"The gods grant them!" said Augustus, leading the applause.
"And now I shall proclaim the word he has written. It is 'Arria,' and stands, I know well, for the sister of Appius."
He turned quickly to the still and silent figure of the slave behind him. All eyes were now watching her.
"Are you content?" he inquired.
Gray veil and robe fell away, revealing the beautiful sister of Appius.
Vergilius went quickly to her side.
"I declare them for each other!" said the emperor, as all rose and gathered around the two. He took the boy's hand. "Come to me at ten to-morrow," he added.
"But, O father of Rome!" said Arria, looking up at the great man, "how long shall you detain him?"
"Give me half an hour, you love-sick maiden," said Augustus. "He shall be at your palace in good time."
"Come at the middle hour," said the Lady Lucia, her hand upon the arm of Vergilius.
"The gods give you sleep," said the great father, as he bade them good-night.
Beneath the laurels on their way to the gate, Gracus, who rode with
Antipater, said:
"And what of your oath, son of Herod?"
"But they are not yet married," the other answered, malevolently. "Vergilius! Bah! He is the son of a praetor and I am the son of a king. Curse the old fox! He never spoke to me after greetings, and once when I glanced up at him I thought his keen eyes were looking through me.
"Those eyes! Jupiter!" said Gracus, "they drop a plummet into one."
CHAPTER 6
Now there were few barriers between the emperor and the people. He went to work in his study at an early hour and gave a patient hearing to any but foolish men. This morning he had been reading a long address from the legate of Syria. He had a way of dividing his thought between reading and small affairs of the state. His legate recited all he had been able to learn of the new king they were now expecting in Judea. He told also of a plot which had baffled all his efforts and which aimed to take the life of Herod and crown the king of prophecy and divine power.
"We must have a spy of noble blood and bearing, of unswerving fidelity and honor, and with some knowledge of the religion of Judea," said the legate. "Of course, you will not be able to find him, for where in all the world, save yourself, good father, is there such a man?"
Augustus dropped the sheet of vellum and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"How about this young Vergilius—the handsome, clever, woman-loving Vergilius?" he thought. Then for a moment the cunning emperor laughed silently.
Ever since he began to read the letter he had been conversing with his daughter Julia.
"If you can propose a better candidate for the girl, I—" he paused, looking intently at the letter—"I shall consider him," he added, presently.
"She is beautiful," his daughter whispered. "I know one who will give to the state many thousand aurei."
"No need of hurry. The young Vergilius will give what is better than money, and then—"
The emperor paused again.
"And then?" it was the inquiry of Julia.
"He will forget her and she will grow weary and yield. There's time enough, and time"—he took a little mirror from the table and looked down upon it—"can accomplish many things," he added. "It will have the assistance of fame and honor and new faces. Now go, I beg of you, and leave me to my work."
A delegation of Jews—petty merchants of the Trastevere—were leaving as Vergilius entered. The emperor, now alone save for his young caller, rose and gave him a sprig of laurel.
"Sit here," said he, resuming his seat and pausing for a little to study a sheet of vellum in his hands. He continued, without raising his eyes: "I have another test for you, my fair son. You shall be assistant procurator in Jerusalem, with rank of tribune. It may be you shall have command of the castle. Three days from now take the south road with Manius and a troop of horse. This court of Herod—of course, I am speaking kindly, my dear Vergilius—but, you may know, it is a place of mysteries, and there are many things I do not need to say to you."
The old emperor, leaning forward, touched the arm of the young man and gave him a cunning glance.
"A cipher," he added, passing the sheet of vellum. "It will be known to you and to me only. You will understand what I wish to know. You shall have command of a cohort."
Vergilius thought for a second of that strange overhauling of Manius the night before, and of the shrewdness of the great father in returning him, kindly, to his task, with a pair of eyes to keep watch of him.
"With all my heart I thank you," said the young knight. "But—my beloved father—I was hoping to marry and—and know the path of peace."
"But I am sure you will wait two years—only two years," said the other, rising with extended hands. "There is time enough; and remember, whether to peace or war, your path is that of duty. Farewell!"
It was a way he had of commanding, kindly but inexorable, and Vergilius knew it. Again he spoke as the knight turned away.
"This young Antipater—do you know him?"
"Not well."
"But, possibly, well enough," said the emperor, with a knowing look. Then, casually: "Oh, there is yet a little matter—that new king the Jews are looking for—if he should come, I suppose he will report to me, but—but let me know what you learn. Study the Jewish faith and discover what this hope is founded upon." Then he turned quickly and went away.
This "little matter" counted much with the shrewd emperor. Kings were his puppets, and if there were to be a new one he must, indeed, consider what to do with him. Yet he had shame of his interest in "that foolish gossip" of an alien race. Therefore he put it only as a trifling after-thought. But he had a way of talking with his eyes, and the alert youth read them well.
That elation of the young lover now had its boundary of thoughtfulness. Going down the Palatine, he was also descending his hill of happiness. Below him, in the Forum, he could see the golden mile-stone of Augustus, now like a pillar of fire in the sunlight; he could see the beginning of those many roads radiating from it to far peripheries of the empire. Tens of thousands had turned their backs upon it, leaving with slow feet, some to live in distant, inhospitable lands, some to die of fever and the sword, some to return forgotten of their kindred, and some few with laurels of renown; but all of these many who went away were leaving, for long or forever, love and home and peace.
"The army is sucking our blood, and Hate grows while Love is starving," Vergilius reflected, as he went along, while a hideous, unwelcome thought grew slowly, creeping over him. This golden mile-stone was the centre of a great spider-web laced by road and sea way to the far corners of the empire; and that cunning, alert man—who was he but the spider?
"And I—what am I, now, but one of his flies caught in the mighty web?" he thought. "Love and its peace have come to me and I shall know them—for three days—and perhaps no longer."
