[Illustration]




Pearl-Maiden

A Tale Of The Fall of Jerusalem

by H. Rider Haggard

First Published 1901.


Contents

 CHAPTER I. THE PRISON AT CÆSAREA
 CHAPTER II. THE VOICE OF A GOD
 CHAPTER III. THE GRAIN STORE
 CHAPTER IV. THE BIRTH OF MIRIAM
 CHAPTER V. MIRIAM IS ENTHRONED
 CHAPTER VI. CALEB
 CHAPTER VII. MARCUS
 CHAPTER VIII. MARCUS AND CALEB
 CHAPTER IX. THE JUSTICE OF FLORUS
 CHAPTER X. BENONI
 CHAPTER XI. THE ESSENES LOSE THEIR QUEEN
 CHAPTER XII. THE RING, THE NECKLACE AND THE LETTER
 CHAPTER XIII. WOE, WOE TO JERUSALEM
 CHAPTER XIV. THE ESSENES FIND THEIR QUEEN AGAIN
 CHAPTER XV. WHAT PASSED IN THE TOWER
 CHAPTER XVI. THE SANHEDRIM
 CHAPTER XVII. THE GATE OF NICANOR
 CHAPTER XVIII. THE DEATH-STRUGGLE OF ISRAEL
 CHAPTER XIX. PEARL-MAIDEN
 CHAPTER XX. THE MERCHANT DEMETRIUS
 CHAPTER XXI. THE CÆSARS AND PRINCE DOMITIAN
 CHAPTER XXII. THE TRIUMPH
 CHAPTER XXIII. THE SLAVE-RING
 CHAPTER XXIV. MASTER AND SLAVE
 CHAPTER XXV. THE REWARD OF SATURIUS
 CHAPTER XXVI. THE JUDGMENT OF DOMITIAN
 CHAPTER XXVII. THE BISHOP CYRIL
 CHAPTER XXVIII. THE LAMP
 CHAPTER XXIX. HOW MARCUS CHANGED HIS FAITH




TO GLADYS CHRISTIAN A DWELLER IN THE EAST
THIS EASTERN TALE IS DEDICATED
BY HER OWN AND
HER FATHER’S FRIEND

THE AUTHOR
Ditchingham: September 14, 1902.




PEARL-MAIDEN




CHAPTER I
THE PRISON AT CÆSAREA


It was but two hours after midnight, yet many were wakeful in Cæsarea
on the Syrian coast. Herod Agrippa, King of all Palestine—by grace of
the Romans—now at the very apex of his power, celebrated a festival in
honour of the Emperor Claudius, to which had flocked all the mightiest
in the land and tens of thousands of the people. The city was full of
them, their camps were set upon the sea-beach and for miles around;
there was no room at the inns or in the private houses, where guests
slept upon the roofs, the couches, the floors, and in the gardens. The
great town hummed like a hive of bees disturbed after sunset, and
though the louder sounds of revelling had died away, parties of
feasters, many of them still crowned with fading roses, passed along
the streets shouting and singing to their lodgings. As they went, they
discussed—those of them who were sufficiently sober—the incidents of
that day’s games in the great circus, and offered or accepted odds upon
the more exciting events of the morrow.

The captives in the prison that was set upon a little hill, a frowning
building of brown stone, divided into courts and surrounded by a high
wall and a ditch, could hear the workmen at their labours in the
amphitheatre below. These sounds interested them, since many of those
who listened were doomed to take a leading part in the spectacle of
this new day. In the outer court, for instance, were a hundred men
called malefactors, for the most part Jews convicted of various
political offences. These were to fight against twice their number of
savage Arabs of the desert taken in a frontier raid, people whom to-day
we should know as Bedouins, mounted and armed with swords and lances,
but wearing no mail. The malefactor Jews, by way of compensation, were
to be protected with heavy armour and ample shields. Their combat was
to last for twenty minutes by the sand-glass, when, unless they had
shown cowardice, those who were left alive of either party were to
receive their freedom. Indeed, by a kindly decree the King Agrippa, a
man who did not seek unnecessary bloodshed, contrary to custom, even
the wounded were to be spared, that is, if any would undertake the care
of them. Under these circumstances, since life is sweet, all had
determined to fight their best.

In another division of the great hall was collected a very different
company. There were not more than fifty or sixty of these, so the wide
arches of the surrounding cloisters gave them sufficient shelter and
even privacy. With the exception of eight or ten men, all of them old,
or well on in middle age, since the younger and more vigorous males had
been carefully drafted to serve as gladiators, this little band was
made of women and a few children. They belonged to the new sect called
Christians, the followers of one Jesus, who, according to report, was
crucified as a troublesome person by the governor, Pontius Pilate, a
Roman official, who in due course had been banished to Gaul, where he
was said to have committed suicide. In his day Pilate was unpopular in
Judæa, for he had taken the treasures of the Temple at Jerusalem to
build waterworks, causing a tumult in which many were killed. Now he
was almost forgotten, but very strangely, the fame of this crucified
demagogue, Jesus, seemed to grow, since there were many who made a kind
of god of him, preaching doctrines in his name that were contrary to
the law and offensive to every sect of the Jews.

Pharisees, Sadducees, Zealots, Levites, priests, all called out against
them. All besought Agrippa that he would be rid of them, these
apostates who profaned the land and proclaimed in the ears of a nation
awaiting its Messiah, that Heaven-born King who should break the Roman
yoke and make Jerusalem the capital of the world, that this Messiah had
come already in the guise of an itinerant preacher, and perished with
other malefactors by the death of shame.

Wearied with their importunities, the King listened. Like the
cultivated Romans with whom he associated, Agrippa had no real
religion. At Jerusalem he embellished the Temple and made offerings to
Jehovah; at Berytus he embellished the temple and made offerings there
to Jupiter. He was all things to all men and to himself—nothing but a
voluptuous time-server. As for these Christians, he never troubled
himself about them. Why should he? They were few and insignificant, no
single man of rank or wealth was to be found among them. To persecute
them was easy, and—it pleased the Jews. Therefore he persecuted them.
One James, a disciple of the crucified man called Christ, who had
wandered about the country with him, he seized and beheaded at
Jerusalem. Another, called Peter, a powerful preacher, he threw into
prison, and of their followers he slew many. A few of these were given
over to be stoned by the Jews, but the pick of the men were forced to
fight as gladiators at Berytus and elsewhere. The women, if young and
beautiful, were sold as slaves, but if matrons or aged, they were cast
to the wild beasts in the circus.

Such was the fate, indeed, that was reserved for these poor victims in
the prison on this very day of the opening of our history. After the
gladiators had fought and the other games had been celebrated, sixty
Christians, it was announced, old and useless men, married women and
young children whom nobody would buy, were to be turned down in the
great amphitheatre. Then thirty fierce lions, with other savage beasts,
made ravenous by hunger and mad with the smell of blood, were to be let
loose among them. Even in this act of justice, however, Agrippa
suffered it to be seen that he was gentle-hearted, since of his
kindness he had decreed that any whom the lions refused to eat were to
be given clothes, a small sum of money, and released to settle their
differences with the Jews as they might please.

Such was the state of public feeling and morals in the Roman world of
that day, that this spectacle of the feeding of starved beasts with
live women and children, whose crime was that they worshipped a
crucified man and would offer sacrifice to no other god, either in the
Temple or elsewhere, was much looked forward to by the population of
Cæsarea. Indeed, great sums of money were ventured upon the event, by
means of what to-day would be called sweepstakes, under the regulations
of which he who drew the ticket marked with the exact number of those
whom the lions left alive, would take the first prize. Already some
far-seeing gamblers who had drawn low numbers, had bribed the soldiers
and wardens to sprinkle the hair and garments of the Christians with
valerian water, a decoction which was supposed to attract and excite
the appetite of these great cats. Others, whose tickets were high, paid
handsomely for the employment of artifices which need not be detailed,
calculated to induce in the lions aversion to the subject that had been
treated. The Christian woman or child, it will be observed, who was to
form the _corpus vile_ of these ingenious experiments, was not
considered, except, indeed, as the fisherman considers the mussel or
the sand-worm on his hook.

Under an arch by themselves, and not far from the great gateway where
the guards, their lances in hand, could be seen pacing up and down, sat
two women. The contrast in the appearance of this pair was very
striking. One, who could not have been much more than twenty years of
age, was a Jewess, too thin-faced for beauty, but with dark and lovely
eyes, and bearing in every limb and feature the stamp of noble blood.
She was Rachel, the widow of Demas, a Græco-Syrian, and only child of
the high-born Jew Benoni, one of the richest merchants in Tyre. The
other was a woman of remarkable aspect, apparently about forty years of
age. She was a native of the coasts of Libya, where she had been
kidnapped as a girl by Jewish traders, and by them passed on to
Phœnicians, who sold her upon the slave market of Tyre. In fact she was
a high-bred Arab without any admixture of negro blood, as was shown by
her copper-coloured skin, prominent cheek bones, her straight, black,
abundant hair, and untamed, flashing eyes. In frame she was tall and
spare, very agile, and full of grace in every movement. Her face was
fierce and hard; even in her present dreadful plight she showed no
fear, only when she looked at the lady by her side it grew anxious and
tender. She was called Nehushta, a name which Benoni had given her when
many years ago he bought her upon the market-place. In Hebrew Nehushta
means copper, and this new slave was copper-coloured. In her native
land, however, she had another name, Nou, and by this name she was
known to her dead mistress, the wife of Benoni, and to his daughter
Rachel, whom she had nursed from childhood.

