Sónnica. Vicente Blasco Ibanez

Lachares, whom she treated as an inferior, and whose familiarity was tolerated as one of her caprices; and, turning toward the Greek, who stood on an upper step of the temple, she smiled once more, bidding him farewell with a wave of a hand covered to the fingernails with rings, which at every movement traced streams of light through the air.

      The litter swiftly disappeared along the city road, when suddenly Actæon became aware of hands caressing his neck.

      It was Bacchis, looking still more wasted and ragged in the light of day. She had one eye blackened, and bruised spots on her arms.

      "I could not come before," said the slave humbly. "They only let me loose a little while ago. What people! They barely gave me enough to pay Lais. I have been thinking of you all night, god of mine, while they were tormenting me, blowing in my face like tired satyrs."

      Actæon turned away, shrinking from her caresses. He perceived the odor of wine on the wretched woman, drunk and exhausted after the adventures of the night.

      "You run away from me? Yes, I understand! I saw you talking with Sónnica the rich, she whom her friends call the most beautiful woman in Zacynthus. Are you going to be her lover? Oh, I know that she will adore you. But she is only another like myself. Tell me, Actæon, why do you not take me with you? Why do you not make me your slave? My price will be only one night with you."

      The Greek pushed aside the thin arms which tried to embrace him, in order to see the road where trumpets were blaring, and helmets and lances were gleaming, in the midst of a great cloud of dust.

      "Those are the legates from Rome who are leaving to-day," said the woman.

      Attracted by the charm which men of war exercised upon her childish mind, she ran down the steps to obtain a closer view of the ambassadors and their retinue.

      In advance marched the trumpeters of the Roman ship, blowing their long metal tubas, their cheeks bound by broad woolen bands. An escort of citizens of Saguntum surrounded the ambassadors, making their shaggy Celtiberian horses caracole, waving their lances, their heads covered with triple-crested helmets which still bore the dents from blows received in their latest skirmishes with the Turdetani. Some old men of the Saguntine senate rode sedately on heavy horses, their long beards covering their breasts. Their dark mantles, held upon their heads by embroidered tiaras, swept to their stirrups in heavy folds. The Roman ensign, over-topped by the wolf, was carried by a strong classiarius, and behind it rode the legates, their round, shaven heads uncovered. One was obese, and had a fat, triple chin; the other was spare, nervous, with a sharp aquiline nose; both wore embossed bronze cuirasses; their legs were covered with metal greaves, and over their protuberant thighs hung skirts the color of wine-lees, trimmed with loose strips of gold which quivered at the slightest movement of their steeds.

      As the procession reached the wharf, where swarmed groups of sailors, fishermen, and slaves, they met a band of women wrapped in their mantles, who were walking along guided by an old man with insolent eyes and sunken mouth, wearing that repulsive aspect acquired by eunuchs who live perpetually in the company of enslaved women. They were the dancing girls from Gades, who, as they left Polyanthus' ship, passed unnoticed in the hubbub of the leave-taking.

      Some women, issuing from the fish-wharves, offered the legates crowns of flowers gathered from the neighboring hills, and lilies from the lagoons. Acclamations arose throughout the entire length of the quay, witnessed by groups of indifferent sailors from all countries.

      "Hail to Rome! May Neptune protect you! The gods accompany you!"

      Actæon heard a mocking laugh behind him, and as he turned he saw the Celtiberian shepherd who had killed the legionary in the tavern the night before.

      "You here?" the Greek exclaimed with surprise. "Are you alone, and do you not hide from the Romans who seek you?"

      The imperious eyes of the shepherd, those strange eyes which aroused in the Greek confused and inexplicable memories, looked at him with arrogance.

      "The Romans! I hate and despise them! I would go without fear even to the deck of their ship! Mind your own affairs, Actæon, and don't meddle in mine."

      "How do you know my name?" exclaimed the Athenian with growing amazement, wondering also at the perfection with which the rude shepherd used the Greek tongue.

      "I know your name and your life. You are the son of Lysias, a captain in the service of Carthage, and, like all of your race, you wheel around the world, without finding contentment in any part."

      The Greek, so strong and sure of himself on most occasions, felt intimidated in the presence of this enigmatic man.

      Absorbed in the contemplation of the cortége which had come to bid farewell to the legates, he had turned his back on Actæon. His eyes expressed hatred and scorn as he saw the bronze wolf of the Roman standard flash in the sunlight, hailed with enthusiasm by the Saguntines.

      "They think themselves strong; they think themselves safe, because Rome protects them. They imagine Carthage dead, because her Senate of shopkeepers is afraid to provoke an issue with an ally of Rome. They have beheaded the Saguntine friends of the Carthaginian, those who of old were friends of the Barcas, and used to go out to greet Hamilcar when he passed near the city on his expeditions. They do not know that there is one who will not sleep as long as peace exists. The world is not wide enough for these two peoples; either the one or the other!"