CHAPTER 21
Arria and her brother were far from the shores of Hellas and near the Isle of Doom. Tepas knew that a few leagues more would bring him in sight of the familiar cliffs. Brother and sister were reclining on the deck of their trireme. The tenth day of their journey was near its end. The sun had sunk through misty depths of purple, and now seemed to melt and pour a flood of fire upon the waters.
"I am weary," said the girl, looking thoughtfully at the calm sea.
"Of me?" said her brother.
"Nay, but of that groaning of the rowers. It tells me of aching arms in the galley. I cannot sleep at night, hearing it."
Appius laughed with amusement. "Little fool!" said he. "The slaves of
Tepas are all Jews."
"But they are men," said the beautiful girl; "and do you not understand, dear brother? I love a man."
"Love!" exclaimed Appius, with contempt, "'Tis only as the longing of the bird for its mate."
"Nay, I would give all for him I love."
"Not all," said he, with a look of surprise.
"Yes, all—even you, and my mother, and my home, and my country, and my life—I am sick with longing. And when I think of him I cannot bear to see men suffer."
"You are gone mad," said Appius, "and I pray the gods to bring you back. It may be the fair Vergilius forgets you."
She turned, quickly, and her voice trembled as she whispered: "Nay, he also has the great love in him. He could not forget."
Cyran, the pretty slave-girl, came soon with their evening repast.
Arria bade her sit beside them.
"Tell us, dear Cyran," said the Roman beauty—"tell us a tale of old
Judea."
"Beloved mistress," said Cyran, kneeling by the side of Arria and kissing the border of her robe, "listen; I will tell you of the coming of the great love. Long ago there was a maiden of Galilee so beautiful that many came far to see her. Now, it so befell, there came a certain priest, young and fair to look upon, who did love her and seek her hand in marriage. And she loved him, even as you love, but would not wed him. O my good mistress! She knew that a mighty king was coming, and she was held of a great hope that God would choose her for the blessed mother. And, still loving the priest, she kept herself pure in thought and deed. Every day they saw each other, but stayed apart, and their love grew holier the more it was put down. And oh, it was a wonder! for it filled their hearts with kindness and sent their feet upon errands of mercy. And many years passed, and one day they sat together.
"'My beloved, you are grown old and feeble, and so am I,' said she, 'We have pitied every child of sorrow but ourselves.' And they rose and put their arms about each other and went into the dark valley of death, heart to heart, that very day, and were seen no more of men. And they in the hills of Galilee, where the lovers dwelt, made much account of them, for while she had not borne the great king, still was she long remembered as the blessed mother of holy love. Now, maidens, with youth and love and beauty strong upon them, gave all for the great hope. And wonderful stories went abroad, and women were more sacred in the eyes of men, seeing that one of them, indeed, must be mother of the very Son of God."
The slave-girl covered her face and her body shook with emotion.
"Cyran, why are you crying?" said Arria.
"Because," Cyran replied, her voice trembling—"because I can never be the blessed mother."
"Tell me," said Arria, "have you never felt the great love?"
Cyran rose and looked down at her mistress.
"I have felt the pain of it," said she, sadly. "And my heart—Oh, it is like the house of mourning where Sorrow has hushed the Children of Joy. But the sweet pain of love is dear to me."
"Tell me of it."
"Good mistress, I cannot tell you."
"Why, dear Cyran?"
"Because—" the slave-girl hesitated; then timidly and with trembling lips she whispered, "because, dear mistress, I—I love you." She seemed to bend beneath her burden and, knelt beside her mistress and wept.
"Go—please go," said Appius, turning to Cyran. "You irritate me, and
I cannot understand you."
But Arria divined the secret of the poor slave-girl, and pitied her.
Cyran rose and left them.
"The great love may come to you, and then you shall understand," said
Arria to Appius.
"The great madness!" her brother exclaimed. "I like not these Jewish cattle. The gods forgive me that we have fallen among them. With a Jew for a pilot we should make a landing in Hades."
Something in his manner alarmed the girl.
"What mean you?" she inquired.
"I will tell you to-morrow," said her brother. "'Tis time you went to your couch and I to mine. Have no fear."
Now, the young Roman had begun to suspect the pilot of some evil plan. After the girl had left him he sat drinking wine for hours. Soon he was in a merry way, singing songs and jesting with all who passed him. Long after the dark had come, when Tepas only remained upon deck, Appius reeled up and down, singing, with a flask in his hand. The moon had risen. Eastward her light lay like hammered silver on the ripples.
Appius neared the tall, rugged form of Tepas. Against the illumined waters he could see the long, bent nose, the great beard, the shaggy brows, the large, hairy head of his pilot. Tepas, who ruled his men with scourge and pilum, had made himself feared of all save the young Roman noble. Appius halted, looking scornfully at the Jew. Then he shouted:
"A knave, upon my honor! 'Tis better to be drunk, for then one has hope of recovery. You long-haired dog! Here is something would make you bay the moon. Drink and howl. You weary me with silence."
Tepas, familiar with the contempt of Romans, took the flask, and, pouring into his cup, drank of the rich wine. Then Appius held the flask above his head, and with a word of scorn flung it into the sea. He started to cross the deck and fell heavily. Now, after striving, as it seemed, to regain his feet, he lay awhile muttering and helpless and soon began to snore. The deck was deserted by all save him and the pilot. Tepas looked down at the young Roman. Already, far off in the moonlight, he had seen cliffs and knew they were on the Isle of Doom. He must be about his business. He went to where Appius lay and bent over him. The pilot drew his dagger; the youth rolled drowsily and his hands were now upon the feet of Tepas. The latter leaned to strike. A sound startled him. It was a footfall close behind. The Jew rose, turning to listen. Suddenly his feet went from under him and he fell head-long; quickly two seamen leaped upon him, seizing his head and hands. One disarmed him, the other covered his mouth. Appius clung upon the feet of the Jew. A Roman slave had taken the wheel.