The moon shone very brightly in a clear sky, and by the light of it an
observer, had there been any to observe where all were so occupied with
their own urgent affairs, could have watched every movement and
expression of these women. Rachel, seated on the ground, was rocking
herself to and fro, her face hidden in her hands, and praying. Nehushta
knelt at her side, resting the weight of her body on her heels as only
an Eastern can, and stared sullenly at nothingness.

Presently Rachel, dropping her hands, looked at the tender sky and
sighed.

“Our last night on earth, Nou,” she said sadly. “It is strange to think
that we shall never again see the moon floating above us.”

“Why not, mistress? If all that we have been taught is true, we shall
see that moon, or others, for ever and ever, and if it is not true,
then neither light nor darkness will trouble us any more. However, for
my own part I don’t mean that either of us should die to-morrow.”

“How can you prevent it, Nou?” asked Rachel with a faint smile. “Lions
are no respecters of persons.”

“Yet, mistress, I think that they will respect my person, and yours,
too, for my sake.”

“What do you mean, Nou?”

“I mean that I do not fear the lions; they are country-folk of mine and
roared round my cradle. The chief, my father, was called Master of
Lions in our country because he could tame them. Why, when I was a
little child I have fed them and they fawned upon us like dogs.”

“Those lions are long dead, Nou, and the others will not remember.”

“I am not sure that they are dead; at least, blood will call to blood,
and their company will know the smell of the child of the Master of
Lions. Whoever is eaten, we shall escape.”

“I have no such hope, Nou. To-morrow we must die horribly, that King
Agrippa may do honour to his master, Cæsar.”

“If you think that, mistress, then let us die at once rather than be
rent limb from limb to give pleasure to a stinking mob. See, I have
poison hidden here in my hair. Let us drink of it and be done: it is
swift and painless.”

“Nay, Nou, it would not be right. I may lift no hand against my own
life, or if perchance I may, I have to think of another life.”

“If you die, the unborn child must die also. To-night or to-morrow,
what does it matter?”

“Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. Who knows? To-morrow
Agrippa may be dead, not us, and then the child might live. It is in
the hand of God. Let God decide.”

“Lady,” answered Nehushta, setting her teeth, “for your sake I have
become a Christian, yes, and I believe. But I tell you this—while I
live no lion’s fangs shall tear that dear flesh of yours. First if need
be, I will stab you there in the arena, or if they take my knife from
me, then I will choke you, or dash out your brains against the posts.”

“It may be a sin, Nou; take no such risk upon your soul.”

“My soul! What do I care about my soul? You are my soul. Your mother
was kind to me, the poor slave-girl, and when you were an infant, I
rocked you upon my breast. I spread your bride-bed, and if need be, to
save you from worse things, I will lay you dead before me and myself
dead across your body. Then let God or Satan—I care not which—deal with
my soul. At least, I shall have done my best and died faithful.”

“You should not speak so,” sighed Rachel. “But, dear, I know it is
because you love me, and I wish to die as easily as may be and to join
my husband. Only if the child could have lived, as I think, all three
of us would have dwelt together eternally. Nay, not all three, all
four, for you are well-nigh as dear to me, Nou, as husband or as
child.”

“That cannot be, I do not wish that it should be, who am but a slave
woman, the dog beneath the table. Oh! if I could save you, then I would
be glad to show them how this daughter of my father can bear their
torments.”

The Libyan ceased, grinding her teeth in impotent rage. Then suddenly
she leant towards her mistress, kissed her fiercely on the cheek and
began to sob, slow, heavy sobs.

“Listen,” said Rachel. “The lions are roaring in their dens yonder.”

Nehushta lifted her head and hearkened as a hunter hearkens in the
desert. True enough, from near the great tower that ended the southern
wall of the amphitheatre, echoed short, coughing notes and fierce
whimperings, to be followed presently by roar upon roar, as lion after
lion joined in that fearful music, till the whole air shook with the
volume of their voices.

“Aha!” cried a keeper at the gate—not the Roman soldier who marched to
and fro unconcernedly, but a jailor, named Rufus, who was clad in a
padded robe and armed with a great knife. “Aha! listen to them, the
pretty kittens. Don’t be greedy, little ones—be patient. To-night you
will purr upon a full stomach.”

“Nine of them,” muttered Nehushta, who had counted the roars, “all
bearded and old, royal beasts. To hearken to them makes me young again.
Yes, yes, I smell the desert and see the smoke rising from my father’s
tents. As a child I hunted them, now they will hunt me; it is their
hour.”

“Give me air! I faint!” gasped Rachel, sinking against her.

With a guttural exclamation of pity Nehushta bent down. Placing her
strong arms beneath the slender form of her young mistress, and lifting
her as though she were a child, she carried her to the centre of the
court, where stood a fountain; for before it was turned to the purposes
of a jail once this place had been a palace. Here she set her mistress
on the ground with her back against the stonework, and dashed water in
her face till presently she was herself again.

While Rachel sat thus—for the place was cool and pleasant and she could
not sleep who must die that day—a wicket-gate was opened and several
persons, men, women, and children, were thrust through it into the
court.

“Newcomers from Tyre in a great hurry not to lose the lions’ party,”
cried the facetious warden of the gate. “Pass in, my Christian friends,
pass in and eat your last supper according to your customs. You will
find it over there, bread and wine in plenty. Eat, my hungry friends,
eat before you are eaten and enter into Heaven or—the stomach of the
lions.”

An old woman, the last of the party, for she could not walk fast,
turned round and pointed at the buffoon with her staff.

“Blaspheme not, you heathen dog!” she said, “or rather, blaspheme on
and go to your reward! I, Anna, who have the gift of prophecy, tell
you, renegade who were a Christian, and therefore are doubly guilty,
that _you_ have eaten your last meal—on earth.”

The man, a half-bred Syrian who had abandoned his faith for profit and
now tormented those who were once his brethren, uttered a furious curse
and snatched a knife from his girdle.

“You draw the knife? So be it, perish by the knife!” said Anna. Then
without heeding him further the old woman hobbled on after her
companions, leaving the man to slink away white to the lips with
terror. He had been a Christian and knew something of Anna and of this
“gift of prophecy.”

The path of these strangers led them past the fountain, where Rachel
and Nehushta rose to greet them as they came.

“Peace be with you,” said Rachel.

“In the name of Christ, peace,” they answered, and passed on towards
the arches where the other captives were gathered. Last of all, at some
distance behind the rest, came the white-haired woman, leaning on her
staff.

As she approached, Rachel turned to repeat her salutation, then uttered
a little cry and said:

“Mother Anna, do you not know me, Rachel, the daughter of Benoni?”

“Rachel!” she answered, starting. “Alas! child, how came you here?”

“By the paths that we Christians have to tread, mother,” said Rachel,
sadly. “But sit; you are weary. Nou, help her.”

Anna nodded, and slowly, for her limbs were stiff, sank down on to the
step of the fountain.

“Give me to drink, child,” she said, “for I have been brought upon a
mule from Tyre, and am athirst.”

Rachel made her hands into a cup, for she had no other, and held water
to Anna’s lips, which she drank greedily, emptying them many times.

“For this refreshment, God be praised. What said you? The daughter of
Benoni a Christian! Well, even here and now, for that God be praised
also. Strange that I should not have heard of it; but I have been in
Jerusalem these two years, and was brought back to Tyre last Sabbath as
a prisoner.”

“Yes, Mother, and since then I have become both wife and widow.”

“Whom did you marry, child?”

“Demas, the merchant. They killed him in the amphitheatre yonder at
Berytus six months ago,” and the poor woman began to sob.

“I heard of his end,” replied Anna. “It was a good and noble one, and
his soul rests in Heaven. He would not fight with the gladiators, so he
was beheaded by order of Agrippa. But cease weeping, child, and tell me
your story. We have little time for tears, who, perhaps, soon will have
done with them.”

Rachel dried her eyes.

“It is short and sad,” she said. “Demas and I met often and learned to
love each other. My father was no friend to him, for they were rivals
in trade, but in those days knowing no better, Demas followed the faith
of the Jews; therefore, because he was rich my father consented to our
marriage, and they became partners in their business. Afterwards,
within a month indeed, the Apostles came to Tyre, and we attended their
preaching—at first, because we were curious to learn the truth of this
new faith against which my father railed, for, as you know, he is of
the strictest sect of the Jews; and then, because our hearts were
touched. So in the end we believed, and were baptised, both on one
night, by the very hand of the brother of the Lord. The holy Apostles
departed, blessing us before they went, and Demas, who would play no
double part, told my father of what we had done. Oh! mother, it was
awful to see. He raved, shouted and cursed us in his rage, blaspheming
Him we worship. More, woe is me that I should have to tell it: When we
refused to become apostates he denounced us to the priests, and the
priests denounced us to the Romans, and we were seized and thrown into
prison; but my husband’s wealth, most of it except that which the
priests and Romans stole, stayed with my father. For many months we
were held in prison here in Cæsarea; then they took my husband to
Berytus, to be trained as a gladiator, and murdered him. Here I have
stayed since with this beloved servant, Nehushta, who also became a
Christian and shared our fate, and now, by the decree of Agrippa, it is
my turn and hers to die to-day.”

“Child, you should not weep for that; nay, you should be glad who at
once will find your husband and your Saviour.”