His wealth and rank and influence might, if used with diplomacy, have kept him at home, for, after all, he was a Varro; but Arria had been used to press him into bondage.
"Another test!" he said to himself. "Ah, what a cunning old fox! He needed a spy, and one of character and noble blood. How well he tested my cleverness! And now I am his, body and soul."
CHAPTER 7
While Vergilius, going slowly, was thinking of these things, Vanity, the only real goddess who, in Rome, managed the great theatre of fashion, had her stage set for a love scene. It was to occur in the triclinium, or great banquet-hall, of a palace—that of the Lady Lucia. There were portrait-masks and mural paintings on either wall; ancestral statues of white marble stood in a row against the red wall; there were seats and divans of ebony enriched by cunning hands; lamp-holders of wrought metal standing high as a man's head, and immense violet rugs on the floor. The heroine wore a white robe banded low with purple, and her jewelled hair was in fillets of gold. There was always a pretty artfulness in the match-making of a patrician beauty and her mother. Indeed, life had grown far from elemental emotions.
"Now, when he enters," said the girl, turning to the Lady Lucia, "I shall bring him here at once and sit down by this heap of cushions, and then—Oh, god of my heart! What shall I do with that big man—what shall I say to him?"
"My dear, he will speak, and then you will know what to say," said the matron. "Only do not let him know that you love him—at least, not for a time yet."
"Too late; I fear he knows it now—the wretch!" said Arria, rubbing her cheeks to make them glow.
"But mind you hold him off, and do not let him caress you for an hour at least. One kiss and one only."
"One!" the girl repeated, with contempt. "How ungenerous are the old!"
"Hard to count are a lover's kisses," her mother answered, with a sigh. "But you can use them up in a day. Really, you can use them up all in a day."
"A day full of kisses! Oh, heart of me! Think of it!" said the beautiful girl, covering her face a moment. "I will not have the yellow cushions," she added, quickly. "Here, take these and bring me two violet ones, and that cushion of gauze filled with rose leaves. I will have that in my lap when we are sitting here. Now what do you think of the colors?" she demanded.
"Beautiful! And best of all that in your cheeks. I doubt not he will worship you."
"Or he is no kind of a man," said Arria, thoughtfully. "Oh, son of Varro! come, I am waiting. If he takes me in his arms, what shall I do?"
"Thrust him aside—tell him that you do not like it."
"And what shall I do if he does not?"
"Bid him go at once. We have no need of any half-men."
"But he will," said the girl, with a worried look. "He shall embrace me—he shall, or—or I will bid my brother kill him. Oh, wretch!" She jumped to her feet with a merry cry. "I have an idea," she added, clapping her hands. "When the sunlight falls on the floor yonder, I will get up and dance in it."
"A pretty trick!" said her mother.
"Oh, son of Varro! why do you not come?" said the girl, impatiently. "I love him so I could die for him—I could die for him! Perhaps he loves me not and I shall never see him again."
She hurried to the outer court, whispering anxiously: "Come, son of
Varro. Oh, come quickly, son of Varro!"
When Vergilius arrived Arria was waiting for him there in the court of the palace. Her white silk rustled as she ran to meet him. Her cheeks had the pink of roses and her eyes a glow in them like that of diamonds. She stopped as he came near, and turned away.
"Tears?" said he, leaning down, with his arms about her. "Oh, love, let me see your face!"
She turned quickly with a little toss of her head and took a step backward.
"You shall not call me love," said she—"not yet. You have not told me that you love me."
"I told all who were at the palace of the great father."
"But you have not told me, son of Varro."
"I do love you." He was approaching.
"Hush! Not now," she answered, taking his hand in hers—temporizing.
"Come, I will race with you."
She ran, leading him, with quick, pattering feet through an inner hall and up the long triclinium. There, presently, she threw herself upon the heap of cushions.
"Now, sit," said she, draping her robe and then feeling her hair that was aglow with jewels.
A graceful and charming creature was this child of the new empire, a noble beauty in her face and form, the value of a small kingdom on her body. "Not so near," said she, as he complied. "Now, son of my father's friend, say what you will and quickly."
"I love you," he began to say.
"Wait," she whispered, stopping him as she turned, looking up and down the great hall. "It is for me alone. I will not share the words with any other. Now tell me—tell me, son of Varro," she whispered, moving nearer; "tell me at once."
"I love you, sweet girl, above gods and men. You are more to me than crowns of laurel and gold, more than all that is in the earth and heavens. My heart burns when I look at you."
He hesitated, pressing her hand upon his lips.
"Is that all?" said she, with a pretty sadness, looking down at the golden braces on her fan. "Now, say it again, all, slowly."
She might as well have told a bird how he should sing.
He went on all unconscious of her command, his words lighted by the fire in his heart. They were as waters rippling in the sun-glow.
"Without you there is no light in the heavens, no beauty in the earth, no hope or glory in the future, no joy in my heart. My sword threatens me, dear love, when I think of losing you."
She turned, quickly, with almost a look of surprise.
"It is beautiful," said she, with a sigh; "but is there no more?
Think, dear, noble knight; do think of more!"
She was near forgetting her plan. He took her in his arms and kissed her.
"Think—think of more," said she, "and I will dance the tourina."
There was a note of gladness in her voice. It rang merry as a girdle of silver bells. Now, on the floor near them was a golden square of sunlight, and, tabret in hand, she sprang up and began to dance in it. She moved swiftly back and forth, her arms extended, her white robe flowing above the sapphires in each purple fillet on her ankles.
"Now, dear Vergilius, tell me, why do you love me?" she said, throwing herself upon the cushions near him with glowing cheeks.
"Because you are Arria. Because Arria is you. Because I must, for your pure and noble heart and for your beauty," said he. "When I look upon you I forget my dreams of war and conquest; I think only of peace and love and have no longer the heart to slay. Oh, sweet Arria! I feel as if I should fling my swords into the Tiber."