"Shall we bind him?" said one of the seamen.
"No," said Appius, breathing heavily as the pilot tried to shake him off. "Give the dog a chance. Yonder is an island. We shall soon be near it, and by swimming he may save his life."
"The gold is upon him," said a seaman; "I can feel it under his tunic."
"But we shall not rob him," was the answer of Appius.
"It is heavy. It will be like a stone to sink him."
"However, we shall not rob him," the young Roman repeated.
Now, when they were come as near the isle as they dare bring their ship, Appius gave a command. They lifted the body of that cursing wretch. Back and forth they swung it as one counted. Then over it went with reaching hands and fell upon the moonlit plane of water. They could see him rise and turn towards the isle, swimming. Weighted by his burden, he swam not twice his length before the sea closed above him.
"I thought he had struck you with his dagger," said one of the seamen.
"It would have done no harm," Appius replied. "I have a corselet under my tunic. Is the ship still leaking?"
"A little, good sire. We found a wedge in the planks. He would have driven it through, no doubt, if all had gone well with him. I know not why, unless he meant to beach her under the cliffs yonder."
The young Roman stood silent for a little time. Presently his thought came in a whisper to his lips: "And hold my sister until Antipater should come."
He called the seamen to his side.
"I, who am a friend of the great father of Rome," said he, "shall see you well rewarded. The little I gave you is not enough. Without your help and warning worse luck than death might soon have come to us."
A light wind was now blowing, and the sails began to fill.
Suddenly all rushed forward, falling upon the deck. Their trireme had lost half her headway and was now crashing over rocks and trembling as her bow rose. She stopped, all her timbers groaning in the shock, and rolled sideways and lay with tilted deck above the water. Cries of alarm rose from her galley. Men fought their way up the ladders and scrambled like dripping rats to every place of vantage. After the shock, Appius had leaped to the upper rail, and, rushing forward to the door of Arria's deck-house, found her and the slave-girl within it, unharmed. The two were crying with fear, and he bade them dress quickly and await his orders. Then he took command. Soon a raft and small boats were ready alongside the wreck. Within half an hour Appius and the two maidens and part of the crew landed.
Before daylight all were safely carried to the bare, lonely rocks, with a goodly store of food and water.
CHAPTER 22
It was a clear morning and the tenth day before the kalends of January. Since the ides, Vergilius had been lying in camp with a cohort, near the port of Ascalon. Night and day on the headland velites had been watching for the trireme of Antipater. A little before dawn their beacon-fires had flamed up. Since daylight all had been watching the far-come vessel of the son of Herod, and, as she came near, they could see the pattern of gold upon the royal vestments of Antipater. Now, presently, he would set foot upon the unhappy land of his inheritance. The cohort had formed in a long arc at the landing. Before now, on his return, the king's horsemen had greeted him with cheers; to-day he greeted them with curses. Vergilius, hard by, faced the cohort, his back turned to the new-comer. Antipater halted as he came ashore, looking in surprise at the tribune. He seized a lance, and, crouching as he ran, with sly feet approached the Roman officer. He was like the cat nearing its prey. Vergilius, now seeming unmindful of his pursuer, walked in the direction of the cohort. Swiftly, stealthily, the prince came near, intending to plunge his lance into the back of the young tribune. Suddenly there rose an outcry among the soldiers. Vergilius turned; the prince halted, breathing heavily, for he had run near a hundred paces in the sea-sand. A roar of rage burst from his lips.
"Dog!" he shouted. "Bid them cheer me or I will run you through!" His lance threatened.
"There shall be cheers in a moment, son of Herod," said Vergilius, calmly and respectfully approaching him. Antipater, unaware of his peril, stood with lance at rest. With a hand quick as the paw of a leopard, Vergilius whirled it away and caught the wrist of the Jew and flung him down. While Antipater struggled in his great robe the tribune had disarmed him. Every man of the cohort was now cheering. Antipater rose in terrible wrath and flung off his robe of gold and purple.
"Put him in irons!" he shouted. "I, who shall soon be king of the
Jews, command you!"
The cohort began to jeer at him; Vergilius commanded silence.
"You lapdog!" Antipater hissed, turning upon the Roman. "Am I met with treason?"
"You give yourself a poor compliment," said Vergilius. "Better call me a lion than a lapdog." He turned to an officer who stood near and added: "You will now obey the orders of the king."
Forthwith, Vergilius went aboard the new-come vessel and seized the goods of Antipater and put them on their way to the king. Meanwhile, the soldiers, many of whom had borne with the cruelty and insolence of their prisoner, were little inclined to mercy. He struggled, cursing, but they bore him down, binding him hand and knee to an open litter, so he stood, like a beast, upon all fours, for such, indeed, was the order of the king. Then they put on him the skin of a wild ass and carried him up and down, jeering as the long ears flapped. Vergilius, returning, removed the skin of the ass and loosed the fetters a little, and forbade the soldiers any further revenge.
"The skin of a leopard would become you better," said Vergilius to
Antipater, as he unlashed the coat of shame.
The wrathful Jew, still cursing, tried to bite the friendly hand of his keeper. "My noble prince," said Vergilius, "you flatter me; I am not good to eat."
Those crowding near laughed loudly, but Vergilius hushed them and signalled to the trumpeter. Then a call and a rush of horses into line. The litter was lifted quickly and lashed upon the backs of two chargers. In a little time the cohort was on its way to Jerusalem.
