"With a mighty effort he strings the bow and fits one of Hercules' arrows to the string. He draws the bow to his breast—he lets fly— .and the arrow strikes the world and shatters it to bits, like a dish of pottery struck by a stone!"
'Zopyros gasped; the Tarentines exchanged appalled glances. "Oi!" exclaimed Zopyros. "I, a peaceful engineer, smash the world to fragments?" He turned to the priest. "Woe is me! Can the Sibyl explain?"
"The Sibyl never explains," said the priest. "It is not she who speaks, but the Far-Shooting One who speaks through her. The God of the Silver Bow allows us a glance through the misty veils of time and distance, but we ourselves must make what we can of these glimpses."
"This way, my sons," said the priest who had guided them in. As they walked down the corridor, the Archon said:
"I suppose the verse means that we must ally ourselves with Dionysios of Syracuse. The 'mule' refers to the story of the Partheniai, our bastard ancestors begotten by serfs on Spartan women while the Spartan men were away fighting. But this Wolf of the North—who Could that be? The Campanians? The Celtic tribes, which yearly swarm over the Alps in greater numbers?"
"It could be one of many northern powers," said the short youth. "Anyway, it's up to the Council to make sense of the verse. But how about those personal messages for us?"
"By our lady, it takes no seer to interpret the burnt-out candle!" said the Archon dryly. "She means I had better not make plans twenty years in advance. My creaky old bones tell me that, anyway. As for your seven golden crowns, Archytas my lad, she does but confirm what I have said, that anybody with a tongue loose at both ends, like yours, is wasted if he doesn't try politics. And Zopyros—well, world-smasher, what do you think?"
"I don't know what to think," said Zopyros. "The gods know I'm no—ah—'Hercules.' " (Zopyros winced, for it vexed him to hear these Italians mangle the name of the mighty Herakles.) "A Pythagorean should harm his fellow beings as little as possible ..."
They came to the end of the passage. As they stepped out the portal, the scarlet-cloaked Trebatius bustled past them. After the cave, the brightness was dazzling. Zopyros, squinting northward from the shelf of rock on which the inquirers were gathered, took in the curving shore line, the reedy swamps of Lake Licola, the dark green belt of pines along the sandspit that sundered lake from sea, and the blue dish of Lake Literna beyond. Ahead, to the west, lay the sparkling sea; to the left he could see the swampy Lake Acherusia with the mottled hills of Cape Misenum beyond. The Phlegraean Fields, the Campanian plain, and the distant Apennines were out of sight, behind the hill on which the acropolis stood.
The Celt flashed a friendly grin at Zopyros. "Did the wise woman tell you how you could turn the sea into gold, or marry the Great King's daughter, now?"
"Not quite, but she gave us much to think about."
"She gave good luck, I hope. I cannot wait to hear my own fortune. But himself in the red cloak has gone in, and by the time they get down to us common folk, I don't think I will be hearing her the day. Aral What's this?"
The rasp of sandals on the path from below and the sound of panting caused heads to turn. The runner stumbled up the last step to the place of assemblage and gasped:
"P-pirates! Etruscan pirates!"
There was an instant of blank silence, then a rising chorus of exclamations: "Ototoi, pirates!" "Oimoi! The gods protect us!" "Run for your lives!"
The crowd began to stir and break up, like a swarm of ants whose nest has been kicked apart. A few near the top of the path bolted down it, towards the clearing where stood the beasts of burden. The Tarentine Archon said:
"Pest! We can't have this. They'll all run back to Cumae, every man for himself, and we shall be caught at the tail of the procession and have our throats cut by the sea thieves. Stop them, lads!"
"I'll try," said Archytas. He pushed through the jabbering, gesticulating crowd to the head of the path, spread his arms to block those behind him, and shouted:
"Why are you running away? Are you men or mud-hearted cowards?"
"I'm a coward," said a Neapolitan in a blue embroidered cloak. "Out of my way, dog-face!"
The man laid a hand on his knife hilt. Zopyros, ranging himself beside Archytas, drew his own knife. Archytas shouted:
"If you're brave enough to threaten me, you're brave enough to fight the robbers!"
"But I'm not armed!" cried the Neapolitan, his voice going shrill.
"You have your dagger and cloak, haven't you? Perhaps they are Only a few. Here, you!" Archytas spoke to the youth who had brought the warning and who was now beginning to slide down the cliffside, past where Archytas stood. "How many are there?"
"I don't know. Perhaps thirty."
"Which way are they coming from?"
"Down the coast road from Lake Licola. Let go of my arm, Curse you!"
"We can do it!" shouted Archytas. "With these temple guards, we Drc as many as they! With danger, even danger's overcome!"
But the crowd still cried: "You're mad!" "Let us by!" "They are hardened fighters and we but peaceful folk!"
More men slid down the hillside to the right and left of the path. From below, Zopyros could hear the drum of hooves as the first of the mounted fugitives got his mule headed south "along the coastal road.
Now help came to the Tarentines from unexpected sources. The Roman knight, shouldering up to the head of the pathway, cried: "These young men are right, and the more shame to the rest of you! I have a sword in my gear below; who will stand with me?" He was an erect, tight-lipped man of early middle age, who bore himself with self-conscious dignity. Zopyros could barely understand his dialect, quite different from the local Oscan.
"Does your honor mean," said the Celt, "that this is not a private fight? Anybody can get in?"
"Quite so, quite so, man. Have you a weapon?"
"That I have, and I will show you how we make heads fly from their shoulders in the north country. To arms!" With a bloodcurdling shriek, the Celt bounded down the path. Others followed.
The crowd spread out on the hitching space and began rummaging in their gear for shields and weapons. They wrenched open bags, fumbled through their spare clothing, and shouted to their servants. Zopyros and Archytas threw off their cloaks, under which they wore chitons or Greek tunics—short-sleeved, knee-length, belted woolen shirts. They buckled on each other's bronze-studded leathern corselets, strapped on their smallswords, and took up the spears and shields they had brought from Taras. Somebody called:
"Who shall be our general?"
"I am a tribune of horse, who has commanded against the Veientes," said the Roman. "Does any man outrank me? Not so? Good. Now, where is the best place for an ambush?"
"The road passes under a steep bank, a few plethra to the north," said the trembling youth who had brought the message.
The Celt had doffed his tunic and strapped across his hairy chest a baldric, from which hung a long sword. A bronzen helmet with a little wheel on top now covered his long hair, and his left arm bore a big wooden shield with a bronzen boss. "Your honor," he said to the Roman, pointing at a chariot, "is that pretty thing yours?"
"Not so; it belongs to Trebatius, I believe."
"The fellow in the red cloak? I'm thinking, sir, that if I was to drive it full speed around a bend into the pirates, it would stir them up a bit."
"Trebatius would not like it."
"Ah, but he is in the cave with the wise woman, learning whether his next-born will be a boy, a girl, or a purple pig." The Celt pushed aside the slave guarding the chariot and began to unhitch the two white stallions, who shied and rolled their eyes at him. "Just give me the signal, Roman dear, and I will show you a charge like all the Persian king's chariots rolled into one."