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Updated: May 1, 2025
They had recognized him: "Alorcus! It is Alorcus!" "Traitor!" "Ingrate!" Many hands reached for their swords to fall upon him; above the heads of the multitude menacing arms brandished spears; but the presence of the Elders, and the sad smile of the Celtiberian restrained them.
Actæon understood that he was giving an account of extraordinary events which had occurred in the tribe a few days before the arrival of the new king. Perhaps some call from friendly tribes, some fruitful expedition planned by the more venturesome. He saw the face of Alorcus darken, as if they were telling him something painful, repugnant to his feelings.
The Athenian traveled beside Alorcus, manifesting astonishment at the barbaric and warlike customs of the Celtiberians. As he could not understand their language, the warriors were not alarmed at seeing him take a seat in the council hall near their new chieftain. The wizard discoursed at length to Alorcus, amid the respectful silence of the warriors.
Alorcus ceased speaking, but still the Forum remained in silence, a silence profound, threatening, like the leaden calm which precedes the tempest. "No, Saguntines! No!" shouted a woman. Actæon recognized the voice of Sónnica. "No, no!" answered the multitude, with a thundering echo.
The other clung to the back of his steed with his strong bare legs; he wore the sagum of the Celtiberians, a short wool tunic over which the broadsword hung from his shoulder, and his hair, as thick and dishevelled as his beard, outlined a brown and manly countenance. "Greeting, Lachares! Greeting, Alorcus!" replied the pilot with an expression of respect. "Shall you see Sónnica, my mistress?"
Actæon had followed his friend, breaking away from the sacred squadron, and witnessed the dialogue without understanding a word, although he guessed something disagreeable by the Celtiberian's pale face. "Bad news?" he asked Alorcus. "My father is dying, and he has sent for me." "What shall you do?" "I must go immediately. My people demand my presence."
The women came out of the villages to greet Alorcus, and the men, grasping lances, mounted their horses and joined the caravan. In the first village where they stopped an old man told Alorcus that his father, the powerful Endovellicus, was dying, and in the next through which they passed in a few hours, he heard that the great chieftain had died at daybreak.
Alorcus lodged in one of the inns in the suburb, an enormous edifice with extensive stables and broad courtyards, where continuously rang the diverse tongues of the interior of the Peninsula, hoarsened and made strident by dickering for merchandise and the bartering of beasts.
The sisters of Alorcus, with lowered eyes, their flowery tunics floating about their strong, virginal forms, passed before the warriors, offering drinking horns filled with metheglin and beer. The men imbibed enormously without losing self-control.
The sun was setting when they started. Alorcus and Actæon rode in advance, their mantles thrown over their heads, padded linen breastplates to protect their chests after the Celtiberian fashion, and short broadswords, and leather shields hanging at their sides.
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