After a second excursion it was explained to them that the cups were shut up in a temple.
"Let it be opened!" they replied.
And when the slaves confessed with trembling that they were in the possession of Gisco, the general, they cried out:
"Let him bring them!"
Gisco soon appeared at the far end of the garden with an escort of the Sacred Legion.His full, black cloak, which was fastened on his head to a golden mitre starred with precious stones, and which hung all about him down to his horse's hoofs, blended in the distance with the colour of the night.His white beard, the radiancy of his head-dress, and his triple necklace of broad blue plates beating against his breast, were alone visible.
When he entered, the soldiers greeted him with loud shouts, all crying:
"The cups! The cups!"
He began by declaring that if reference were had to their courage, they were worthy of them.
The crowd applauded and howled with joy.
HE knew it, he who had commanded them over yonder, and had returned with the last cohort in the last galley!
"True! True!" said they.
Nevertheless, Gisco continued, the Republic had respected their national divisions, their customs, and their modes of worship; in Carthage they were free! As to the cups of the Sacred Legion, they were private property.Suddenly a Gaul, who was close to Spendius, sprang over the tables and ran straight up to Gisco, gesticulating and threatening him with two naked swords.
Without interrupting his speech, the General struck him on the head with his heavy ivory staff, and the Barbarian fell.The Gauls howled, and their frenzy, which was spreading to the others, would soon have swept away the legionaries.Gisco shrugged his shoulders as he saw them growing pale.He thought that his courage would be useless against these exasperated brute beasts.It would be better to revenge himself upon them by some artifice later; accordingly, he signed to his soldiers and slowly withdrew.Then, turning in the gateway towards the Mercenaries, he cried to them that they would repent of it.
The feast recommenced.But Gisco might return, and by surrounding the suburb, which was beside the last ramparts, might crush them against the walls.Then they felt themselves alone in spite of their crowd, and the great town sleeping beneath them in the shade suddenly made them afraid, with its piles of staircases, its lofty black houses, and its vague gods fiercer even than its people.In the distance a few ships'-lanterns were gliding across the harbour, and there were lights in the temple of Khamon.They thought of Hamilcar.Where was he? Why had he forsaken them when peace was concluded? His differences with the Council were doubtless but a pretence in order to destroy them.
Their unsatisfied hate recoiled upon him, and they cursed him, exasperating one another with their own anger.At this juncture they collected together beneath the plane-trees to see a slave who, with eyeballs fixed, neck contorted, and lips covered with foam, was rolling on the ground, and beating the soil with his limbs.Some one cried out that he was poisoned.All then believed themselves poisoned.
They fell upon the slaves, a terrible clamour was raised, and a vertigo of destruction came like a whirlwind upon the drunken army.
They struck about them at random, they smashed, they slew; some hurled torches into the foliage; others, leaning over the lions' balustrade, massacred the animals with arrows; the most daring ran to the elephants, desiring to cut down their trunks and eat ivory.
Some Balearic slingers, however, who had gone round the corner of the palace, in order to pillage more conveniently, were checked by a lofty barrier, made of Indian cane.They cut the lock-straps with their daggers, and then found themselves beneath the front that faced Carthage, in another garden full of trimmed vegetation.Lines of white flowers all following one another in regular succession formed long parabolas like star-rockets on the azure-coloured earth.The gloomy bushes exhaled warm and honied odours.There were trunks of trees smeared with cinnabar, which resembled columns covered with blood.In the centre were twelve pedestals, each supporting a great glass ball, and these hollow globes were indistinctly filled with reddish lights, like enormous and still palpitating eyeballs.The soldiers lighted themselves with torches as they stumbled on the slope of the deeply laboured soil.
But they perceived a little lake divided into several basins by walls of blue stones.So limpid was the wave that the flames of the torches quivered in it at the very bottom, on a bed of white pebbles and golden dust.It began to bubble, luminous spangles glided past, and great fish with gems about their mouths, appeared near the surface.
With much laughter the soldiers slipped their fingers into the gills and brought them to the tables.They were the fish of the Barca family, and were all descended from those primordial lotes which had hatched the mystic egg wherein the goddess was concealed.The idea of committing a sacrilege revived the greediness of the Mercenaries; they speedily placed fire beneath some brazen vases, and amused themselves by watching the beautiful fish struggling in the boiling water.
The surge of soldiers pressed on.They were no longer afraid.They commenced to drink again.Their ragged tunics were wet with the perfumes that flowed in large drops from their foreheads, and resting both fists on the tables, which seemed to them to be rocking like ships, they rolled their great drunken eyes around to devour by sight what they could not take.Others walked amid the dishes on the purple table covers, breaking ivory stools, and phials of Tyrian glass to pieces with their feet.Songs mingled with the death-rattle of the slaves expiring amid the broken cups.They demanded wine, meat, gold.
