“Blessed be Moloch, Baal, and Melkarth! They have poured sleep upon my Lord’s enemy.” The sailor’s Greek was harsh and execrable. “Your servants did even as commanded. The woman let us in. The young man my Lord hates was bound and gagged almost ere he could waken, likewise the fishmonger was seized.”
“Bravely done. I never forget good service. And the woman?”
“She is retained likewise. I have hastened hither to learn the further will of my Lord.”
Democrates arose hastily.
“My himation, staff, and shoes, boy!” he ordered. “I will go forth myself. The prisoners are still at the fishmonger’s house?”
“Even so, Excellency.”
“I go back with you. I must see this stranger with my own eyes. There must be no mistake.”
Scodrus stared widely when he saw his master go out into the dark, for his only escort a black Carthaginian sailor [pg 368]with a dirk a cubit long. Democrates did not even ask for a lantern. None of the servants could fathom their master’s doings of late. He gave strappings when they asked questions, and Bias was away.
The streets of Trœzene were utterly deserted when Democrates threaded them. There was no moon, neither he nor his companion were overcertain of the way. Once they missed the right turn, wandered down a blind alley, and plunged into a pile of offal awaiting the scavenger dogs. But finally the seaman stopped at a low door in a narrow street, and a triple rap made it open. The scene was squalid. A rush-candle was burning on a table. Around it squatted seven men who rose and bowed as the strategus entered. In the dim flicker he could just recognize the burly shipmaster Hasdrubal and gigantic Hib, the Libyan “governor,” whose ebon face betrayed itself even there.
“We have expected you, kyrie,” said Hiram, who was one of the group.