XLIXTHE HIDDEN HAND
Fromthe burial of Gideon ben Sirach, Dion and Agathocles walked leisurely back toward the city. They had much to talk about, both of the past and future, and took a path less frequented than the common road.
Not far from the city gate stood a beggar. His filthy hair matted itself about his head, and fell upon his bare and begrimed shoulders. His chief garment might have been the remnant of a wine-skin, which was tied with strings about the upper part of his body. His legs and feet were bare—an advantage to such creatures, for his lower limbs at least would get a bath of air and sunshine, and that of an occasional shower. About his neck hung a basket which made its mute solicitation for alms.
"These fellows are as proud as priests," said Dion. "They will ask nothing of us, and will thank us for nothing we give."
"He poses like the statue of a god I once saw in Cyprus," commented Agathocles. "They had just dug it up out of the mud, and hadn't scraped it."
"Don't go near him," replied Dion. "His filth doubtless has wings. Yet it is well to give him a stater. He is supposed to mumble a blessing, and I need one."
Dion advanced toward the man, and put his handinto his bosom to draw his purse. The beggar sprang upon him with a cry of fury.
"At last I have you, you damned whelp of Shattuck!"
He drew a knife from beneath his dirty sheep-skin, and aimed a blow at the breast of Dion. The thrust had surely done its intended work, but for the quick evasion of the practised soldier. Before the wretch could repeat the blow Dion had closed with him, grasped the uplifted arm with his left hand, and with a dexterous wrench bent his assailant until his head and heels nearly touched; then laid him on the ground.
Agathocles started to help. He was instantly confronted by another person who darted from behind a great olive-tree. But the General had drawn his sword. The villain, though armed with a dagger, dared not venture the encounter. He turned to flee; but the weapon of Agathocles was through his body.
Dion stood a moment over the beggar he had felled.
"What madness is this?" he asked.
"Kill the wretch," cried Agathocles.
"Nay, father, my sword would not drink such foul blood."
They tied the wrists of the living man with the stout cords of his beggar's basket.
"Why this assault?" asked Dion. "Were you mad with hunger?"
"Aye, hunger for you," replied the man.
"Who are you?" asked Dion.
"The scar on your forehead knows me, if you do not. But for the man you have just buried, you had never had tongue to ask who I am."
"I ought to know this man's face," said Agathocles, studying him closely. "For years I have seen these eyes, like those of a panther as it slinks away from one it dares not attack. In Alexandria, in Macedon, in Rome, I have seen these same eyes spying on me. Let me squeeze his secret out of him."
The General's hands were upon the man's throat.
"I am Cleon. Do you know me now?" gasped the wretch.
"Cleon? There was a Cleon in Alexandria, a vile procurer for the beastly Ptolemy. Yes, those eyes are Cleon's, as sure as ever snake owned his. But I never harmed you, Cleon. Why do you pursue me?"
"You lie!" wheezed the man. "You were always in my way. You call me a snake. Well! have you not both writhed when I bit you? You, Dion, have drunk my poison; and the great Agathocles was in the mines in Sicily, where I—I—Cleon sent him. I have had my vengeance. Now take yours."
"I see it all," said the General. "This Cleon, panderer to the vilest folk of Alexandria, was the agent of those who would have stolen the estate of Shattuck, but for the influence of Ctesiphon and myself, and the help of Gideon. It was Cleon's hand that struck you, Dion, when a babe; the mark of which blow Gideon carried to his grave. It was the same hand that mixed the poison for us both in Macedonia. It was this man's tongue, black with perjury, that gave the lying information against me to the Romans."
"Well, now you know me," said the man with assumed indifference, "you can only kill me."
"Let us take him into the city," said Agathocles. "This man is so false that I can hardly believe his damning confession against himself without better evidence."
"Not into the city! Not into the city!" cried the captive. "Not into the city! For God's sake, kill me here."
He writhed, not seemingly to break his cord, but rather to wrest his soul from the grip of his own body, and thus escape from life ere some deeper curse should befall him.
"Not into the Holy City! Not near to the Temple! O God of Abraham! Mercy! Mercy! Not into the city!"
He raised his head, and, before his captors were aware of his purpose, he dashed it against a stone, as if to make an exit for the spirit that felt itself being consigned to perdition.
"Ah, Cleon," said Dion, "there is a worse poison than you have mixed for us; poison that no medicine will purge from the blood. You have swallowed your own memories, and they grip hard, do they? But why should you pray to the God of the Jews? Such a scoundrel as you cannot be Jew."
The man's response was a compound of the most dreadful oaths and vilest expletives known to the tongues of Jew or Greek.
"You tempt me to kill you," said Agathocles; "but that might end your misery. We will let you live. If you dread the Temple, then to the Temple you shall go."
The commotion had drawn a crowd. Among them was Ephraim, the old servant of Elkiah. He at once identified Cleon as a Jew who in his youthhad been driven from Jerusalem by the libertine set of young men, as one infected with vices which were too fetid for even their debauched tastes. One of his unconscionable pranks had been the defiling of some of the sacred vessels of the Temple—which doubtless accounted for his dread of dying near the holy precincts. In Alexandria—so Ephraim had heard—he had been refused admission to the Synagogue, and had openly apostatized, assuming the Greek name of Cleon instead of his own, Naaman.
The dead accomplice of the false beggar could not be identified. He was clearly not a Jew. On his body were found several letters written in Aramaic, the common language of Syria and adjacent countries. One of these read as follows:
"More money? Not an obole until your job is finished. We cannot depend upon the fool Cleon. Go with him. Stick to his heels. He cannot be trusted by himself. Ben Shattuck is in Jerusalem. He is called Dion,—a captain once in the Greek guard. But he has scented out his own Jewish blood, and will go back to it, like a dog to his vomit. Send proof that you have executed your business with him, or, by the tail of Satan, I will have you accused of the crimes you have already committed."
"More money? Not an obole until your job is finished. We cannot depend upon the fool Cleon. Go with him. Stick to his heels. He cannot be trusted by himself. Ben Shattuck is in Jerusalem. He is called Dion,—a captain once in the Greek guard. But he has scented out his own Jewish blood, and will go back to it, like a dog to his vomit. Send proof that you have executed your business with him, or, by the tail of Satan, I will have you accused of the crimes you have already committed."
This letter was unsigned.
"I should know that writing," said Dion. "It is none other than that of Menelaos."
"The same, no doubt," said Ephraim, studying it carefully. "I could tell you more of that Priest than has yet been published. But bring not this reprobate into the city. Maccabæus is cleansing the place, and would not abide such foulness. My counsel is that you deal with him here."
"Leave him to us," shouted the crowd.
In spite of Dion's remonstrance they tied the living man to the body of his dead confederate, and carried them both down to the Valley of Hinnom.
What things were there done may not be written.