Arriving, it massed in front of the royal palace. Vergilius repaired to the king's chamber. The body of Herod was now become as an old house, its timbers sagging to their fall, its tenant trembling at dim windows while the storm beat upon it. Shame and sorrow and remorse were racking him down. King and kingdom were now swiftly changing.
"At last!" he piped, with quivering hands uplifted. "Slow-footed justice! come—come close to me."
Eagerly he grasped the hands of the young Roman and kissed them. Then he spoke with bitter irony, his words coming fast. "You met the great king?"
"Yes, good sire."
"You put him in chains and brought him hither?"
"And I commend him to your mercy."
"Ha, ha!" the king shrieked, caressing the hand of the Roman. Now his head rose, and for a little his old vigor and menacing voice returned to him. "He has run me through with the blade of remorse and put upon me the chains of infirmity," he complained, an ominous, croaking rattle in his throat. "To-day, to-day, my wrath shall descend upon him and my gratitude upon you! These forty years have I been seeking a man of honor. At last, at last, here is the greatest of men! I, Herod, surnamed the Great, king of Judea, conqueror of hosts, builder of cities, bare my head before you!"
He removed his jewelled crown; he drew off his purple tarboosh, and bowed before the young tribune. Tenderly Vergilius replaced them on the gray head.
"O king," said he, bowing low, "you do me great honor."
Herod closed his eyes and muttered feebly. Again remorse and age had flung their weight upon him. His hard face seemed to shrink and wither, and the young man thought as he looked upon it, "What a great, good thing is death!"
The king opened his eyes and piped, feebly: "Help me; help me to win the favor of my people! You shall be procurator, commander of the forces, counsellor of kings, priest of God."
The king waited, but Vergilius made no reply. Now, indeed, was he living in a great and memorable moment. He thought of the power offered him—power of doing and undoing, power of raising up and putting down, power over good and evil.
"Well," said Herod, impatiently, "what say you?"
"O king!" said Vergilius, "I had hoped soon to return to Rome and marry and live in the land of my fathers."
"Hear me, good youth," said Herod, sternly, seizing the hand of the young man. "There is a wise proverb in Judea. It is: 'Speak not much with a woman.' Had I obeyed it, then had I saved my soul and happiness. Women have been ever false with me—an idle, whispering, and mischievous crew! O youth, give not your heart to them! For five years let Judea be your bride. She woos you, son of Varro, and she is fair. She asks for love and justice, and she will give you immortal fame."
The king fondly pressed the hand of the Roman, who stood beside him, grave and thoughtful. For the young man it was a moment of almost overwhelming temptation. Love and ambition wrestled in his soul. He stood silent.
"For only five years," the king pleaded. "For five years give me your heart. Man!" he shouted, impatiently, "will you not answer?"
"I will consider," said Vergilius, calmly.
"Go!" said Herod, in a burst of ire. Then, presently: "Now, now I will attend to the son of Doris."
And Vergilius hastened away.
Within the hour, Antipater, son of Herod the Great, was dragged to that strong chamber in a remote end of the vast home of Herod whence were to come cries for mercy by night such as he had often heard from his own victims.
CHAPTER 23
Now in Vergilius and in many of that time the human heart had dropped its plummet into new depths of feeling, the human mind had made a reach for nobler principles. A greater love between men and women, spreading mysteriously, had been as the uplift of a mighty wave on the deep of the spirit. It had broadened the sympathy of man; it had extended his vision beyond selfish limits. Vergilius and Arria had crossed the boundary of barbaric evolution under the leadership of love. The young man was now in the borderland of new attainment. He was full of the joy and the wonder of discovery. He was like a child—eager for understanding and impatient of delay. Now he thought with the pagans and now with the Jews.
At his palace a letter had been waiting for the tribune. It was from his friend Appius. "My excellent and beloved Vergilius," it said, "I address you with a feeling of deep concern for your safety. To-night by tabellarius, my letter shall go down to the sea on its way to Jerusalem. And now to its subject. This morning I went to the public games, and, returning, I was near my palace when a messenger, bearing the command of Augustus, overtook and stopped me. Quickly I made my way to The Laurels. Our great imperator was in his chamber and reading letters. He gave me a glance and greeted me. I saw he wished me to come near, and I stood close beside him. Then, with that slow, gentle tone, he hurled his lightning into me—you remember his way. He told me, as he read, that you were making rapid progress in Jerusalem; that you had become a conspirator, a prophet, and were likely soon to be an angel. And he bade me go to you with his congratulations that you have succeeded so long in keeping your head upon your shoulders. Oh, deep and cunning imperator! Said he: 'I cannot tell you the name of my informant; and really, my good son, why—why should I?' There, spread before me on the table, so I knew he wished me to see it, was a letter which bore the signature of Manius and gave information of a certain council. I could not make out the name, but I was able to recall how the great father had said to me, once, that when a man secretly puts blame upon another, the infamy he charges shall be only half his own. Our imperator is no fool, my friend. 'A ship will be leaving the seventh day before the ides,' said he. 'You will not be able to make it.' His meaning was clear. It could bear my warning, if not me, and here it is. With the gods' favor, soon, also, I shall be able to say to you, here am I. To-morrow at dawn I leave for Jerusalem."
Beneath the signature these words were added: "As soon as possible I wish to know all and to speak my heart to you. The emperor has withdrawn his consent to your marriage with Arria. I shall explain everything but the purpose of the emperor, and who may understand him? If it be due to caprice or doubt or anger he will do you justice. But if a deeper motive is in his mind who knows what may happen?"