“Mother, I am glad; but, you see my state. It is for the child’s sake I
weep, that now never will be born. Had it won life even for an hour all
of us would have dwelt together in bliss until eternity. But it cannot
be—it cannot be.”

Anna looked at her with her piercing eyes.

“Have you, then, also the gift of prophecy, child, who are so young a
member of the Church, that you dare to say that this or that cannot be?
The future is in the hand of God. King Agrippa, your father, the
Romans, the cruel Jews, those lions that roar yonder, and we who are
doomed to feed them, are all in the hand of God, and that which He
wills shall befall, and no other thing. Therefore, let us praise Him
and rejoice, and take no thought for the morrow, unless it be to pray
that we may die and go hence to our Master, rather than live on in
doubts and terrors and tribulations.”

“You are right, mother,” answered Rachel, “and I will try to be brave,
whatever may befall; but my state makes me feeble. The spirit, truly,
is willing, but oh! the flesh is weak. Listen, they call us to partake
of the Sacrament of the Lord—our last on earth”; and rising, she began
to walk towards the arches.

Nehushta stayed to help Anna to her feet. When she judged her mistress
to be out of hearing she leaned down and whispered:

“Mother, you have the gift; it is known throughout the Church. Tell me,
will the child be born?”

The old woman fixed her eyes upon the heavens, then answered, slowly:

“The child will be born and live out its life, and I think that none of
us are doomed to die this day by the jaws of lions, though some of us
may die in another fashion. But I think also that your mistress goes
very shortly to join her husband. Therefore it was that I showed her
nothing of what came into my mind.”

“Then it is best that I should die also, and die I will.”

“Wherefore?”

“Because I go to wait upon my mistress.”

“Nay, Nehushta,” answered Anna, sternly, “you stay to guard her child,
whereof when all these earthly things are done you must give account to
her.”




CHAPTER II
THE VOICE OF A GOD


Of all the civilisations whose records lie open to the student, that of
Rome is surely one of the most wonderful. Nowhere, not even in old
Mexico, was high culture so completely wedded to the lowest barbarism.
Intellect Rome had in plenty; the noblest efforts of her genius are
scarcely to be surpassed; her law is the foundation of the best of our
codes of jurisprudence; art she borrowed but appreciated; her military
system is still the wonder of the world; her great men remain great
among a multitude of subsequent competitors. And yet how pitiless she
was! What a tigress! Amid all the ruins of her cities we find none of a
hospital, none, I believe, of an orphan school in an age that made many
orphans. The pious aspirations and efforts of individuals seem never to
have touched the conscience of the people. Rome incarnate had no
conscience; she was a lustful, devouring beast, made more bestial by
her intelligence and splendour.

King Agrippa in practice was a Roman. Rome was his model, her ideals
were his ideals. Therefore he built amphitheatres in which men were
butchered, to the exquisite delight of vast audiences. Therefore, also,
without the excuse of any conscientious motive, however insufficient or
unsatisfactory, he persecuted the weak because they were weak and their
sufferings would give pleasure to the strong or to those who chanced to
be the majority of the moment.

The season being hot it was arranged that the great games in honour of
the safety of Cæsar, should open each day at dawn and come to an end an
hour before noon. Therefore from midnight onwards crowds of spectators
poured into the amphitheatre, which, although it would seat over twenty
thousand, was not large enough to contain them all. An hour before the
dawn the place was full, and already late comers were turned back from
its gates. The only empty spaces were those reserved for the king, his
royal guests, the rulers of the city, with other distinguished
personages, and for the Christian company of old men, women and
children destined to the lions, who, it was arranged, were to sit in
full view of the audience until the time came for them to take their
share in the spectacle.

When Rachel joined the other captives she found that a long rough table
had been set beneath the arcades, and on it at intervals, pieces of
bread and cups and vases containing wine of the country that had been
purchased at a great price from the guards. Round this table the elders
or the infirm among the company were seated on a bench, while the rest
of the number, for whom there was not room, stood behind them. At its
head was an old man, a bishop among the Christians, one of the five
hundred who had seen the risen Lord and received baptism from the hands
of the Beloved Disciple. For some years he had been spared by the
persecutors of the infant Church on account of his age, dignity, and
good repute, but now at last fate seemed to have overtaken him.

The service was held; the bread and wine, mixed with water, were
consecrated with the same texts by which they are blessed to-day, only
the prayers were extempore. When all had eaten from the platters and
drunk from the rude cups, the bishop gave his blessing to the
community. Then he addressed them. This, he told them, was an occasion
of peculiar joy, a love-feast indeed, since all they who partook of it
were about to lay down the burden of the flesh and, their labours and
sorrows ended, to depart into bliss eternal. He called to their memory
the supper of the Passover which had taken place within the lifetime of
many of them, when the Author and Finisher of their faith had declared
to the disciples that He would drink no more wine till He drank it new
with them in His kingdom. Such a feast it was that lay spread before
them this night. Let them be thankful for it. Let them not quail in the
hour of trial. The fangs of the savage beasts, the shouts of the still
more savage spectators, the agony of the quivering flesh, the last
terror of their departing, what were these? Soon, very soon, they would
be done; the spears of the soldiers would despatch the injured, and
those among them whom it was ordained should escape, would be set free
by the command of the representative of Cæsar, that they might
prosecute the work till the hour came for them to pass on the torch of
redemption to other hands. Let them rejoice, therefore, and be very
thankful, and walk to the sacrifice as to a wedding feast. “Do you not
rejoice, my brethren?” he asked. With one voice they answered, “We
rejoice!” Yes, even the children answered thus.

Then they prayed again, and again with uplifted hands the old man
blessed them in the holy Triune Name.

Scarcely had this service, as solemn as it was simple, been brought to
an end when the head jailer, whose blasphemous jocosity since his
reproof by Anna was replaced by a mien of sullen venom, came forward
and commanded the whole band to march to the amphitheatre. Accordingly,
two by two, the bishop leading the way with the sainted woman Anna,
they walked to the gates. Here a guard of soldiers was waiting to
receive them, and under their escort they threaded the narrow, darkling
streets till they came to that door of the amphitheatre which was used
by those who were to take part in the games. Now, at a word from the
bishop, they began to chant a solemn hymn, and singing thus, were
thrust along the passages to the place prepared for them. This was not,
as they expected, a prison at the back of the amphitheatre, but, as has
been said, a spot between the enclosing wall and the podium, raised a
little above the level of the arena. Here, on the eastern side of the
building, they were to sit till their turn came to be driven by the
guards through a little wicket-gate into the arena, where the starving
beasts of prey would be loosed upon them.

It was now the hour before sunrise, and the moon having set, the vast
theatre was plunged in gloom, relieved only here and there by stray
torches and cressets of fire burning upon either side of the gorgeous,
but as yet unoccupied, throne of Agrippa. This gloom seemed to oppress
the audience with which the place was crowded; at any rate none of them
shouted or sang, or even spoke loudly. They addressed each other in
muffled tones, with the result that the air seemed to be full of
mysterious whisperings. Had this poor band of condemned Christians
entered the theatre in daylight, they would have been greeted with
ironical cries and tauntings of “Dogs’ meat!” and with requests that
they should work a miracle and let the people see them rise again from
the bellies of the lions. But now, as their solemn song broke upon the
silence, it was answered only by one great murmur, which seemed to
shape itself to the words, “the Christians! The doomed Christians!”

By the light of a single torch the band took their places. Then once
more they sang, and in that chastening hour the audience listened with
attention, almost with respect. Their chant finished, the bishop stood
up, and, moved thereto by some inspiration, began to address the mighty
throng, whom he could not see, and who could not see him. Strangely
enough they hearkened to him, perhaps because his speech served to
while away the weary time of waiting.

“Men and brethren,” he began, in his thin, piercing notes, “princes,
lords, peoples, Romans, Jews, Syrians, Greeks, citizens of Idumæa, of
Egypt, and of all nations here gathered, hearken to the words of an old
man destined and glad to die. Listen, if it be your pleasure, to the
story of One whom some of you saw crucified under Pontius Pilate, since
to know the truth of that matter can at least do you no hurt.”

“Be silent!” cried a voice, that of the renegade jailer, “and cease
preaching your accursed faith!”

“Let him alone,” answered other voices. “We will hear this story of
his. We say—let him alone.”

Thus encouraged the old man spoke on with an eloquence so simple and
yet so touching, with a wisdom so deep, that for full fifteen minutes
none cared even to interrupt him. Then a far-away listener cried:

“Why must these people die who are better than we?”

“Friend,” answered the bishop, in ringing tones, which in that heavy
silence seemed to search out even the recesses of the great and crowded
place, “we must die because it is the will of King Agrippa, to whom God
has given power to destroy us. Mourn not for us because we perish
cruelly, since this is the day of our true birth, but mourn for King
Agrippa, at whose hands our blood will be required, and mourn, mourn
for yourselves, O people. The death that is near to us perchance is
nearer still to some of you; and how will you awaken who perish in your
sins? What if the sword of God should empty yonder throne? What if the
voice of God should call on him who fills it to make answer of his
deeds? Soon or late, O people, it will call on him and you to pass
hence, some naturally in your age, others by the sharp and dreadful
roads of sword, pestilence or famine. Already those woes which He whom
you crucified foretold, knock at your door, and within a few short
years not one of you who crowd this place in thousands will draw the
breath of life. Nothing will remain of you on earth save the fruit of
those deeds which you have done—these and your bones, no more. Repent
you, therefore, repent while there is time; for I, whom you have
doomed, I am bidden to declare that judgment is at hand. Yes, even now,
although you see him not, the Angel of the Lord hangs over you and
writes your names within his book. Now while there is time I would pray
for you and for your king. Farewell.”