"Oh, my love! could I make you throw your swords into the Tiber I should be very happy." Her eyes had turned serious and thoughtful. Her girlish trickery had come to an end. Vanity retired, now, and Love had sole command.
He put his arms about her and rained kisses upon her face, her hair, her eyes. "Say it all again, dear Vergilius—say it a hundred times," she whispered.
"My dear one, I love you more than I can say. Now am I prepared to speak in deeds, in faithfulness, in devotion."
"But, once more, why do you love me? Why me?" said she, moving aside with an air of preoccupation, her chin resting upon her hand, her elbow upon the gauze pillow of rose leaves in her lap. "Is it my beauty more than myself?"
"No," he answered; "your beauty is intoxicating, and I thank the gods for it, but your sweet self, your soul, is more, far more to me than your grace and all your loveliness."
She had dreamed of such love but never hoped for it, and now all the pretty tricks she had thought of had become as the mummery of fools. She sat in silence for a little space, her eyes upon her girdle, and a new and serious look came into her face.
"I shall try, then," said she, presently—"I shall try to be noble.
But shall you—shall you truly throw your swords into the Tiber?"
"Would I might," said he, sadly. "And now I must tell you—" He paused, and Arria turned quickly, her lips trembling as her color faded.
"In three days I go to Jerusalem," he added, "by command of the emperor."
"For how long?" she whispered, her eyes taking years upon them as the seconds flew.
"For two years."
Quickly she hid her face in the cushions and her body quivered. That old, familiar cry, which had in it the history and the doom of Rome, rang in the great halls around them—that cry of forsaken women.
"The iron foot is upon us," said he. "Do not let it tread you down as it has other women. Be my vestal and guard the holy fire of love."
Then he told of Cyran, the slave-girl, and added: "I leave her in your care. Every day she will cause you to think of me."
CHAPTER 8
It was near the middle hour of the night. Many, just out of banquet-hall, theatre, and circus, thronged the main thoroughfares of the capital. Cries of venders, ribald songs, shouts of revelry, the hurrying of many feet roused the good people who, wearied by other nights of dissipation, now sought repose. They turned, uneasily, reflecting that to-morrow they would have their revenge.
Antipater had dined with but a single guest—a young priest, who, arriving that very day from Damascus, had sought the palace of his countryman. The service at his table had not pleased the prince. Leaping from his couch, he struck down a slave and ordered his crucifixion. It was a luckless Arab, who many times had unwittingly offended his master.
Now the son of Herod lay asleep where, a little time ago, he had been feasting. Manius, who had just entered the palace of his friend, came into the banquet-hall. He touched the arm of Antipater, who started with a curse and rose with an apology.
"I was dreaming of foes and I see a friend," he muttered. "Forgive me, noble Manius."
The prince pulled a golden bell-cord that shone against the green pargeting of the wall.
"Now to our business," he whispered, turning to the officer.
They crossed the atrium, descended a stairway, and threw open a barred door. They were now in a gloomy passage between walls of marble. Antipater halted, presently, and tapped with his seal ring on a metal door. Then a rattle of bolts and the door swung open.
"Now," Antipater whispered, "are you of the same mind?"
"I am."
"And again you swear secrecy?"
"I do."
Without more delay they entered a room walled with white marble and lighted by candles. A bearded Jew, in a scarlet cloak embroidered with gold, rose to greet them.
"To John ben Joreb I present the noble Manius," said Antipater.
"Blessings of the one God be upon thee," said Ben Joreb, bowing low.
"And the favor of many gods on thee," said the assessor. "From
Jerusalem?"
"Nay, from Damascus."
Antipater stirred the fire in iron braziers on either side of the room, and then bade them recline beside him at a small table whereon a supper waited.
"Ben Joreb has good news of our plan," said he, turning to Manius.
"It prospers," said the priest. "Our council is now in thirty cities."
"And the king is better," said Manius. "He will not soon perish of infirmity."
"But you tell me that my father suffers?"
Antipater started nervously. A long, weird wail from the Arab dying on a cross in the garden flooded down the flues.
"A hundred deaths a day," said Ben Joreb.
"I have been talking with Manius," Antipater answered. "He thinks it would be a mercy to—"
He was interrupted again. That tremulous, awful cry for mercy found its way to his ear. It seemed to mock the sacred word. Antipater jumped to his feet, cursing.
"I will put an end to that," said he, rushing to the door and flinging it back and running down the passage.
Manius turned to Ben Joreb.
"What is there in the howling of that slave?" he whispered. "I am weak-hearted."
"I take it for a sign," the other answered, gravely. "It is written, 'Thy spirit shall be as the candle of the Lord,' and, again, 'Thou shall hearken to the cry of anguish.'"
In a few moments Antipater returned.
"I have summoned the carnifex," said he, bolting the door and resuming his place at the table. "I was saying to you, good Manius, that my friend here, Ben Joreb, would think it a great mercy to remove him."
"A great mercy!" Ben Joreb answered; "a man's mercy to him; a God's mercy to his people."
"And what think you?" said Antipater, turning to Manius.
"I agree; 'twould be a mercy, but a risky enterprise," said the Roman.
"I would risk my head to save him a day of pain," said the treacherous son of Herod. "You love him not as I do or you would brave all to end his misery."
There was now half a moment filled with a long, piercing cry from beyond the walls of the palace until Antipater spoke, a tiger look in his face again. "Put the lance into him, my good carnifex," he growled, striking with clinched fist. "Again, now; and again, and again."
He listened for a breath, and as silence came he added, "There, that will do."
Neither spoke for a little time.
"I wish I could make you feel how dearly I love my father," he went on, addressing his friends now and hiding his claws with revolting guile and all unconscious that he had shown them.
Again a breath of silence, in which Manius thought of the black leopard when he lay making those playful and caressing movements on the floor. And there came to the heart of Ben Joreb a fear that this man might prove more terrible than his father.