This letter kindled a fire in the heart of Vergilius. It burned fiercely, so that prudence and noble feeling were driven out. In spite of the warning of the young tribune, Manius had remained in Jerusalem. Vergilius had delayed action, dreading to bring the wrath of Rome upon one so young, so well born, so highly honored, and possibly so far misled. Therefore, he had held his peace and waited patiently for more knowledge. Now the evil heart of the assessor was laid bare, his infamy proven. Vergilius reread the letter with flashing eyes. Then he summoned his lecticarii and set out for the palace of the plotter. Manius approached him, a kindly greeting on his lips.
"Liar!" Vergilius interrupted, his hand upon his sword. "Speak no word of kindness to me!"
"What mean you, son of Varro?" the other demanded.
"That, with me, you have not even the right of an enemy. You are a deadly serpent, born to creep and hide. Shame upon you—murderer! If there be many like you, what—God tell me!—what shall be the fate of Rome?"
Vergilius stepped away, and, lifting his hands, gave the other a look of unspeakable scorn. Manius made no reply, but stood as still and white as marble, with sword in hand.
"It was I who sat beside you that night," said the other, his voice aglow with feeling. "When I heard you speak treason I cut off the end of your girdle. But you left by some unguarded way and escaped the fate of your fellows. You have not seen them since, and shall not. When you see them die in the arena think what you escaped, although deserving it more than they. Vile serpent! you brought the king, and hoped to send me also to Hades. You are a traitor, and that I know. Traitor to friend and country! Dare to provoke me further and I shall slay you!"
"What would you, son of Varro?" said the other, sullenly.
"Wretch! If you would save your life, hide as becomes the asp. Creep away from them who would put their feet upon you. Go live and die with the wild men of the far deserts."
"Traitor to the gods!" said Manius, threatening with his sword. "Roman
Jew! I am of noble birth, and claim the right of combat."
"I give it, though you have no better right than dogs. Well, it would please my hand to slay you. I know the name and father you have dishonored, and you are grandnephew of the good Lady Claudia—noble mother of Publius. For their sake I give you the right of combat. By the wayside near Bethlehem are lonely hills. There, the seventh day before the kalends, in the middle hour of the night, you shall see a beacon-fire and near it my colors. Three friends may go with each, and you and I will draw swords in the fire-light."
"I shall meet you there," said Manius. Vergilius, putting away his weapon, turned quickly, and, without speaking, left the traitor's palace with firm faith in the one God—that he was ever on the side of the just who humbly sought his favor.
CHAPTER 24
The festival of games, in honor of Augustus, were about to begin at Caesarea. Lately the highway from north to south, which passed the gates of Jerusalem, had been as a fair of the nations. A host had journeyed far to amuse the great king or to enjoy his holiday. Gayer and more given to proud speech than they who came to the festivals of the Temple, beneath the skull-bone there was yet a more remarkable unlikeness.
These were mostly the children of Hatred, each heart a lair of wild passions, each brain teeming with catlike gods. Here were they to be lifted up by the power of love—the heathen, the debased. What a gathering of the enemies of God and man! Crowding at the gates were gladiators from Greece and Rome; Arab chiefs upon camels, with horses trained for the race; troops of rich men with armed retainers; hunters bringing wild beasts in cages lashed upon heavy carts; squads of Roman cavalry; gamblers, peddlers, thieves, bandits, musicians, dancers, and singers, some walking, some riding horse or camel. Many had travelled far for one purpose—to behold the great king. Now solemn whispers of gossip had gone to every side of the city. Herod was ill, so said they, and had not long to live. That morning of the day before the games the old king had summoned Vergilius.
"I will not be cheated by God or man," said he, fiercely. "Tell the master of the games that I will have him entertain me here to-day, after the middle hour, in my palace court. Bid him bring beast and gladiator and the strong men of the prisons. Let him not forget the traitors. I would have, also, a thousand maids to sing and dance for me."
The king looked down, impatiently, at his trembling hands. He flung a wrathful gesture, and again that bestial voice: "Go, bid him bring them!"
So at the middle hour a wonderful scene was beginning in the great court of Herod's palace. The king sat on a balcony with Salome, Elpis, Roxana, Phaedra, and others of his kindred. On the circular terraces of a great fountain below and in front of them were rows of naked maidens. Circle after circle of this living statuary towered, with diminishing radii, above the court level, to an apex, where a stream of cool, perfumed water, broken to misty spray, rose aloft, scattering in the sunlight. So cunningly had they contrived to enhance the charm of the spectacle, those many graceful shapes were under a fine, transparent veil of water-drops lighted by rainbow gleams and sweet with musky odor. Circles were closely massed around the base of the fountain. They stood in silence, all looking down. The old king surveyed them. Within the palace a hundred harpers smote their strings, flooding the scene with music. Slowly each circumference began to move. Step and measure increased their speed. The circles were now revolving, one around another, with swift and bewildering motion. At a signal the silent figures broke into song. They sang of the glories of Jerusalem and the great king. Herod's hand was up—he would have no more of it. The song ceased, the circles, one by one, rolled into helices which, unbending into slender lines, vanished quickly beneath a great arch. Then a trumpet peal and a rattle of iron wheels. Brawny arms were pushing a movable arena. Swiftly it came into that ample space between the king and the great fountain. Behind its iron bars a large lion paced up and down. Two hundred mounted men of the cohort stood in triple rank some fifty paces from the scene. Vergilius, on a white charger, was in front of the column.
While Arab slaves pushed the arena into place, David came and touched the arm of the young tribune. He whispered, eagerly: "My sister, Cyran the Beloved, is here. She is waiting at the castle."
"Whence came she?" said the tribune, with astonishment.
"From the port of Ascalon, where she arrived by trireme with Appius.
They were wrecked, finding shore in a far country. There the friend of
Caesar, Probus Sulpicius Quirinus, discovered them on his way from
Carthage, and brought them hither."
