading on the fallen bodies, lashing his tail above the litter of battle. To the Greek he appeared an infernal demon coming for his soul.
Dimly, like a blurred vision, he saw the face of Hannibal animated by a smile of pride, of cruel satisfaction—the majestic and ferocious visage of one of those gods of Carthage who showed clemency only when human sacrifices were smoking upon their altars.
Hannibal laughed on seeing that at last the city which had detained him eight months before her walls, was his. Now he was free to go on working out his audacious dreams!
The Greek saw no more. He sank finally into eternal night.
Hannibal galloped on around the city, and beholding the purplish glow of the coming day breaking over the sea, he reined in his horse, he looked into the East, and extending his arm, impatient to stretch it across the blue expanse bounded by the horizon, he shouted threateningly, as if challenging an invisible enemy before falling upon it:
"Rome!——Rome!"