"We feel it," said Manius, with inner smiles that showed not upon his face.
"Then be servants of my love."
"And of our own welfare?"
"Certainly! You shall each have a palace in Jerusalem and fifty thousand aurei; and you, Manius, shall command the forces on land and sea, and you, John ben Joreb, of the tribe of Aaron, shall be high-priest."
"I agree," said Manius, an overwhelming cupidity in the words.
"And I agree," said the Jew, who had entered upon this intrigue with motives of patriotism, and now, although suspicious of the result, was committed beyond a chance of turning.
"Angels of mercy!" Antipater exclaimed, rising and taking a hand of each in his. "My love shall be ever a shield and weapon for you. One other thing. The couriers who bring to Rome news of my father's death—bid them hurry and take with them, also, word of the illness of that dog Vergilius. After they leave let him not linger in needless pain—do you understand me? For that, I say, each of you shall have five thousand aurei added to his wealth."
The others nodded.
"Now take this—it may be useful," whispered the prince of Judea, handing a little golden box to the assessor. "There is something in it will hasten the effect of wine—a fine remedy for a weary land, good Manius. He that makes it a friend shall have no enemies. Hold, let me think. That old fox on the hill yonder has a thousand eyes and his ears are everywhere. Not a word, Manius, after we leave this door. In yon passage turn to the right. Walk until your head touches the ceiling, then creep to the door. Open it and use your ears. If no one is passing, go straight ahead. You will come to a gate on the Via Sacra. You," he added, turning to Ben Joreb, "shall leave by the main gate."
When both had gone, this prince of Judea walked across the inner hall of his palace and flung himself on the cushions of a great divan.
A swarthy eunuch came near him on tip-toe.
"Begone!" The word burst from the lips of Antipater in a hoarse growl, and, like a tiger's paw, his hand struck the cushions in front of him. As he lay blinking drowsily, his chin upon his hands, there was still in his face and attitude a suggestion of the monster cat.
And he thought fondly of his wreaking of vengeance when he should be crowned the great king of prophetic promise—of the fury of armies, of the stench of the slain, of the cry of the ravished, of "mountains melting in blood."
CHAPTER 9
It was the fifth anniversary of that resolution of the senate fathers to consecrate the altar of Peace. Pilgrims thronged the city, and some had journeyed far. Tens of thousands surrounded the great monument, immense and beautiful beyond any in the knowledge of men. It signalized a remarkable state of things—the world was at peace. More than seven centuries before that day an idea had entered the heart of a prophet; now it was in the very heart of the world. This heap of marble, under pagan gods, had given it grand, if only partial, expression. There was no symbol of war in the long procession of its upper frieze, and its lower was like a sculptured song of peace wrought in fruits and bees and birds and blossoms. Here was a mighty plant flowering twice a year and giving its seed to the four winds. Every July and January its erection was celebrated in the imperial republic.
Vergilius stood beside the emperor that day when, at the Ars Pacis
Augustas, he addressed the people.
"I have been reading," he said, "the words of a certain dreamer of Judea, who, in the olden time, wrote of a day when swords should be beaten into ploughshares and spears into pruning-hooks, and when peace should reign among the nations of the earth. Well, give me an army for a hundred years, good people, and then I may voice the will of the gods that iron be used no more to plough its way in living flesh, but only to turn the furrow and to prune the tree. Meanwhile, believe me, every man must learn to love honor and virtue, and to respect his neighbor, and the gods above all."
A hundred years! The playful emperor knew not how quickly a man passes and how slowly, how exceeding slowly, moves the great procession of mankind. But so it befell; the very right hand of Jupiter had helped in the sowing of that seed which, as it grew, was to lift the foundations of his power.
Vergilius left the scene with Augustus. They rode away in the royal litter.
"In all the great cities men are speaking to-day of the value of peace and honor," said the subtle emperor—a sceptic in religion, a cynic in philosophy, a rake in private life, and a conqueror who commanded "peace" with a trained army of four hundred and fifty thousand men.
"It is a great thing to do," said the young knight.
"Give me men enough to say it, and if they grow not weary I will bring the world to believe that the sun is only the breast-plate of Jupiter," said Augustus. "Honor and peace are good things—do not forget that, my young friend. Give the words to your tongue, not flippantly, but with a sober eye, and often, my brave knight—often. You leave to-morrow—have you made ready?"
"Ready but for the leave-taking;" this with a sigh.
"It ill becomes you to be cast down. Shake your heart with laughter—it will roll away the stone of regret. Buy a fool, my young friend. For five thousand denarii you may obtain a most excellent fool."
He knew the price of all, from the hewer of wood to the crowned king, but only he could afford a slave like that.
"I should prefer a wise man," said the young knight.
"Philosophers are more expensive," the father continued, craftily—"twenty thousand denarii, and dear at that. They will teach you little but discontent. I recommend a grammarian."
The old emperor turned his cunning eyes upon the face of Vergilius.
"Forty thousand, at least, for a good one," he added; "but a youth of your talent should remember the value of immortal fame." Word and look were a hint to the young man that he should prepare himself with all diligence for an active career in the senate. The youth understood their meaning and was a trifle comforted. There was no promise nor the least warrant for a claim—it was only the emperor's way of guiding.
They were now passing a row of shops on the Via Claudia. The emperor, putting his hand out of the door, motioned to his lecticarii and they halted.
"Come with me," said the great man. They left the litter and entered a large shop. There Augustus bought many gifts for the young man—new arms, a beautiful corselet, a girdle of the look of knitted gold—for the Roman wore a girdle in Judea—articles of apparel suited to the climate of the Far East. The shop had filled with people, who tried to cover their curiosity by the purchase of trifles.
"This cloth would make a fine toga," said the shopkeeper.
The emperor surveyed it closely.
"Let me hold it up to the light and then you will see its texture," the other continued.
"You are a hard master," said Augustus.