Appius, fearing Antipater, had waited by the sea while Cyran came to find her brother and Vergilius. The prince's threat and the words of Caesar had checked his feet with caution. He forbade Cyran to tell any one of the presence of Arria.
"And where is my friend?" Vergilius demanded.
"He waits on the ship to hear from you—whether it be safe to come. It seems Antipater has threatened him."
"Tell Cyran I would have her come to me. Then find my orderly and bid him bring Appius hither by the way of Bethlehem. If he arrives there before the end of the third watch he will see my fire-light on the hill."
David left the scene as a powerful Thracian, standing by the arena's gate, saluted the king. Entering, the gladiator engaged the lion with his lance. Incautiously he pressed his weapon too far, drawing blood. Before he could set his lance the wild foe was upon him. A leap into the air, a double stroke of the right fore-paw, and down fell the beast, while the man reeled, with rent tunic, and caught the side of the arena. In a twinkling, as he clung feebly, he reddened from head to toe. Three bestiarii had thrust in their lances and held the lion back; others opened a gate and removed the dying gladiator. Herod, leaning over, beckoned to the master of the games.
"A noble lion!" said he, his voice trembling. "Save him for the battle of the pit."
Now, in pursuance of the order of the king, a pit had been dug and walled with timber near that place where the fighter had met his death. A score of slaves forthwith lowered the arena into the pit with ropes. Herod and all who sat with him could see the open top of the barred space, but the beast was beyond their vision.
Another trumpet-call. A band of prisoners have entered the court. Antipater, tall and erect in exomis of plain gray, right arm and shoulder bare, walked in the centre of the front rank. Traitors of the betrayed council were there beside him. Slowly they about to die came forth and stood in even rank and bowed low before the king. Herod beat his palms upon the golden rail before him and muttered hoarsely. Then with raised finger and leering face he taunted them.
"Outlaws!" he croaked. "I doubt not ye be also cowards."
All drew back save Antipater and a huge Scythian bandit. They drew broadswords and rushed together, fighting with terrific energy. The Scythian fell in a moment. One after another four conspirators came to battle with their chief, but each went down before his terrible attack. Some asked for mercy as they fell, but all perished by the hand of him they had sought to serve. Held for the battle of the pit, the young Roman whom Vergilius had recognized in the council chamber advanced to meet Herod's son. He had won his freedom in the arena and lost it in the conspiracy of the prince. He was a tall, lithe, splendid figure of a man. The heart of the young commander was touched with pity as he beheld the comely youth. This game, invented by Antipater himself, was a test of strength and quickness. Nets were the only weapons, strong sinews and a quick hand the main reliance of either. Each tried to entangle the other in his net and secure a hold. Then he sought to rush or drag his adversary to the edge of the pit and force him down. Weapons lay on every side of the arena below. The unfortunate had, therefore, a chance to defend himself against the lion.
On the signal to begin, Jew and Roman wrestled fiercely, their weapons on their arms, but neither fell. Suddenly Antipater broke away and flung his net. Nimbly the other dodged. Down came the net, grazing his head. Swiftly he sprang upon the Jew, striving to entangle him. Antipater pulled away. Again the Roman was upon his enemy and the two struggled to the very noses of the cohort. Hard by the centre of the column, where sat Vergilius on his charger, the powerful prince threw his adversary, and, choking him down, secured the net over his head. Swiftly he began to drag the fallen youth. Vergilius, angered by the prince's cruelty, could no longer hold his peace.
"'Tis unfair," said he, pointing at Antipater. "In the name of the fatherly Augustus, I protest."
The prince, still dragging his foe, answered with insulting threats.
The young commander leaped from his horse and ran to the side of
Antipater. The latter released his captive and drew sword. Swiftly
Vergilius approached him and the two met with a clash of steel.
Now the first battle in that war of the spirit, which was to shake the world with fury had begun.
Back and forth across the court of Herod they fought their way—the son of light and the son of darkness. Sparks of fire flew from their weapons while a murmur in the cohort grew to a loud roar and the old king and his women stood with hands uplifted shrieking like fiends of hell. Hand and foot grew weary; their speed slackened. Slowly, now, they moved in front of the cohort and back to the middle space. They were evenly matched; both began to reel and labor heavily, their strength failing in like degree. The end was at hand. Now the angel of death hovered near, about to choose between them. Suddenly Antipater, pressing upon his man, fell forward. At the very moment Vergilius, who had been giving quarter, reeled a few paces and was down upon his back. Prince and tribune lay apart some twenty cubits. Both tried to rise and fell exhausted. Half a moment passed. Antipater had risen to his elbow. Slowly he gained a knee, while the other lay as one dead. He rested, staring with vengeful eyes at his enemy. Stealthily he felt for his weapon. The right hand of Vergilius began to move. A hush fell upon the scene. Swiftly, from beside the cohort a fair daughter of Judea, in a white robe, ran across the field of battle. She knelt beside Vergilius and touched his pale face with her hands. Then she called to him: "Rise, O my beloved! Rise quickly! He will slay you!"
"Cyran!" he whispered.
Antipater had gained his feet and now ran to glut his anger. Cyran rose upon her knees and put her beautiful body between the steel and him she loved. The sword seemed to spring at her bosom. She seized it, clinging as if it were a thing she prized. Vergilius had risen. Swiftly sword smote upon sword. The young Roman pressed his enemy, forcing him backward. From dying lips he heard again the old chant of faith:
"Let me not be ashamed—I trust in Thee, God
of my fathers;
Send, quickly send the new king" . . .