As he spoke those words “the Angel of the Lord hangs over you,” so
great was the preacher’s power, and in that weary darkness so sharply
had he touched the imagination of his strange audience, that with a
sound like to the stir of rustling trees, thousands of faces were
turned upwards, as though in search of that dread messenger.

“Look, look!” screamed a hundred voices, while dim arms pointed to some
noiseless thing that floated high above them against the background of
the sky, which grew grey with the coming dawn. It appeared and
disappeared, appeared again, then seemed to pass downward in the
direction of Agrippa’s throne, and vanished.

“It is that magician’s angel,” cried one, and the multitudes groaned.

“Fool,” said another, “it was but a bird.”

“Then for Agrippa’s sake,” shrilled a new voice, “the gods send that it
was not an owl.”

Thereat some laughed, but the most were silent. They knew the story of
King Agrippa and the owl, and how it had been foretold that this spirit
in the form of a bird would appear to him again in the hour of his
death, as it had appeared to him in the hour of his triumph.[*]

[*] See Josephus, “Antiquities of the Jews,” Book XVII., Chap. VI.,
Sec. 7; and Book XIX., Chap. VIII., Sec. 2.


Just then from the palace to the north arose a sound of the blare of
trumpets. Now a herald, speaking on the summit of the great eastern
tower, called out that it was dawn above the mountains, and that King
Agrippa came with all his company, whereon the preaching of the old
Christian and his tale of a watching Vengeance were instantly
forgotten. Presently the glad, fierce notes of the trumpets drew
nearer, and in the grey of the daybreak, through the great bronze gates
of the Triumphal Way that were thrown open to greet him, advanced
Agrippa, wonderfully attired and preceded by his legionaries. At his
right walked Vibius Marsus, the Roman President of Syria, and on his
left Antiochus, King of Commagena, while after him followed other
kings, princes, and great men of his own and foreign lands.

Agrippa mounted his golden throne while the multitude roared a welcome,
and his company were seated around and behind him according to their
degree.

Once more the trumpets sounded, and the gladiators of different arms,
headed by the equites who fought on horseback, numbering in all more
than five hundred men, were formed up in the arena for the preliminary
march past—the salutation of those about to die to their emperor and
lord. Now, that they also might take their part in the spectacle, the
band of Christian martyrs were thrust through the door in the podium,
and to make them seem as many as possible in number, marshalled two by
two.

Then the march past began. Troop by troop, arrayed in their shining
armour and armed, each of them, with his own familiar weapon, the
gladiators halted in front of Agrippa’s throne, giving to him the
accustomed salutation of “Hail, King, we who are about to die, salute
thee,” to be rewarded with a royal smile and the shouts of the
approving audience. Last of all came the Christians, a motley,
wretched-looking group, made up of old men, terrified children clinging
to their mothers, and ill-clad, dishevelled women. At the pitiful
sight, that very mob which a few short minutes before had hung upon the
words of the bishop, their leader, now, as they watched them hobbling
round the arena in the clear, low light of the dawning, burst into
peals of laughter and called out that each of them should be made to
lead his lion. Quite heedless of these scoffs and taunts, they trudged
on through the white sand that soon would be so red, until they came
opposite to the throne.

“Salute!” roared the audience.

The bishop held up his hand and all were silent. Then, in the thin
voice with which they had become familiar, he said:

“King, we who are about to die—forgive thee. May God do likewise.”

Now the multitude ceased laughing, and with an impatient gesture,
Agrippa motioned to the martyrs to pass on. This they did humbly; but
Anna, being old, lame and weary, could not walk so fast as her
companions. Alone she reached the saluting-place after all had left it,
and halted there.

“Forward!” cried the officers. But she did not move nor did she speak.
Only leaning on her staff she looked steadily up at the face of the
king Agrippa. Some impulse seemed to draw his eyes to hers. They met,
and it was noted that he turned pale. Then straightening herself with
difficulty upon her tottering feet, Anna raised her staff and pointed
with it to the golden canopy above the head of Herod. All stared
upward, but saw nothing, for the canopy was still in the shadow of the
velarium which covered all the outer edge of the cavea, leaving the
centre open to the sky. It would appear, however, that Agrippa did see
something, for he who had risen to declare the games open, suddenly
sank back upon his throne, and remained thus lost in thought. Then Anna
limped forward to join her company, who once more were driven through
the little gate in the wall of the arena.

For a second time, with an effort, Agrippa lifted himself from his
throne. As he rose the first level rays of sunrise struck full upon
him. He was a tall and noble-looking man, and his dress was glorious.
To the thousands who gazed upon him from the shadow, set in that point
of burning light he seemed to be clothed in a garment of glittering
silver. Silver was his crown, silver his vest, silver the wide robe
that flowed from his shoulders to the ground.

“In the name of Cæsar, to the glory of Cæsar, I declare these games
open!” he cried.

Then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, all the multitude rose
shouting: “The voice of a god! The voice of a god! The voice of the god
Agrippa!”

Nor did Agrippa say them nay; the glory of such worship thundered at
him from twenty thousand throats made him drunken. There for a while he
stood, the new-born sunlight playing upon his splendid form, while the
multitude roared his name, proclaiming it divine. His nostrils spread
to inhale this incense of adoration, his eyes flashed and slowly he
waved his arms, as though in benediction of his worshippers. Perchance
there rose before his mind a vision of the wondrous event whereby he,
the scorned and penniless outcast, had been lifted to this giddy
pinnacle of power. Perchance for a moment he believed that he was
indeed divine, that nothing less than the blood and right of godhead
could thus have exalted him. At least he stood there, denying naught,
while the people adored him as Jehovah is adored of the Jews and Christ
is adored of the Christians.

Then of a sudden smote the Angel of the Lord. Of a sudden intolerable
pain seized upon his vitals, and Herod remembered that he was but
mortal flesh, and knew that death was near.

“Alas!” he cried, “I am no god, but a man, and even now the common fate
of man is on me.”

As he spoke a great white owl slid from the roof of the canopy above
him and vanished through the unroofed centre of the cavea.

“Look! look! my people!” he cried again, “the spirit that brought me
good fortune leaves me now, and I die, my people, I die!” Then, sinking
upon his throne, he who a moment gone had received the worship of a
god, writhed there in agony and wept. Yes, Herod wept.

Attendants ran to him and lifted him in their arms.

“Take me hence to die,” he moaned. Now a herald cried:

“The king is smitten with a sore sickness, and the games are closed. To
your homes, O people.”

For a while the multitude sat silent, for they were fear-stricken. Then
a murmur rose among them that spread and swelled till it became a roar.

“The Christians! The Christians! They prophesied the evil. They have
bewitched the king. They are wizards. Kill them, kill them, kill them!”

Instantly, like waves pouring in from every side, hundreds and
thousands of men began to flow towards that place where the martyrs
sat. The walls and palisades were high. Sweeping aside the guards, they
surged against them like water against a rock; but climb they could
not. Those in front began to scream, those behind pressed on. Some fell
and were trodden underfoot, others clambered upon their bodies, in turn
to fall and be trodden underfoot.

“Our death is upon us!” cried one of the Nazarenes.

“Nay, life remains to us,” answered Nehushta. “Follow me, all of you,
for I know the road,” and, seizing Rachel about the middle, she began
to drag her towards a little door. It was unlocked and guarded by one
man only, the apostate jailer Rufus.

“Stand back!” he cried, lifting his spear.

Nehushta made no answer, only drawing a dagger from her robe, she fell
upon the ground, then of a sudden rose again beneath his guard. The
knife flashed and went home to the hilt. Down fell the man screaming
for help and mercy, and there, in the narrow way, his spirit was
stamped out of him. Beyond lay the broad passage of the vomitorium.
They gained it, and in an instant were mixed with the thousands who
sought to escape the panic. Some perished, some were swept onwards,
among them Nehushta and Rachel. Thrice they nearly fell, but the fierce
strength of the Libyan saved her mistress, till at length they found
themselves on the broad terrace facing the seashore.

“Whither now?” gasped Rachel.

“Where shall I lead you?” answered Nehushta. “Do not stay. Be swift.”

“But the others?” said Rachel, glancing back at the fighting,
trampling, yelling mob.

“God guard them! We cannot.”

“Leave me,” moaned her mistress. “Save yourself, Nou; I am spent,” and
she sank down to her knees.

“But I am still strong,” muttered Nehushta, and lifting the swooning
woman in her sinewy arms, she fled on towards the port, crying, “Way,
way for my lady, the noble Roman, who has swooned!”

And the multitude made way.




CHAPTER III
THE GRAIN STORE


Having passed the outer terraces of the amphitheatre in safety,
Nehushta turned down a side street, and paused in the shadow of the
wall to think what she should do. So far they were safe; but even if
her strength would stand the strain, it seemed impossible that she
should carry her mistress through the crowded city and avoid recapture.
For some months they had both of them been prisoners, and as it was the
custom of the inhabitants of Cæsarea, when they had nothing else to do,
to come to the gates of their jail, and, through the bars, to study
those within, or even, by permission of the guards, to walk among them,
their appearance was known to many. Doubtless, so soon as the
excitement caused by the illness of the king had subsided, soldiers
would be sent to hunt down the fugitives who had escaped from the
amphitheatre. More especially would they search for her, Nehushta, and
her mistress, since it would be known that one of them had stabbed the
warden of the gate, a crime for which they must expect to die by
torture. Also—where could they go who had no friends, since all
Christians had been expelled the city?