"You would have us walk on the house-tops to show the fineness of our togas? It is enough. Let us pass, good people."
A cheer, starting at the shop door, went to the far sides of the city. It signified that the emperor was out among the people and in his best mood.
Their nomenclator cleared a way for them to the litter and they sat down again, facing each other, the emperor and the boy.
"If I had your riches," the great man remarked, as they went on, "I wonder what I should do with them."
"You jest with me, good father," said Vergilius.
"Nay, but I envy you; for have you not youth and love and the beauty of
Apollo?"
He laid his hand upon the arm of the boy, and there was in his voice and manner a gentleness to make one regret that he lived not in a better time; for, perhaps, after all, he was what he had to be as the ruthless conqueror of a savage world.
"And I—what have I but burdens I dare not lay aside? When I sleep, even, they press upon me. I am weary—but if I should let them fall, what, think you, would happen?"
His keen eyes, seeing before them, possibly, the great down-rush to madness, pressed a glance into the very soul of the young man. The latter started to reply, but with a look the emperor forbade him.
"Think, good youth—learn to think. It will profit you—there is so little competition. By-and-by Rome will need you."
Gently, forcefully this teacher of statesmen had given the young knight his first lesson. It was nearing its end now. The litter had stopped hard by the gate of the Lady Lucia.
"I wonder how you knew my destination," said Vergilius.
"You credit me with small discernment. Learn to know things that are not told you—it is the beginning of wisdom."
CHAPTER 10
Arria met them in the atrium. She saw not the great father of Rome, but only her lover, and ran to him with a little cry of delight.
The playful emperor mounted a chair and stood looking down at them.
"I am so small here in the presence of this great king," said he, as they turned to him. "Were my head as high as the ceiling I am sure I should not be seen."
"What long, good father?" said Arria, bowing low.
"Love! 'Tis better, I have heard, to be ruler of one than of many.
You give him kisses, little tyrant, and me not a glance."
He looked down, smiling at the pretty maiden.
"Because 'tis he I love," said she, her cheeks red with blushes, her eyes upon her sandals. "You—you have been cruel."
"I am sadly out of favor," said Augustus, playfully, stepping to the floor. "If the great king dared, I am sure he would cut off my head, now. Let him not condemn me without trial. Remember the law of Rome."
"You are sending my love away." Her voice trembled as she spoke.
"And happy are you, sweet girl, to have so much to give to your country."
There was a moment of silence. Then said the emperor: "Be merry. 'Tis not for long."
"'Tis a thousand years!" said she, sadly.
He was fond of the young, and her frank innocence appealed to all best in the heart of the old emperor. He turned to greet the Lady Lucia.
"Come with me, son of Varro," said Arria, taking the arm of her lover and leading him away. "It will soon be to-morrow."
"And I am acquitted?" So spoke the emperor.
"You are condemned to the company of my mother," said Arria, quickly.
She wore a tunic of the color of violets, with not a jewel. Now she led her lover to a heap of yellow cushions in the triclinium.
"Dear Vergilius," said she, turning to him with a serious look as they sat down; "tell me again—say to me again how you love me." She held his hand against her cheek and her eyes looked into his.
"Oh, my beloved! I have thought of naught else since I saw you. I have heard your pretty feet and the rustle of your tunic in my dreams; I have felt the touch of your hands; every moment I have seen your face—now glowing with happiness, now white and lovely with sorrow. And, dear, I love its sorrow—I confess to you that I love its sorrow better than its happiness. I saw in your sad eyes, then, a thing dearer than their beauty. It told me that you felt as I feel—that you would live and, if need be, die for the love of me."
The girl listened thoughtfully, and moved close to her lover; he took her in his arms. She had dreamed of many things to say, but now she only whispered to him, her lips against his ear, the simple message: "I love you, I love you, I love you." Then: "But I forgot," said she, pushing him away, a note of fear in her voice. She straightened the folds of her tunic, and drew the transparent silk close to her full, white bosom. It was all unconscious as the trick of a wooing bird.
"And what did you forget?" he inquired.
"That you are you, and a man," said she, sighing. "In some way it is—it is such a pity, I dare not suffer you to caress me. And yet—and yet, I do love it."
"And your lips," said he, embracing her, "they are to me as the gate of
Elysium!"
"It may be we are now in the islands of the blest and know them not," she whispered.
She tried to draw herself away.
"I will not let you go. Indeed, I cannot let you go."
"And I am glad," she answered, with a little laugh, her hand caressing his brow. "I do love the feel of your arms and your lips—beautiful son of Varro!"
"I will not let you go until—until you have promised to be my bride.
Think, the term is only two years."
"Be it one or many, I will be your bride," said she. "And although you were never to return, yet would I always wait for you and think of this day."
She drew herself away and sat thoughtful, her chin upon her hands.
"Now are you most beautiful," said he, "with that little touch of sorrow in your face. It gives me high thoughts to look at you."
While they were thus sitting a woman, well past middle age, came into their presence. She stopped near the feet of Arria. It was her grandmother, the Lady Claudia, once a beauty of the great capital, now gray and wrinkled, but still erect with patrician pride.
Vergilius had risen quickly, bowed low, and kissed her hand.
"I often saw you, son of my friend, when you were a child," said she.
"I remember when you were young you went away with the legions."
"To learn the art of war," he answered.
"Sit down, dear grandmother," said the girl, as he brought a chair.
"Now let her hear you tell me why it is that you have chosen me, dear
Vergilius—let her hear you."
"I know not. Perhaps because your beauty, sweet girl, is like the snare of the fowler and brought me to your hand. Then something in your eyes captured the heart of me—something better than beauty. It is the light of your soul. Love and peace and innocence and gentleness and all good are in it. That is why."
The two embraced each other. The Lady Claudia rose and came and put her hands upon them, and her voice trembled with emotion.