The words seemed to strengthen his arm. He fought as one having power above that of men. On and on he forced his foe with increasing energy. He gave him no chance to stop or turn aside. Yells of fury drowned the clash of steel. The tumult grew. The son of Herod was near the pit. He seemed to tempt the Roman to press him. Suddenly he leaped backward to the very edge. The Roman rushed upon him. Before their swords met, Antipater sprang aside with the quickness of a leopard. In cunning he had outdone his foe. Unable to check his onrush, Vergilius leaped forward and fell out of sight. A booming roar from the startled lion rose out of the pit and hushed the tumult of the people. Herod, pointing at his son, shrieked with rage as he bade the soldiers of the cohort to seize and put him in irons.
A score of slaves hastened to the mouth of the pit. They caught the ropes and quickly lifted the arena. As it came into view the tumult broke out afresh. There far spent, resting on his bloody weapon, near the middle of the arena stood Vergilius, and the lion lay dead before him.
Slaves opened the iron gate. Vergilius ran to the still form of the slave-girl. He knelt beside her and kissed her lifeless hand.
"Poor child of God!" he whispered. "If indeed you loved me, I have no wonder that you knelt here to die."
The master brought a wreath of laurel to the young tribune, saying: "'Tis from the king." Vergilius seemed not to hear. Tenderly he raised the lifeless body of Cyran in his arms. The spectators were cheering. "Hail, victor!" they shouted.
"Hail, victor!" he whispered, looking into the dead face. "Blessed be they who conquer death."
CHAPTER 25
The day was near its end. Soldiers of the cohort, bearers of the dead, harpers and singers filed through the gate of Herod's palace. Hard by, in Temple Street, were many people. An old man stood among them, his white beard falling low upon a purple robe, his face turned to the sky. He sang as if unconscious of all around him. Often he raised his hand, which trembled like a leaf in the wind. Horses, maidens, and men halted to hear the words:
"Now is the day foretold of them who dwell in
the dust of the vineyard.
Bow and be silent, ye children of God and ye of
far countries.
Consider how many lie low in the old, immemorial vineyard.
Deep—fathom deep—is the dust of the dead
'neath the feet of the living.
"Gone are they and the work of their hands—all
save their hope and desire have perished.
Only the flowers of the heart have endured—
only they in the waste of the ages,
Ay—they have grown, but the hewn rock has
crumbled away and the temples have fallen.
Bow, haughty people; ye live in the day of
fulfilment—the day everlasting.
Soon the plough of oppression shall cease and
the ox shall abandon the furrow.
Ready the field, and I sing of the sower whose
grain has been gathered in heaven.
"Now is he come, with my voice and my soul I declare him.
Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, the Everlasting
Father, the Prince of Peace."
The flood of inspiration had passed. The singer turned away. "It is Simeon," said a voice in the crowd. "He shall not die until his eyes have beheld the king of promise."
Those departing from the games of Herod resumed their march. At the gate of the castle of Antonia, Vergilius, with David and two armed equites, one bearing colors, left the squadron. They rode slowly towards the setting sun. Now there was not in all the world a city so wonderful as Jerusalem. Golden dome and tower were gleaming above white walls on the turquoise blue of the heavens.
"Good friend, I grieve for her who is dead," said Vergilius to David.
"She died for love," the other answered as one who would have done the same.
Vergilius looked not to right nor left. His dark, quivering plume was an apt symbol of thought and passion beneath it. His blood was hot from the rush and wrath of battle, from hatred of them who had sought his life. He could hear the cry of Cyran; "Rise, rise, my beloved!" Again, he was like as he had been there on the field of battle. He could not rise above his longing for revenge. He hated the emperor whose cruel message had wrung his heart; he hated Manius, who had sought to destroy him; he despised the vile and stealthy son of Herod, who had plotted to rob him of love and life; he had begun to doubt the goodness of the great Lawgiver.
No sooner had he found an enemy than his God was become a god of vengeance. The council, the continued failure of his prayers, the cruelty of impending misfortune, the death of Cyran had weakened the faith of Vergilius. He had begun to founder in the deep mystery of the world. The voice of the old singer had not broken the spell of bitter passion. Vergilius trembled with haste to kill. He feared even that his anger would abate and leave him unavenged. There were memories which bade him to forgive, and of them was the gentle face of Arria, but he turned as one who would say "Begone!" He had not time even to consider what he should do to oppose the will of the emperor. As they rode on, his companion addressed the young commander.
"Saw you Manius in the balcony of Herod?"
"No."
"As I passed beneath it I saw him by the side of Salome, and I heard her say: 'Not until you slay him shall I be your wife.' I fear she means you ill, good friend."
"She-cat!" exclaimed Vergilius. "'Tis a yowling breed that haunts the house of Herod."
They came soon to where a throng was gathered thick, so for a little they saw not a way to pass. In the midst were three men sitting upon tall, white camels, their trappings rich with colored silk and shining metal.
"They speak, to the people," said David. "It must be their words are as silver and gold."
"I doubt not they be story-tellers from the desert," said one behind.
The press parted; the camels had begun to move slowly. One of their riders hailed the young commander, saying, in a voice that rang like a trumpet:
"Where is he that is born king of the Jews?"
"I would I knew," was the answer of Vergilius.
"So shall ye soon," said the stranger. "We have seen his star in the east and have come to worship him."
The camels passed with long, stately strides. The horsemen resumed their journey.
"Strange!" thought Vergilius, turning his charger and looking back.
"They be surely those who have travelled far."
The squad of cavalry, under plume and helmet, moved on, passing the
Joppa gate and riding slowly down a long hill.
"See the glowing clouds yonder," said Vergilius, pointing westward.
"Ay, they be fair as the tents of Kedar," was the answer of David.
"There is a great beauty in the sky and the blue hills," Vergilius remarked, thoughtfully.