No, there was but one chance for them—to conceal themselves.

Nehushta looked round her for a hiding-place, and in this matter, as in
others on that day, fortune favoured them. This street in the old days,
when Cæsarea was called Strato’s Tower, had been built upon an inner
wall of the city, now long dismantled. At a distance of a few yards
from where Nehushta had stopped stood an ancient gateway, unused save
at times by beggars who slept under it, which led nowhere, for the
outer arch of it was bricked up. Into this gateway Nehushta bore her
mistress unobserved, to find to her relief that it was quite
untenanted, though a still smouldering fire and a broken amphora
containing clean water showed her that folk had slept there who could
find no better lodging. So far so good; but here it would be scarcely
safe to hide, as the tenants or others might come back. Nehushta looked
around. In the thick wall was a little archway, beneath which commenced
a stair. Setting Rachel on the ground, she ran up it, lightly as a cat.
At the top of thirty steps, many of them broken, she found an old and
massive door. With a sigh of disappointment, the Libyan turned to
descend again; then, by an afterthought, pushed at the door. To her
surprise it stirred. Again she pushed, and it swung open. Within was a
large chamber, lighted by loopholes pierced in the thickness of the
wall, for the use of archers. Now, however, it served no military
purpose, but was used as a storehouse by a merchant of grain, for there
in a corner lay a heap of many measures of barley, and strewn about the
floor were sacks of skin and other articles.

Nehushta examined the room. No hiding-place could be better—unless the
merchant chanced to come to visit his store. Well, that must be risked.
Down she sped, and with much toil and difficulty carried her still
swooning mistress up the steps and into the chamber, where she laid her
on a heap of sacks.

Again, by an afterthought, she ventured to descend, this time to fetch
the broken jar of water. Then she closed the door, setting it fast with
a piece of wood, and began to chafe Rachel’s hands and to sprinkle her
face from the jar. Presently the dark eyes opened and her mistress sat
up.

“Is it over, and is this Paradise?” she murmured.

“I should not call the place by that name, lady,” answered Nehushta,
drily, “though perhaps, in contrast with the hell that we have left,
some might think it so. Drink!” and she held the water to her lips.

Rachel obeyed her eagerly. “Oh! it is good,” she said. “But how came we
here out of that rushing crowd?”

Before she answered, muttering “After the mistress, the maid,” Nehushta
swallowed a deep draught of water in her turn, which, indeed, she
needed sorely. Then she told her all.

“Oh! Nou,” said Rachel, “how strong and brave you are! But for you I
should be dead.”

“But for God, you mean, mistress, for I hold that He sent that
knife-point home.”

“Did you kill the man?” asked Rachel.

“I think that he died by a dagger-thrust as Anna foretold,” she
answered evasively; “and that reminds me that I had better clean the
knife, since blood on the blade is evidence against its owner.” Then
drawing the dagger from its hiding-place she rubbed it with dust, which
she took from a loop-hole, and polished it bright with a piece of hide.

Scarcely was this task accomplished to Nehushta’s satisfaction when her
quick ears caught a sound.

“For your life, be silent,” she whispered, and laid her face sideways
to a crack in the cement floor and listened. Well might she listen, for
below were three soldiers searching for her and her mistress.

“The old fellow swore that he saw a Libyan woman carrying a lady down
this street,” said one of them, the petty officer in charge, to his
companion, “and there was but a single brown-skin in the lot; so if
they aren’t here I don’t know where they can be.”

“Well,” grumbled one of the soldiers, “this place is as empty as a
drum, so we may as well be going. There’ll be fun presently which I
don’t want to miss.”

“It was the black woman who knifed our friend Rufus, wasn’t it—in the
theatre there?” asked the third soldier.

“They say so; but as he was trodden as flat as a roof-board, and they
had to take him up in pieces, it is difficult to know the truth of that
matter. Anyhow his mates are anxious to get the lady, and I should be
sorry to die as she will, when they do, or her mistress either. They
have leave to finish them in their own fashion.”

“Hadn’t we best be going?” said the first soldier, who evidently was
anxious to keep some appointment.

“Hullo!” exclaimed the second, a sharp-eyed fellow, “there’s a stair;
we had better just look up it.”

“Not much use,” answered the officer. “That old thief Amram, the
corn-merchant, has a store there, and he isn’t one of the sort to leave
it unlocked. Still, just go and see.”

Then came the sound of footsteps on the stair, and presently a man
could be heard fumbling at the further side of the door. Rachel shut
her eyes and prayed; Nehushta, drawing the knife from her bosom, crept
towards the doorway like a tigress, and placed her left hand on the
stick that held it shut. Well it was that she did so, since presently
the soldier gave a savage push that might easily have caused the wood
to slip on the cemented floor. Now, satisfied that it was really
locked, he turned and went down the steps.

With a gasp of relief Nehushta once more set her ear to the crack.

“It’s fast enough,” reported the man, “but perhaps it might be as well
to get the key from Amram and have a look.”

“Friend,” said the officer, “I think that you must be in love with this
black lady; or is it her mistress whom you admire? I shall recommend
you for the post of Christian-catcher to the cohort. Now we’ll try that
house at the corner, and if they are not there, I am off to the palace
to see how his godship is getting on with that stomach-ache and whether
it has moved him to order payment of our arrears. If he hasn’t, I tell
you flatly that I mean to help myself to something, and so do the rest
of the lads, who are mad at the stopping of the games.”

“It would be much better to get that key from Amram and have a look
upstairs,” put in number two soldier reflectively.

“Then go to Amram, or to Pluto, and ask for the key of Hades for aught
I care!” replied his superior with irritation. “He lives about a league
off at the other end of the town.”

“I do not wish for the walk,” said the conscientious soldier; “but as
we are searching for these escaped Christians, by your leave, I do
think it would have been much better to have got that key from Amram
and peeped into the chamber upstairs.”

Thereon the temper of the officer, already ruffled by the events of the
morning and the long watch of the preceding night, gave way, and he
departed, consigning the Christians, escaped or recaptured, Amram and
the key, his subordinate, and even the royal Agrippa who did not pay
his debts, to every infernal god of every religion with which he was
acquainted.

Nehushta lifted her head from the floor.

“Thanks be to God! They are gone,” she said.

“But, Nou, will they not come back? Oh! I fear lest they should come
back.”

“I think not. That sharp-nosed rat has made the other angry, and I
believe that he will find him some harder task than the seeking of a
key from Amram. Still, there is danger that this Amram may appear
himself to visit his store, for in these days of festival he is sure to
be selling grain to the bakers.”

Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when a key rattled, the door
was pushed sharply, and the piece of wood slipped and fell. Then the
hinges creaked, and Amram—none other—entered, and, closing the door
behind him, locked it, leaving the key in the lock.

Amram was a shrewd-faced, middle-aged Phœnician and, like most
Phœnicians of that day, a successful trader, this corn-store
representing only one branch of his business. For the rest he was clad
in a quiet-coloured robe and cap, and to all appearance unarmed.

Having locked the door, he walked to a little table, beneath which
stood a box containing his tablets whereon were entered the amounts of
corn bought and delivered, to come face to face with Nehushta.
Instantly she slid between him and the door.

“Who in the name of Moloch are you?” he asked, stepping back
astonished, to perceive as he did so, Rachel seated on the heap of
sacks; “and you,” he added. “Are you spirits, thieves, ladies in search
of a lodging, or—perchance those two Christians whom the soldiers are
looking for in yonder house?”

“We are the two Christians,” said Rachel desperately. “We fled from the
amphitheatre, and have taken refuge here, where they nearly found us.”

“This,” said Amram solemnly, “comes of not locking one’s office. Do not
misunderstand me; it was no fault of mine. A certain apprentice is to
blame, to whom I shall have a word to say. In fact, I think that I will
say it at once,” and he stepped towards the door.

“Indeed you will not,” interrupted Nehushta.

“And pray, my Libyan friend, how will you prevent me?”

“By putting a knife into your gizzard, as I did through that of the
renegade Rufus an hour or two ago! Ah! I see you have heard the story.”

Amram considered, then replied:

“And what if I also have a knife?”

“In that case,” said Nehushta, “draw it, and we will see which is the
better, man or woman. Merchant, your weapon is your pen. You have not a
chance with me, an Arab of Libya, and you know it.”

“Yes,” answered Amram, “I think I do; you desert folk are so reckless
and athletic. Also, to be frank, as you may have guessed, I am unarmed.
Now, what do you propose?”

“I propose that you get us safely out of Cæsarea, or, if you prefer it,
that we shall all die here in this grain-store, for, by whatever god
you worship, Phœnician, before a hand is laid upon my mistress or me,
this knife goes through your heart. I owe no love to your people, who
bought me, a king’s daughter, as a slave, and I shall be quite happy to
close my account with one of them. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, perfectly. Why show such temper? The affair is one of
business; let us discuss it in a business spirit. You wish to escape
from Cæsarea; I wish you to escape from my grain-store. Let me go out
and arrange the matter.”

“On a plank; not otherwise unless we accompany you,” answered Nehushta.
“Man, why do you waste words with us. Listen. This lady is the only
child of Benoni, the great merchant of Tyre. Doubtless you know him?”

“To my cost,” replied Amram, with a bow. “Three times has he
overreached me in various bargains.”