"They are beautiful," said she, "the kisses of the young, and their words are as the music of Apollo's lyre. I thank the gods I have seen it all again. But you are going away to-morrow. Son of Varro, be not as other men. Remember it is not well for women to live apart from the men they love."
"I leave at daybreak," said the young knight. "'Tis for two years, so said the emperor; for 'only' two years."
"She shall not be as others I have known," said the Lady Claudia. "It is an evil time, good youth; but, remember, as men are so are women. Last night I dreamed a wonderful dream of you two, and of a sweet, immortal love between men and women. Some say the dreams of men are, indeed, the plans of the gods. Pray to them. It may be they will give you this great love."
"It is here—it is in her soul and mine!" the youth declared, his arm about Arria. "It has prepared us for any trial—even parting."
"I have so much happiness already," said the girl. "So much—it will keep me through many years."
"Then it is the great love, and I thank the gods I have seen it," said the Lady Claudia. "Who may say where it shall end?" She came near them as she spoke and offered her cheek to the boy. He kissed her, and she went away with tears upon her face.
"Now you are brave and strong with this great love in you," said Vergilius. "Let it bear you up as I leave the palace. Promise you will not cry out. If you do, my beloved, I shall hear always the sound of mourning when I think of you."
"Then I shall not weep," said she, bravely, but with a little quiver in her voice.
She knew the old story of a young man's love—how often he went away with sweet words, to return, if ever, hardened to stern trials and bloody work, his vows long forgotten.
"For your sake, dear Vergilius, I will be calm," she added.
"Now sit here," said he, as he led her to the heap of cushions, "just
as I saw you a little time ago. Rest your chin upon your hands.
There; now your soul is in your eyes. Let me see only this picture as
I go."
He took a handful of her curls and let them fall upon her shoulders.
Then he crowned her with a sprig of vervain from a vase near by.
"I will not weep—I will not weep," she repeated, her voice trembling as he touched her hair.
He moved backward slowly, as one might leave a queen. Her eyes followed him, and suddenly she rose and flew to his arms again.
"I will not weep—I will not weep," said she, brokenly. Again he held her to his breast.
"Though you get fame and glory, forget not love," she whispered.
"Dear one," he exclaimed, kissing her, "this hour shall be in every day of my life."
"But with adventures and battles and the praise of kings it is so easy to forget."
"But with one so noble and so beautiful at home it will be easy to remember. Let us be brave. I am only a woman myself to-day. Help me to be a man."
He led her again to the cushions, and she sat as before—a picture, now, beyond all art, sublime indeed with love and sorrow and trustfulness and repression. It was that look of abnegation upon her that he remembered.
"I shall not rise nor speak again, dear son of Varro," said she. "You shall know that my love for you has made me strong. See, dear love. Look at my face and see how brave I am." Her voice, now calm, had in it some power that touched him deeply. It was the great, new love between men and women—-forerunner of the mighty revolution.
He stood silent, looking down at her. The song of a nightingale rang in the great halls. He turned and brought a lyre that lay on a table near them. She took it in her hands. Then it seemed as if her sorrow fell upon the strings, and in their music was the voice of her soul.
He bowed before her, whispering a prayer; he put all his soul into one long look and quickly went away.
Then she rose and ran to the end of the banquet-hall. "I can hear his voice," she whispered. "No, I must not go—I must not go."
A moment followed in which there came to her a sound of distant voices. She stilled her sobs and listened. She ran towards the loved voice and checked her eager feet.
She stood a moment with arms extended. The sound grew fainter and a hush fell. She ran to the white statue of the little god Eros, and, kneeling, threw her arms around the shapely form and wept bitterly.
CHAPTER 11
The dark was lifting as Vergilius entered the Field of Mars. There were lanterns about his litter, and far and near, in lines and clusters, he could see lights on the plain, some moving, some standing still. Hard by the Tiber he joined a small troop of horse, and vaulting on the shaft of his lance, mounted a white charger. Manius wheeled into place beside him at the head of the column. A quaestor called the roll.
"Ready?" Vergilius inquired, turning to Manius.
"All ready," the other answered.
Then a trumpet sounded and those many feet had begun the long journey to Jerusalem. They made their way to the Forum. Scores of women and children of the families of those departing had gathered by the golden mile-stone. The troop halted. Those who had been waiting in the dank, chill air sought to press in among the horses. It was hard to keep them back. Vergilius, full of his own sorrow, felt for them and gave them good time. A little group, in gray paenula and veils, were watching from without the crowd. He moved aside, beckoning to them.
"Make your farewells," said he, as they came near. "We shall be off in a moment."
A beautiful white hand was extended to him. He took it in his, and then quickly pressed it to his lips.
"Farewell, dear love!" he whispered.
A quick pressure answered him, and the veiled figure turned away. Then a trumpet-call, a flash of blue vexilla and silver eagles in the air, and, a moment later, some eighty hoofs were drumming in the Appian Way. For a little the horsemen heard them that were left behind, wailing.
"It is like a sticking of pigs to leave a lot of plebeian women," said
Manius, when the sound was far out of hearing.
"An arrow in the heart of the soldier, but I think it good," said
Vergilius. "For a time, at least, Rome will be dear to him."
There were forty men riding in the troop, all lancers, saving a few slingers and bowmen. They rattled over the hard Way at a pace of fifteen miles an hour. It was an immense, rock-paved road—this Appian Way—straight, wide, and level, flinging its arches over fen, river, and valley, and breaking through hill and mountain to the distant sea. No citizen might bring his horse upon it unless a diploma had been granted him—it was, indeed, for the larger purposes of the government. After two hours they drew up at a posting-house and changed horses. They rode this mount some forty miles, halting at a large inn, its doors flush with the road. A transport and postal train bound for Rome was expected shortly, and, before eating, Vergilius wrote a letter and had it ready when the wagons came rattling in a deep-worn rut, behind teams of horses moving at a swift gallop. There were five wagons in the train, bearing letters and light merchandise from the south. Hard by was one of the wheelwright-shops that lined the great thoroughfare. The train stopped only a moment for water and a new wheel, then rushed along on its way to the capital. A light meal of bread and porridge, half an hour of rest, and again, with new horses, the troop was in full career. A sense of loneliness grew in the heart of the youth as he journeyed. Lover and soldier had fought their duel, and the latter was outdone. But the lover's courage was now sorely tried. Every mounted courier hastening to Rome on the south road bore a letter from the young man to her he loved. He met a legion of infantry going north, and envied every soldier, sweating under a set pace of four miles to the hour and a burden of sixty pounds—shield, helmet, breast-plate, pilum, swords, intrenching tools, stakes for a palisade, and corn for seventeen days.
