When a torch was kindled, its light revealed a Bactrian spy whom Huzim had captured on the outskirts of the camp and whose limbs were bound with leathern thongs, for the Indian found less labor in bearing this spy upon his mighty back than in leading him, struggling, down a tedious defile.
The prisoner was questioned concerning his master, Oxyartes, but refused to speak. They scourged him, yet he bore the lash in silence, scowling at his enemies, till Huzim procured a torture iron, clamped it on the Bactrian's bare foot and turned the screws; then the wretch's spirit broke; he shrieked for mercy, promising to reveal all secrets which the Assyrians wished to learn. Menon nodded, and by a sign directed Huzim to keep the iron about the prisoner's foot, then he turned to the sufferer sternly:
"Speak," he commanded; "yet remember, fellow, that much is known to us, and for each false word that slips your tongue, this screw shall sink a hair's breadth into your ankle bone."
The threat proved potent; Menon learned, by swift, adroit questionings, that Oxyartes lay in wait for Ninus at the outlet of a deep defile on the ridge of the highest mountain pass, where, aided by rising ground and the towering cliffs on either side, he could crush the Assyrians, even as this devil's iron bit into a captive's foot.
Menon pondered thoughtfully, for the case was evil, demanding all his craft. Mayhap the captive lied, seeking to draw away another force from the baggage trains, when hidden mountaineers might pour into the valley, wrecking the machines of war and dealing a fatal blow to the plans of siege. On the other hand, should Ninus, in his overconfidence of strength, become entangled in the narrow gorge, then of a certainty Assyria's fate was sealed.
Menon faltered. A haunting whisper worried at his ears:
"Let Ninus die! Wherefore should a mortal shield an enemy who houndeth him in a cause of cruelty? Leave him to his fate! Race back to Nineveh and the goal of a heart's desire!"
'Twas sweet, this haunting whisper, yet another voice within him cried aloud—cried for the glory of Assyria and the lives of those who rode into a snare. Should he soil a warrior's after-memory with the murder of his friends—those who had charged with him in Syria against the Kurds? By the breath of Ishtar, no! Semiramis would scorn him as the weakness of a craven merited!
In a moment Menon's tent was thronged with officers and under-chiefs to whom he issued swift commands. The camp in the valley woke to sudden life. Slumbering warriors roused to cast their cloaks aside and form in silent, eager bands, their heavier armor left behind, their backs untrammeled by any weight save their arms alone, their pouches for food, and leathern flasks for water and for wine.
In the valley, carts and wagons were set in one vast oval barricade, while oxen and the burden-beasts were roped within. Beneath the wheels lay a force of men who slept upon their arms, and treble sentries paced the outposts and lined the cliffs above. The baggage train was a fortress now which well might hold its own till Menon could reach his threatened King, strike at the enemy, and hasten back again.