"And you would kill, look not upon them—they are so fair."
"If I close my eyes, then, I do see a thing more fair."
"What?"
"The face of one I love. It is a love greater than all other things—fame or king or fatherland."
"Or revenge?" inquired David.
For a little Vergilius made no answer; but presently he said: "I am a
Roman; who seeks my life shall lose his own."
They came upon a ewe lying in the roadway. She looked up with a mute appeal, but moved not. She seemed to reckon upon the kindness of them approaching. The squad parted, passing on either side. All drew rein, and one, dismounting, stood a moment looking down at her. Then laying hold of her fleece, he moved the ewe tenderly aside.
"A sign and a wonder!" said the Roman knight, as they continued their journey. "That old fighter has no hand for kindness."
"But mark this miracle of God," said the friend of Vergilius. "He softens the heart of those with young and makes gentle the hand that touches them. Ay, has he not softened the heart of the world? 'Tis like a mother whose time is near."
Soon a purple dusk had overflooded the hills and risen above the splendor of Jerusalem. The old capital was now like a dim, mysterious, golden isle in a vast, azure sea. Vergilius thought, as he went on, of those camel-riders. He seemed to hear in the lift and fall of hoofs, in the rattle of scabbards, that strange cry: "Where is he that is born king of the Jews?"
Darkness fell upon those riding in silence on the lonely road.
Suddenly they drew rein, listening.
Said Vergilius, whispering: "I thought I heard voices."
"And I," said David, his words touched with awe. "'Twas like tens of thousands singing in some distant place."
Again they listened, but the song, if song it was, had ceased.
Then, boldly, as one who would put down his fear, the color-bearer spoke up; "'Tis a band of shepherd folk on some far hill. Never saw I so dark a night. By the curtains of Solomon, I cannot see my horse!"
"There is no star in the sky," said another.
Then said the young commander, whist with awe: "Look yonder! A light on the hills! I saw it appear."
Amazement was in the tone of David: "Nay, 'tis a window of paradise! Or maybe that time is come when the three great stars should gather side by side. Do you not remember the talk of the astrologers?"
"I say 'tis a light on the hills." Vergilius now spoke in a husky, solemn whisper. "See, 'tis larger; and I would think it near the village of Bethlehem."
After a moment of silence he added, with a laugh: "Why stand we here and whisper, like a lot of women? Let us move on."
Again he seemed to hear peals of song in the sky and their rhythm in hoof and scabbard. It put him in mind of that strange, mysterious chant of the old singer.
Soon he drew rein, saying: "Halt and listen!" They stopped, conscious only of the great silence of the night. Vergilius felt for the arm of his friend.
"What think you?" said he, his voice full of wonder. "I doubt not the sound is in our fancy."
"See! The star! It grows!" said David, eagerly. "'Tis like a mighty lantern hung in the dome of the sky."
Then said Vergilius, a pagan fancy filling his mind: "It may be God is walking upon the earth."
A moment they rode on, looking up at the heavens. Suddenly Vergilius bade them halt again, saying: "Hist! What is that cry?"
Now they could hear a faint halloo far behind them.
Then the bearer of the colors remarked: "It might be the squad of
Manius."
"God curse him!" said Vergilius, quickly, his heart filling with passion dark as the night around. He heard no more the great song, but only the smite of steel in deadly combat. He seemed to see his enemy fall bleeding at his feet. "I will take what Herod offers," he thought. "I will make war on the cats and the serpents."
He had forgotten everything now save his bitterness.
"See! 'Tis gone!" said his friend, in a loud whisper. "The star is gone! I saw it disappear as if a cloud were suddenly come over it."
All drew rein, looking into the sky. Many stars were now uncovered in the vault above them.
"'Twas a light on the hills," said Vergilius, with a vague fear in him.
"Yonder I can see a smaller one. 'Tis a lantern. Look! It moves."
Suddenly they were startled by a mighty voice that seemed to travel far into dark and lonely caverns of the sky. Like a trumpet-call it resounded over the gloomy hills—-that cry of the camel-rider:
"Where is he that is born king of the Jews?"
Vergilius whispered, his awe returning: "They are coming—those men who rode the camels."
Said David, his voice trembling: "They are like many who have gone abroad with that ancient hope in them."
The horsemen now stood, breathing low as they listened. Vergilius was full of wonder, thinking of the awe which had fallen upon him and the others. He tried to throw it off. "We waste time," said he, starting his charger. "Come, good men, we have work to do."
Awhile they rode in silence, their eyes on the light of the lantern. Slowly they came near, and soon saw its glow falling upon rocks and moving shadows beneath it.
Then said David, turning to Vergilius: "The battle—suppose it goes ill with you?"
"Ill!" said the Roman, with rising ire. "Then Jehovah is no better than Mars."
They could now see people standing in the light of a lantern which hung above the entrance of a cave. Its opening was large enough to admit a horse and rider.
"Soldiers of Caesar!"—the whisper went from mouth to mouth there in the light of the lantern.
The horsemen halted.
"I shall soon be done with this traitor to friend and king," thought the tribune, dismounting and approaching the cave.
That group of people under the light, seeing symbols of Roman authority and hearing its familiar voice, fell aside with fear in their faces. A woman standing in the entrance of the cave addressed Vergilius, her voice trembling with emotion.
"Good sir," said she, "if you mean harm to those within I pray you go hence."