A trireme was waiting for them on the Adriatic Sea, and Vergilius, Manius, and their escort sailed to northwestern Macedonia, mounted horses again, galloping over the great highway to Athens; crossed by trireme to Ephesus, thence to Antioch by the long sea-road, and, agreeably with orders, they began to leave their men at forts along the frontier.
Events on the way filled him with contempt for his country and for himself. Here and there he met people travelling under imperial passes that gave them the use of the road and a right of free levy for subsistence, often much abused. These travellers were people of leisure from the large cities, wont to stretch their power to the point of robbery. He saw them seizing slaves and cattle from terrified agrarians; he saw Manius strike a man down for resenting insults to his daughter; he saw the deadly toil of the oarsmen, the bitter punishment of the cross.
His heart was now sore and sensitive. Was it the new love which had flung off its shield of sternness and left it exposed to every lash that flew? The misery of others afflicted him. Thoughts of injustice grew into motives of action, the loss of faith into the gain of unutterable longing. Who were these gods who heard not the cry of the weak and were ever on the side of the strong? Were they only in those hands of power that flung their levin from the Palatine? Could he, who had learned to love innocence and purity, love also the foul harpy which Rome had become? It seemed to him difficult to reconcile the love of Arria and the love of Rome. Was the time not, indeed, overdue when the wicked should tremble and the proud should bow themselves, according to that song of the slave-girl?
From Antioch they turned southward, passing the cloistered plain paved with polished marble, and hurried to Damascus. Thence they rode to Jerusalem. The troop had dwindled to a squad of six, and came slowly into the ancient capital at dawn. From afar they could hear bugles at the castle of Antonia.
"They are changing the guard," Manius remarked.
Having entered the city gates, they passed throngs of cattle and their drivers and many worshippers hurrying to the temple. One of the latter stopped, and, pointing to the eagles and the medallion of Augustus on their signa, shouted loudly:
"I thank Thee, O God, and the God of my fathers, that I am not of them who provoke Thine anger with the graven image."
A chant of many voices from the temple roof floated over the plain, saying:
"The light has come as far as Hebron."
Vergilius turned, looking up at the splendid Doric temple of Jerusalem. As he looked, the sun's rays fell on a great, golden lantern before a thicket of high columns in its eastern portico. It was the signal for another outburst of trumpets.
"They are now making incense for the nostrils of Jehovah," said Manius.
"Soon they will offer him one of the most beautiful lambs in Judea."
In a few moments they drew up at the castle of Antonia. News of their coming had reached Jerusalem by courier, three days before. The captain of the guard repeated part of the introduction.
"Vergilius, son of Varro, sent by the great father?" said he, in a tone of inquiry.
"And worn with much riding," said the young knight.
"I have a message for you. It is from the king."
"He would see me at once," said Vergilius, having read it.
"The sooner you go the more gracious you will be like to find him," said Manius, with a smile.
"My apparel! It is on the transport and has not yet arrived."
"But you have arrived, and forget not you are in the land of Herod—a most impatient king."
"He will not know, however, that we have come," Vergilius answered.
"Friend of Caesar," said the captain of the guard, "within an hour he will know everything you have done since you entered the city—whither you went, to whom you spoke, and what you said, and perhaps even what you thought."
CHAPTER 12
The characters of Herod and Augustus were as far apart as their capitals. Extremes of temperament were in these two. The Roman was cold, calm, of unfailing prudence; the Jew hot-blooded, reckless, and warmed by a word into startling and frank ferocity. The one was keen and delicate, the other blunt and robust. The emperor was a fox, the king a lion. Herod and his people were now worried with mutual distrust. He had no faith in any man, and no man—not even the emperor by whose sufferance he held the crown—had any faith in him. The king feared the people and the people feared the king.
Herod began his career with good purposes. An erect, powerful, and handsome youth of Arabic and Idumaean blood, brave with lance and charger, he raided the bandit chieftain Hezekias and slew him, with all his followers. The Sanhedrim thought not of his valor but only of the ancient law he had broken. They put him on trial for usurping the power of life and death. In the midst of his peril he escaped, taking with him the seed of those dark revenges which, when he got the crown, destroyed all save a single member of the old court of justice and the confidence of his people.
His household became the scene of bloody intrigues which even stirred the tongue of Caesar with contempt. Herod became the dupe of a designing sister, of base flatterers, and of an evil and ambitious son. They undermined his confidence in all who deserved it. His beloved wife Mariamne, his two sons Alexander and Aristobulus, and many others of exceptional good repute in the kingdom were unjustly put to death. Then, swiftly, as he penetrated the maze of plot and counterplot, those who had fooled him began to fall before his wrath. He was now, indeed, a forlorn, loveless, and terrible creature.
Many thought him afflicted with madness. There were noble folk in Jerusalem who said they had seen the body of Mariamne embalmed in honey, above the king's chamber, where every day he could look upon it. Some had seen him wandering about the palace at night with a candle, mourning over his loss and raging at his own folly. Some had seen him so shaken by remorse that he roared like a lion goaded by hunger and the lance. At such a time it was, indeed, a peril to come before him. Plots against his life had worried him, and, distrusting his helpers, he was wont to go about the city in disguise seeking information. Twice he had forgiven Antipater, his favorite son, for crimes in the royal household.