“Very well; then you know also that he is rich and will pay him
liberally who rescues his daughter from great peril.”

“He might do so, but I am not sure.”

“I am sure,” answered Nehushta, “and for this service my mistress here
will give you a bill for any reasonable sum drawn upon her father.”

“Yes, but the question is—will he honour it? Benoni is a prejudiced
man, a very prejudiced man, a Jew of the Jews, who—does not like
Christians.”

“I think that he will honour it, I believe that he will honour it; but
that risk is yours. See here, merchant, a doubtful draft is better than
a slit throat.”

“Quite so. The argument is excellent. But you desire to escape. If you
keep me here, how can I arrange the matter?”

“That is for you to consider. You do not leave this place except in our
company, and then at the first sign of danger I drive this knife home
between your shoulders. Meanwhile my mistress is ready to sign any
moderate draft upon her father.”

“It is not necessary. Under the circumstances I think that I will trust
to the generosity of my fellow trader Benoni. Meanwhile I assure you
that nothing will give me greater happiness than to fall in with your
views. Believe me, I have no prejudice against Christians, since those
of them whom I have met were always honest and paid their debts in
full. I do not wish to see you or your mistress eaten by lions or
tortured. I shall be very glad to think that you are following the
maxims of your peculiar faith to an extreme old age, anywhere, outside
the limits of my grain-store. The question is, how can I help you do
this? At present I see no way.”

“The question is—how will you manage to keep your life in you over the
next twelve hours?” answered Nehushta grimly. “Therefore I advise you
to find a way”; and to emphasise her words she turned, and, having made
sure that the door was locked, slipped its key into the bosom of her
dress.

Amram stared at her in undisguised admiration. “I would that I were
unmarried,” he said, “which is not the case,” and he sighed; “for then,
upon my word, I should be inclined to make a certain proposal to you——”

“Nehushta—that is my name——”

“Nehushta—exactly. Well, it is out of the question.”

“Quite.”

“Therefore I have a suggestion to make. To-night a ship of mine sails
for Tyre. Will you honour me by accepting a passage on her?”

“Certainly,” answered Nehushta, “provided that you accompany us.”

“It was not my intention to go to Tyre this voyage.”

“Then your intention can be changed. Look you, we are desperate, and
our lives are at stake. Your life is also at stake, and I swear to you,
by the Holy One we worship, that before any harm comes to my mistress
you shall die. Then what will your wealth and your schemes avail you in
the grave? It is a little thing we ask of you—to help two innocent
people to escape from this accursed city. Will you grant it? Or shall I
put this dagger through your throat? Answer, and at once, or I strike
and bury you in your own corn.”

Even in that light Amram turned visibly paler. “I accept your terms,”
he said. “At nightfall I will conduct you to the ship, which sails two
hours after sunset with the evening wind. I will accompany you to Tyre
and deliver the lady over to her father, trusting to his liberality for
my reward. Meanwhile, this place is hot. That ladder leads to the roof,
which is parapeted, so that those sitting or even standing there,
cannot be seen. Shall we ascend?”

“If you go first; and remember, should you attempt to call out, my
knife is always ready.”

“Of that I am quite aware—you have said so several times. I have passed
my words, and I do not go back upon my bargains. The stars are with
you, and, come what may, I obey them.”

Accordingly they ascended to the roof, Amram going first, Nehushta
following him, and Rachel bringing up the rear. On it, projecting
inward from the parapet, was a sloping shelter once made use of by the
look-out sentry in bad or hot weather. The change from the stifling
store below with its stench of ill-cured hides, to this lofty, shaded
spot, where the air moved freely, was so pleasant to Rachel, outworn as
she was with all she had gone through, that presently she fell asleep,
not to wake again till evening. Nehushta, however, who did not go to
sleep, and Amram, employed themselves in watching the events that
passed in the city below. From this height they could see the great
square surrounding the palace, and the strange scenes being enacted
therein. It was crowded by thousands of people, for the most part
seated on the ground, clad in garments of sack-cloth and throwing dust
upon the heads of themselves, their wives and children. From all this
multitude a voice of supplication rose to heaven, which, even at that
distance, reached the ears of Nehushta and her companion in a murmur of
sound, constant and confused.

“They pray that the king may live,” said Amram.

“And I pray that he may die,” answered Nehushta.

The merchant shrugged his shoulders. “I care nothing either way,
provided that the peace is not disturbed to the injury of trade. On the
whole, however, he is a good king who causes money to be spent, which
is what kings are for—in Judæa—where they are but feathers puffed up by
the breath of Cæsar, to fall if he cease to blow. But look!”

As he spoke, a figure appeared upon the steps of the palace who made
some communication to the crowd, whereon a great wail went up to the
very skies.

“You have your wish,” said Amram; “Herod is dead or dying, and now, I
suppose, as his son is but a child, that we shall be ruled by some
accursed thief of a Roman procurator with a pocket like a sack without
a bottom. Surely that old bishop of yours who preached in the
amphitheatre this morning, must have had a hint of what was coming,
from his familiar spirit; or perhaps he saw the owl and guessed its
errand. Moreover, I think that troubles are brewing for others besides
Herod, since the old man said as much.”

“What became of him and the rest?” asked Nehushta.

“Oh! a few were trampled to death, and others the Jews stirred up the
mob to stone, saying that they had bewitched the king, which they, who
were disappointed of the games, did gladly. Some, however, are said to
have escaped, and, like yourselves, lie in hiding.”

Nehushta glanced at her mistress, now fast asleep, her pale face
resting on her arm.

“The world is hard—for Christians,” she said.

“Friend, it is hard for all, as, were I to tell you my own story, even
you would admit,” and he sighed. “At least you Christians believe in
something beyond,” he went on; “for you death is but a bridge leading
to a glorious city, and I trust that you may be right. Is not your
mistress delicate?”

Nehushta nodded.

“She was never very strong, and sorrow has done its work with her. They
killed her husband at Berytus yonder, and—her trouble is very near.”

“Yes, yes, I heard that story, also that his blood is on the hands of
her own father, Benoni. Ah! who is so cruel as a bigot Jew? Not we
Phœnicians even, of whom they say such evil. Once I had a
daughter”—here his hard face softened—“but let be, let be! Look you,
the risk is great, but what I can do I will do to save her, and you
also, friend, since, Libyan or no, you are a faithful woman. Nay, do
not doubt me. I have given my word, and if I break it willingly, then
may I perish and be devoured of dogs. My ship is small and undecked. In
that she shall not sail, but a big galley weighs for Alexandria
to-night, calling at Apollonia and Joppa, and in it I will take you
passages, saying that the lady is a relative of mine and that you are
her slave. This is my advice to you—that you go straight to Egypt,
where there are many Christians who will protect you for a while.
Thence your mistress can write to her father, and if he will receive
her, return. If not, at least she will be safe, since no writ of Herod
runs in Alexandria, and there they do not love the Jews.”

“Your counsel seems good,” said Nehushta, “if she will consent to it.”

“She must consent who, indeed, is in no case to make other plans. Now
let me go. Before nightfall I will return again with food and clothing,
and lead you to the ship.”

Nehushta hesitated.

“I say to you, do not fear. Will you not trust me?”

“Yes,” answered Nehushta, “because I must. Nay, the words are not kind,
but we are sadly placed, and it is strange to find a true friend in one
whom I have threatened with a knife.”

“I understand,” said Amram gravely. “Let the issue prove me. Now
descend that you may lock the door behind me. When I return I will
stand in the open space yonder with a slave, making pretence to re-bind
a burst bundle of merchandise. Then come down and admit me without
fear.”

When the Phœnician had gone Nehushta sat by her sleeping mistress, and
waited with an anxious heart. Had she done wisely? Would Amram betray
them and send soldiers to conduct them, not to the ship, but to some
dreadful death? Well, if so, at least she would have time to kill her
mistress and herself, and thus escape the cruelties of men. Meanwhile
she could only pray; and pray she did in her fierce, half-savage
fashion, never for herself, but for her mistress whom she loved, and
for the child that, she remembered thankfully, Anna had foretold would
be born and live out its life. Then she remembered also that this same
holy woman had said that its mother’s hours would be few, and at the
thought Nehushta wept.




CHAPTER IV
THE BIRTH OF MIRIAM


The time passed slowly, but none came to disturb them. Three hours
after noon Rachel awoke, refreshed but hungry, and Nehushta had no food
to give her except raw grain, from which she turned. Clearly and in few
words she told her mistress all that had passed, asking her consent to
the plan.

“It seems good as another,” said Rachel with a little sigh, “and I
thank you for making it, Nou, and the Phœnician, if he is a true man.
Also I do not desire to meet my father—at least, for many years. How
can I, seeing the evil which he has brought upon me?”

“Do not speak of that,” interrupted Nehushta hastily, and for a long
while they were silent.

It was an hour before sunset, or a little less, when at length Nehushta
saw two persons walk on to the patch of open ground which she watched
continually—Amram and a slave who bore a bundle on his head. Just then
the rope which bound this bundle seemed to come loose; at least, at his
master’s command, the man set it down and they began to retie it, then
advanced slowly towards the archway. Now Nehushta descended, unlocked
the door and admitted Amram, who carried the bundle.

“Where is the slave?” she asked.

“Have no fear, friend; he is trusty and watches without, not knowing
why. Come, you must both of you be hungry, and I have food. Help me
loose this cord.”