"I know not who is within," he answered, as both he and David passed her. Fearing treachery, they drew their swords. Just beyond the entrance of the cave both halted. A man stood before them, his face full of high authority, his hand raised as if to command silence. He was garbed like a toiler and somewhat past middle age, his beard and eyebrows long and gray. A lantern hung near his head, and well beyond him, resting peacefully on the farther floor of the cave, were horses, sheep, and oxen. The man spoke not save by the beckon of his hand. Without a word they followed him. The light of the lantern seemed now to glow with exceeding brightness. They stopped. On the straw before them lay a beautiful young maiden, a child upon her breast. Her arms, which encircled the babe, her hands, her head, her whole body, and the soul within had a glow of fondness. Nature had clothed her for its great event with a fulness of beauty wonderful and yet familiar. In her soft, blue eyes they saw that peace and love which are a part of the ancient, common miracle of God. They saw more, even the light of the world, but were not able to understand. Calmly she looked up at them. Waving strands and masses of golden hair lay above her shoulders and about the head of the child upon her bosom. It was lustrous, beautiful hair, and seemed to glow as the bearded man came near with the lantern. What was there in the tender, peaceful look of the mother, what in her full breasts, what in the breathing of the child, what in the stir of those baby hands to make the soldier bare and bow his head? He leaned against the rock wall of the cave and covered his eyes and thought of his beloved Arria, of his dream of home and peace and little children. The sword fell from his hand. A great sickness of the soul came on him as he thought of those evil days in Jerusalem and of his part in their bloody record. There and then he flung off the fetters of king and emperor.
He knew not yet who lay before him.
As he looked through tears upon them they seemed to be covered with light as with a garment. David knelt before the mother and child in adoration.
Vergilius, full of astonishment, turned to look around him, and saw Manius, who stood near, trembling with superstitious awe. The wonders of the night, the great star and song in the heavens, the glowing cave, the mysterious child and mother had wrought upon him. Were they omens of death?
"Apollo save me!" he whispered, turning to go.
David rose and approached Manius, and spoke with lifted hand.
"Apollo cannot save you," said he. "Kneel! kneel before the sacred mother and put all evil out of your hearts!"
Vergilius knelt, and then his enemy. Manius began to weep.
"O God! who hast softened the heart of the world, give us peace!" said
David.
Again they heard that voice which had greeted their ears in Jerusalem. It spoke now at the entrance of the cave, saying again: "Where is he that is born king of the Jews?"
David, going to the door of the cave, answered: "Here, within."
"Tis he—the new king!" the tribune whispered. "I thought kings were born in palaces, and here are they so near the beasts of the field."
Soon came David, and behind him, following in single file, three men, a God-sent majesty in step and countenance. Vergilius and Manius moved aside, saluting solemnly as the men passed. The young tribune turned to his friend and to Manius.
"Come," he whispered. "The Judge of all the earth is here, and, as for me, I dare not remain."
Softly, silently, they departed, their hearts lifted to that peace none may understand. Gently, gently, Vergilius took the hand of him who had been his enemy. They had forgotten their bitterness and the touch of awe had made them kin.
"All debts are paid, my brother," said Vergilius. "I forgive you."
He struck his sword deep in the earth. "Henceforth it shall be for a ploughshare," he added.
The assessor bowed low, kissing the hand of Vergilius, who quickly mounted horse.
Then said the latter, turning to his followers: "Come, let us make haste. Before the gold is shining in the great lantern of Shushan. I must be on my way to the sea."
"On your way to the sea!" said his friend.
As he answered, the voice of Vergilius had a note of longing and beloved memories: "Yes, for the day is come when I return to the city of Caesar. Nothing shall separate me longer from my beloved. But come, let us seek Appius at the beacon-fire."
On all sides the great shadow was now thick-sown with stars. The group of horsemen, with colors flying, rode swiftly down the broad way to Jerusalem. Suddenly they drew rein. Great surges of song were rolling in upon this rounded isle from off the immeasurable, mighty deep of the heavens. Beating of drums, and waving of banners, and trumpet-sounds, and battle-cries of them unborn were in that new song—so it seemed to those who heard it. Winding over the gloomy hills near them under the light of the great star, they could see a long procession of shepherds bearing crooks. Awhile the horsemen looked and listened. The host of the dead now seemed to cry unto the host of the living:
"Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good-will towards men."
Slowly the song diminished.
"The everlasting gates are lifted up," said David, thoughtfully. Then, thinking of the perils of the new king, he added: "I beseech you, say nothing of these things abroad."
The song had ceased. A cloud, with all its borders bright, now curtained the great star. Another band of horsemen were descending the hill from Bethlehem. Swiftly they came near and halted.
"God send you peace," said the voice of a maiden. "We seek one
Vergilius, officer of the cohort."
"And who is he that you should seek him?" said the young tribune, dismounting quickly.
"My lover," said she, a note of trouble in her voice, "and I do fear his life is in peril."
Vergilius was at her side. Now the light of the great star shone full upon them.
"Blood of my heart!" he whispered, lifting the maiden from her horse.
"Oh, you that have made me love you with the great love!" she cried, pressing her cheek upon his. "I have been as one lost in the desert, and I thank the one God he has led me to you."
A moment they stood together and all were silent.
"God has answered my prayer," said he. "But how came you here?"
Then she whispered: "I came with Appius, and the emperor has written that we are to bring you home."
"And we shall live no more apart," said he. "'Tis a night of ten thousand years, dear love. The Christ is come."
"The Christ is come!" she repeated. "How know you?"
"Have you not seen his light in the heavens nor heard the mighty song?"
"Yes, and all the night we have been full of wonder. Listen!"
Again the air trembled with that peal of song:
"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will towards men."
Slowly it sank into silence. Vergilius drew the maiden close and touched her ear with his lips and whispered: "Love has opened our hearts to the knowledge of mighty things. It has led us to the Prince of Peace."
Then said the maiden: "Let us build a temple wherein to worship him, and make it a holy place."
"And call it home," said the young knight, as he kissed her.