Now, in his seventy-sixth year, the king was, indeed, sorely pressed with trouble. Jerusalem was the centre of a plot formidable and far-reaching. Its object was, in part, clear to him, or so he thought, and with some reason. It seemed to aim at his removal and the crowning of a mysterious king of prophecy, who, many said, was now waiting the death of Herod. It baffled him. He saw signs that many had their heads together in this plot. So far, however, he had not been able to lay hands upon them. There were many theories about the new king. They were strange and conflicting and zealously put forth. They differed as to whether he were yet born and as to his divinity, his character, and his purposes. The Sanhedrim held that when he came into the world there would be certain signs and portents seen of all men. This conflict of authority increased the confusion of Herod. When Vergilius came to his capital the king was mired on the very edge of the great mystery.
Powers of darkness ruled the city of Jerusalem. The sword, the lance, the dagger, and the wheel were wreaking vengeance and creating new perils while they were removing old ones. The king had tried vainly to repair the past. He gave freely to the poor; he erected gorgeous places of amusement; he built the new temple and a great palace in the upper city. The splendor of the latter structures had outdone the imperator. No shape born of barbaric dreams, to be slowly spread upon the earth in marble and gold, had so taxed the cunning and the patience of human hands. Such, in brief, were the character, the troubles, the home, and the city of Herod.
CHAPTER 13
In travel-worn garb Vergilius went early to see the king. Accustomed to the grandeur of Rome itself, he yet saw with astonishment the beautiful groves, the lakes, canals, and fountains sparkling in the sunlight which surrounded the great marble palace of Herod. In the shadow of its many towers, each thirty cubits high, Vergilius began to feel some dread of this terrible king. At least fifty paces from the door of his chamber, in the great hall above-stairs, he could hear the growl of the old lion. In Herod was the voice of wrath and revenge and terror. His words came rolling out in a deep, husky, guttural tone, or leaped forth hissing with anger. Some officials stood by the king's door with fear and dread upon their faces. A young woman of singular beauty was among them.
"O Salome, daughter of Herod," said one, "the king would have you come to-morrow. He is in ill humor with the plotters."
"And I with him," said she, stamping her foot.
An usher had presented Vergilius at the door. As Herod's daughter
proudly turned away, she came face to face with the young Roman noble.
For one moment their eyes held each other. A chamberlain approached
Vergilius, whispered a few inquiries, and then led him before the king.
Herod was having a bad day.
"Traitors!" he hissed. In a voice like the menacing growl of a savage beast he added: "May their eyes rot in their heads! Go! I have heard enough, bearer of evil tidings."
Far down the great chamber in which half a cohort could have stood comfortably, in a carved chair on a dais, under a vault and against a background of blue, Babylonian tapestry, sat the king. A priest had bowed low and was now leaving his presence. The chamberlain announced, in a loud voice, "Vergilius, son of Varro, of Rome, and officer of the fatherly and much-beloved Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Augustus."
The king sat erect, a purple tarboosh and crown of wrought gold upon his head. As Vergilius approached, the dark, suspicious eyes of Herod were surveying him from under long, quivering tufts of gray hair. His great body, in its prime, must have been like that of Achilles.
"Stand where you are, son of Varro," said the king, as he moved nervously. His broad shoulders were beginning to bend a little under their burden of trouble and disease. The harrow of pain and passion had roughened his face with wrinkles. His manner was alert and watchful.
"Have you seen my son?" he inquired, quickly.
"Yes, great sire, and he was well."
"And is he not comely?"
"Ay, and brave with his lance."
"And a born king," said Herod. "I have fixed my heart upon him. I have no other to love—but the great imperator. And how is he?"
"I left him well, good sire."
"Stand a moment, son of Varro," said the king, with an impatient gesture. An attendant approached him and spoke in a low tone. Herod, snarled like a huge cat when the lance threatens.
"Break him on the rack," he muttered; "and unless he tell, crucify him—crucify him. He shall do me no further injury. That priest Lugar, bring him back to me. Quickly now, bring him to me!"
The attendant hurried away, soon returning with him who had retired as
Vergilius entered the king's chamber.
"Saw you the men of learning in Ascalon?" the king demanded.
"I did."
"What said they?"
There was a moment of silence.
"Out with it," said the king, fiercely. "Must I put every man upon the rack? Speak, and that you may tell the truth I shall not demand their names."
"They, also, look for the new king," said Lugar. "Many believe he is already born. They say that on your death he will declare himself."
"And they, too, pray for my death?"
"Most earnestly, my beloved king."
"Traitors!" said Herod, and as he spoke his powerful hands were tearing his kerchief into rags. "I shall soon change the burden of their prayers. Go tell them this: the day I die two of the wisest men from every city in the kingdom shall die also. Go everywhere, and tell these learned doctors they had best pray for my good health."
The priest bowed before his king and retired. The pagan noble looked up at this ruler of the land of the one God and felt a thrill of horror. Herod, turning quickly, beckoned to the young knight, his wrinkles quivering with anger. Now, indeed, he was like a lion at bay.
"Ha-a!" he roared, and his head bent slowly and his voice fell to a low rumble as he continued. "'Tis an evil time in Jerusalem. I weary of this long fight with traitors. They grind their points; they stir poison; they swarm in the streets. They rob me of my friends, and now—now they seek alliance with Jehovah to rob me of my throne. 'Tis well you should know and beware. I have a plan which will make them desire my good health. Report to Quirinus, and remember"—he took a hand of the youth in both of his with a fawning movement—"I have need of friends."
That very day an order went forth that certain of the learned men of every city be assembled in the amphitheatre at Jericho, and be there confined to wait the further pleasure of the king. It was a bold plan through which Herod hoped to confound his enemies and insure his safety. He decreed that on the day of his death all these men should be executed.