Presently the package was undone, and within it appeared, first, two
flagons of old wine, then meats more tasty than Nehushta had seen for
months, then rich cloaks and other garments made in the Phœnician
fashion, and a robe of white with coloured edges, such as was worn by
the body-slaves of the wealthy among that people. Lastly—and this Amram
produced from his own person—there was a purse of gold, enough to
support them for many weeks. Nehushta thanked him with her eyes, and
was about to speak.

“There, say nothing,” he interrupted. “I passed my word, and I have
kept it, that is all. Also on this money I shall charge interest, and
your mistress can repay it in happier days. Now listen: I have taken
the passages, and an hour after sunset we will go aboard. Only I warn
you, do not let it be known that you are escaped Christians, for the
seamen think that such folk bring them bad luck. Come, help me carry
the food and wine. After you have eaten you can both of you retire here
and robe yourselves.”

Presently they were on the roof.

“Lady,” said Nehushta, “we did well to put faith in this man. He has
come back, and see what he has brought us.”

“The blessing of God be on you, sir, who help the helpless!” exclaimed
Rachel, looking hungrily at the tempting meats which she so sorely
needed.

“Drink,” said Amram cheerfully, as he poured wine and water into a cup;
“it will hearten you, and your faith does not forbid the use of the
grape, for have I not heard you styled the society of drunkards?”

“That is only one bad name among many, sir,” said Rachel, as she took
the cup.

Then they ate and were satisfied, and afterwards descended into the
corn-store to wash with the remainder of the water, and clothe
themselves from head to foot in the fragrant and beautiful garments
that might have been made for their wear, so well had Amram judged
their sizes and needs.

By the time that they were dressed the light was dying. Still, they
waited a while for the darkness; then, with a new hope shining through
their fears, crept silently into the street, where the slave, a sturdy,
well-armed fellow, watched for them.

“To the quay,” said Amram, and they walked forward, choosing those
thoroughfares that were most quiet. It was well for them that they did
this, for now it was known that Agrippa’s sickness was mortal, the most
of the soldiers were already in a state of mutiny, and, inflamed with
wine, paraded the market-places and larger streets, shouting and
singing obscene songs, and breaking into the liquor shops and private
houses, where they drank healths to Charon, who was about to bear away
their king in his evil bark. As yet, however, they had not begun
killing those against whom they had a grudge. This happened afterwards,
though it has nothing to do with our story.

Without trouble or molestation the party reached the quay, where a
small boat with two Phœnician rowers was waiting for them. In it they
embarked, except the slave, and were rowed out to the anchorage to
board a large galley which lay half a mile or more away. This they did
without difficulty, for the night was calm, although the air hung thick
and heavy, and jagged clouds, wind-breeders as they were called, lay
upon the horizon. On the lower deck of the galley stood its captain, a
sour-faced man, to whom Amram introduced his passengers, who were, as
he declared, relatives of his own proceeding to Alexandria.

“Good,” said the captain. “Show them to their cabin, for we sail as
soon as the wind rises.”

To the cabin they went accordingly, a comfortable place stored with all
that they could need; but as they passed to it Nehushta heard a sailor,
who held a lantern in his hand, say to his companion:

“That woman is very like one whom I saw in the amphitheatre this
morning when they gave the salute to King Agrippa.”

“The gods forbid it!” answered the other. “We want no Christians here
to bring evil fortune on us.”

“Christians or no Christians, there is a tempest brewing, if I
understand the signs of the weather,” muttered the first man.

In the cabin Amram bade his guests farewell.

“This is a strange adventure,” he said, “and one that I did not look
for. May it prove to the advantage of us all. At the least I have done
my best for your safety, and now we part.”

“You are a good man,” replied Rachel, “and whatever may befall us, I
pray again that God may bless you for your kindness to His servants. I
pray also that He may lead you to a knowledge of the truth as it was
declared by the Lord and Master Whom we serve, that your soul may win
salvation and eternal life.”

“Lady,” said Amram, “I know nothing of these doctrines, but I promise
you this: that I will look into them and see whether or no they commend
themselves to my reason. I love wealth, like all my people, but I am
not altogether a time-server, or a money-seeker. Lady, I have lost
those whom I desire to find again.”

“Seek and you will find.”

“I will seek,” he answered, “though, mayhap, I shall never find.”

Thus they parted.

Presently the night breeze began to flow off the land, the great sail
was hoisted, and with the help of oars, worked by slaves, the ship
cleared the harbour and set her course for Joppa. Two hours later the
wind failed so that they could proceed only by rowing over a dead and
oily sea, beneath a sky that was full of heavy clouds. Lacking any
stars to steer by, the captain wished to cast anchor, but as the water
proved too deep they proceeded slowly, till about an hour before dawn a
sudden gust struck them which caused the galley to lean over.

“The north wind! The black north wind!” shouted the steersman, and the
sailors echoed his cry dismally, for they knew the terrors of that wind
upon the Syrian coast. Then the gale began to rage. By daylight the
waves were running high as mountains and the wind hissed through the
rigging, driving them forward beneath a small sail. Nehushta crawled
out of the cabin, and, in the light of an angry dawn, saw far away the
white walls of a city built near the shore.

“Is not that Appolonia?” she asked of the captain.

“Yes,” he answered, “it is Appolonia sure enough, but we shall not
anchor there this voyage. Now it is Alexandria for us or nothing.”

So they rushed past Appolonia and forward, climbing the slopes of the
rising seas.

Thus things went on. About mid-day the gale became a hurricane, and do
what they would they were driven forward, till at length they saw the
breakers forming on the coast. Rachel lay sick and prostrate, but
Nehushta went out of the cabin to watch.

“Are we in danger?” she asked of a sailor.

“Yes, accursed Christian,” he replied, “and you have brought it on us
with your evil eye.”

Then Nehushta returned to the cabin where her mistress lay almost
senseless with sea-sickness. On board the ship the terror and confusion
grew. For a while they were able to beat out to sea until the mast was
carried away. Then the rudder broke, and, as the oars could not be
worked in that fearful tempest, the galley began to drive shorewards.
Night fell, and who can describe the awful hours that followed? All
control of the vessel being lost, she drove onwards whither the wind
and the waves took her. The crew, and even the oar-slaves, flew to the
wine with which she was partly laden, and strove to drown their terrors
in drink. Thus inflamed, twice some of them came to the cabin,
threatening to throw their passengers overboard. But Nehushta barred
the door and called through it that she was well armed and would kill
the first man who tried to lay a hand upon her. So they went away, and
after the second visit grew too drunken to be dangerous.

Again the dawn broke over the roaring, foaming sea and revealed the
fate that awaited them. Not a mile away lay the grey line of shore, and
between them and it a cruel reef on which the breakers raged. Towards
this reef they were driving fast. Now the men grew sober in their fear,
and began to build a large raft of oars and timber; also to make ready
the boat which the galley carried. Before all was done she struck beak
first, and was lifted on to a great flat rock, where she wallowed, with
the water seething round her. Then, knowing that their hour was come,
the crew made shift to launch the boat and raft on the lee side, and
began to clamber into them. Now Nehushta came out of the cabin and
prayed the captain to save them also, whereon he answered her with an
oath that this bad luck was because of them, and that if either she or
her mistress tried to enter the boat, they would stab them and cast
them into the sea as an offering to the storm-god.

So Nehushta struggled back to the cabin, and kneeling by the side of
her mistress, with tears told her that these black-hearted sailors had
left them alone upon the ship to drown. Rachel answered that she cared
little, but only desired to be free of her fear and misery.

As the words left her lips, Nehushta heard a sound of screaming, and
crawling to the bulwarks, looked forth to see a dreadful sight. The
boat and the raft, laden with a great number of men who were fighting
for places with each other, having loosed from the lee of the ship,
were come among the breakers, which threw them up as a child throws a
ball at play. Even while Nehushta gazed, their crafts were overturned,
casting them into the water, every one there to be dashed against the
rocks or drowned by the violence of the waves, so that not a man of all
that ship’s company came living to the shore.

Like tens of thousands of others on this coast in all ages, they
perished, every one of them—and that was the reward of their
wickedness.

Giving thanks to God, Who had brought them out of that danger against
their wills, Nehushta crept back to the cabin and told her mistress
what had passed.

“May they find pardon,” said Rachel, shuddering; “but as for us, it
will matter little whether we are drowned in the boat or upon the
galley.”

“I do not think that we shall drown,” answered Nehushta.

“How are we to escape it, Nou? The ship lies upon the rock, where the
great waves will batter her to pieces. Feel how she shakes beneath
their blows, and see the spray flying over us.”

“I do not know, mistress; but we shall not drown.”

Nehushta was right, for after they had remained fast a little longer
they were saved, thus: Suddenly the wind dropped, then it rose again in
a last furious squall, driving before it a very mountain of water. This
vast billow, as it rushed shorewards, caught the galley in its white
arms and lifted her not only off the rock whereon she lay, but over the
further reefs, to cast her down again upon a bed of sand and shells,
within a stone’s throw of the beach, where she remained fast, never to
shift more.

Now also, as though its work were done, the gale ceased, and, as is
common on the Syrian coast, the sea sank rapidly, so that by nightfall
it was calm again. Indeed, three hours before sunset, had both of them
been strong and well, they might have escaped to the land by wading.
But this was not to be, for now what Nehushta had feared befell, and
when she was least fitted to bear it, being worn out with anguish of
mind and weariness of body, pain took sudden hold of Rachel, of which
the end was that, before midnight, there, in that broken vessel upon a
barren coast where no man seemed to live, a daughter was born to her.

