“Punic faith with Punic neighbors,” retorted Justinian as they paused at the gate. “If I don’t baffle Andros by turning his own weapons against him, the chances are that he will side with Alcibiades, and one fine day Melnos will be attacked unawares, and we will all have our throats cut.”
“Still, your mode of defeating Caliphronas is hardly English.”
“My good sir,” said the old man, with quiet irony, “Englishmen in their time have had to do just such underhand work. You forget Lord Clive and his false treaty with the Hindoo Omichund, which bound that slippery rascal to the British interest at the time of the battle of Plassy. It promised him everything before the battle, and gave him nothing after it. That is Punic faith, and is necessary in such cases. Straightforward honesty doesn’t pay in these waters.”
“Well, do what you think best, sir,” replied Maurice, who saw Justinian was right. “It’s a case of ‘When Greek meets Greek,’ I suppose.”
“‘Then comes the tug of war,’” finished Crispin gayly. “My dear Maurice, you will be happier in the actual battle than in all the statecraft which leads to it.”
“I hope my statecraft will avert the struggle,” said Justinian sombrely; “but with an enemy like Andros to deal with, I fear for the worst.”
“What are you waiting for here?” asked Maurice, seeing they still lingered at the gate.
“For Andros,” replied Justinian quietly. “I alone possess the key, and the gate is never left unlocked. Ah, here is my Carthaginian. Now, you two gentlemen, go on, and leave me to Andros and my Punic faith.”
Maurice and the poet, followed by all the English sailors, entered the gate and resumed their ascent, while the wily Justinian waited with an inscrutable face to entrap the equally wily Caliphronas, who this time, however, had found his master in treachery.
“What do you think of Justinian, Maurice?” asked Crispin, when they were once more in the open air, standing at the head of the staircase, and watching the sailors descending to the village below.