“Let me see the child,” said Rachel. So Nehushta showed it to her by
the light of a lamp which burned in the cabin.

It was a small child, but very white, with blue eyes and dark hair that
curled. Rachel gazed at it long and tenderly. Then she said, “Bring me
water while there is yet time.”

When the water was brought she dipped her trembling hand into it, and
made the sign of the Cross upon the babe’s forehead, baptising her with
the name of Miriam, after that of her own mother, to the service and
the company of Jesus the Christ.

“Now,” she said, “whether she live an hour or an hundred years, this
child is a Christian, and whatever befalls, should she come to the age
of understanding, see to it, Nou, who are henceforth the foster-mother
of her body and her soul, that she does not forget the rites and duties
of her faith. Lay this charge on her also as her father commanded, and
as I command, that should she be moved to marriage, she wed none who is
not a Christian. Tell her that such was the will of those who begat
her, and that if she be obedient to it, although they are dead, and as
it seems strengthless, yet shall their blessing be upon her all her
life’s days, and with it the blessing of the Lord she serves.”

“Oh!” moaned Nehushta, “why do you speak thus?”

“Because I am dying. Gainsay me not. I know it well. My life ebbs from
me. My prayers have been answered, and I was preserved to give this
infant birth; now I go to my appointed place and to one who waits for
me, and to the Lord in Whose care he is in Heaven, as we are in His
care on earth. Nay, do not mourn; it is no fault of yours, nor could
any physician’s skill have saved me, whose strength was spent in
suffering, and who for many months have walked the world, bearing in my
breast a broken heart. Give me of that wine to drink—and listen.”

Nehushta obeyed and Rachel went on: “So soon as my breath has left me,
take the babe and seek some village on the shore where it can be
nursed, for which service you have the means to pay. Then when she is
strong enough and it is convenient, travel, not to Tyre—for there my
father would bring up the child in the strictest rites and customs of
the Jews—but to the village of the Essenes upon the shores of the Dead
Sea. There find out my mother’s brother, Ithiel, who is of their
society, and present to him the tokens of my name and birth which still
hang about my neck, and tell him all the story, keeping nothing back.
He is not a Christian, but he is a good and gentle-hearted man who
thinks well of Christians, and is grieved at their persecution, since
he wrote to my father reproving him for his deeds towards us and, as
you know, strove, but in vain, to bring about our release from prison.
Say to him that I, his kinswoman, pray of him, as he will answer to
God, and in the name of the sister whom he loved, to protect my child
and you; to do nothing to turn her from her faith, and in all things to
deal with her as his wisdom shall direct—for so shall peace and
blessing come upon him.”

Thus spoke Rachel, but in short and broken words. Then she began to
pray, and, praying, fell asleep. When she woke again the dawn was
breaking. Signing to Nehushta to bring her the child, for now she could
no longer speak, she scanned it earnestly in the new-born light, then
placed her hand upon its head and blessed it. Nehushta she blessed
also, thanking her with her eyes and kissing her. Then again she seemed
to fall asleep, and presently, when Nehushta looked at her, Rachel was
dead.

Nehushta understood and gave a great and bitter cry, since to her after
the death of her first mistress, this woman had been all her life. As a
child she had nursed her; as a maiden shared her joys and sorrows; as a
wife and widow toiled day and night fiercely and faithfully to console
her in her desolation and to protect her in the dreadful dangers
through which she had passed. Now, to end it all, it was her lot to
receive her last breath and to take into her arms her new-born infant.

Then and there Nehushta swore that as she had done by the mother she so
would do by the child till the day when her labours ended. Were it not
for this child, indeed, they would have ended now, Christian though she
was, since she was crushed with bitter sorrow and her heart seemed void
of hope or joy. All her days had been hard—she who was born to great
place among her own wild people far away, and snatched thence to be a
slave, set apart by her race and blood from those into whose city she
was sold; she who would have naught to do with base men nor become the
plaything of those of higher birth; she who had turned Christian and
drunk deep of the tribulations of the faith; she who had centred all
her eager heart upon two beloved women, and lost them both. All her
days had been hard, and here and now, by the side of her dead mistress,
she would have ended them. But the child remained, and while it lived,
she would live. If it died, then perhaps she would die also.

Meanwhile Nehushta had no time for grief, since the babe must be fed,
and within twelve hours. Yet, as she could not bury her, and would not
throw her to the sharks, she was minded to give her mistress a royal
funeral after the custom of her own Libyan folk. Here was flame, and
what pyre could be grander than this great ship?

Lifting the body from its couch, Nehushta carried it to the deck and
laid it by the broken mast, closing the eyes and folding the hands.
Then she loosened from about the neck those tokens of which Rachel had
spoken, made some food and garments into a bundle, and, carrying the
lamp with her, went into the captain’s cabin amidships. Here a
money-box was open, and in it gold and some jewels which this man had
abandoned in his haste. These she took, adding them to her own store
and securing them about her. This done she fired the cabin, and passing
to the hold, broke a jar of oil and fired that also. Then she fled back
again, knelt by her dead mistress and kissed her, took the child,
wrapping it warmly in a shawl, and by the ladder of rope which the
sailors had used, let herself down into the quiet sea. Its waters did
not reach higher than her middle, and soon she was standing on the
shore and climbing the sandhills that lay beyond. At their summit she
turned to look, and lo! yonder where the galley was, already a great
pillar of fire shot up to heaven, for there was much oil in the hold
and it burnt furiously.

“Farewell!” she cried, “farewell!”

Then, weeping bitterly, Nehushta walked on inland.




CHAPTER V
MIRIAM IS ENTHRONED


Presently Nehushta found herself out of sight of the sea and among
cultivated land, for here were vines and fig trees grown in gardens
fenced with stone walls; also patches of ripening barley and of wheat
in the ear, much trodden down as though horses had been feeding there.
Beyond these gardens she came to a ridge, and saw beneath her a village
of many houses of green brick, some of which seemed to have been
destroyed by fire. Into this village she walked boldly, and there the
first sight that met her eyes was that of sundry dead bodies, upon
which dogs were feeding.

On she went up the main street, till she saw a woman peeping at her
over a garden wall.

“What has chanced here?” asked Nehushta, in the Syrian tongue.

“The Romans! the Romans! the Romans!” wailed the woman. “The head of
our village quarrelled with the tax-gatherers, and refused to pay his
dues to Cæsar. So the soldiers came a week ago and slaughtered nearly
all of us, and took such sheep and cattle as they could find, and with
them many of the young folk, to be sold as slaves, so that the rest are
left empty and desolate. Such are the things that chance in this
unhappy land. But, woman, who are you?”

“I am one shipwrecked!” answered Nehushta, “and I bear with me a
new-born babe—nay, the story is too long to tell you; but if in this
place there is any one who can nurse the babe, I will pay her well.”

“Give it me!” said the woman, in an eager whisper; “my child perished
in the slaughter; I ask no reward.”

Nehushta looked at her. Her eyes were wild, but she was still young and
healthy, a Syrian peasant.

“Have you a house?” she asked.

“Yes, it still stands, and my husband lives; we hid in a cave, but
alas! they slew the infant that was out with the child of a neighbour.
Quick, give me the babe.”

So Nehushta gave it to her, and thus Miriam was nurtured at the breast
of one whose offspring had been murdered because the head of the
village had quarrelled with a Roman tax-collector. Such was the world
in the days when Christ came to save it.

After she had suckled the child the woman led Nehushta to her house, a
humble dwelling that had escaped the fire, where they found the
husband, a wine-grower, mourning the death of his infant and the ruin
of his town. To him she told as much of her story as she thought well,
and proffered him a gold piece, which, so she swore, was one of ten she
had about her. He took it gladly, for now he was penniless, and
promised her lodging and protection, and the service of his wife as
nurse to the child for a month at least. So there Nehushta stayed,
keeping herself hid, and at the end of the month gave another gold
piece to her hosts, who were kindly folk that never dreamed of working
her evil or injustice. Seeing this, Nehushta found yet more money,
wherewith the man, blessing her, bought two oxen and a plough, and
hired labour to help him gather what remained of his harvest.

The shore where the infant was born upon the wrecked ship, was at a
distance of about a league from Joppa and two days’ journey from
Jerusalem, whence the Dead Sea could be reached in another two days.
When Nehushta had dwelt there for some six months, as the babe throve
and was hearty, she offered to pay the man and his wife three more
pieces of gold if they would travel with her to the neighbourhood of
Jericho, and, further, to purchase a mule and an ass for the journey,
which she would give to them when it was accomplished. The eyes of
these simple folk glistened at the prospect of so much wealth, and they
agreed readily, promising also to stay three months by Jericho, if need
were, till the child could be weaned. So a man was hired to guard the
house and vines, and they started in the late autumn, when the air was
cool and pleasant.

Of their journey nothing need be said, save that they accomplished it
without trouble, being too humble in appearance to attract the notice
of the thieves who swarmed upon the highways, or of the soldiers who
were set to catch the thieves.

Skirting Jerusalem, which they did not enter, on the sixth day they
descended into the valley of the Jordan, through the desolate hills by
which it is bordered. Camping that night outside the town, at daybreak
on the seventh morning they started, and by two hours after noon came
to the village of the Essenes. On its outskirts they halted, while
Nehushta and the nurse, bearing with them the child, that by now could
wave its arms and crow, advanced boldly into the village, where it
would appear men dwelt only—at least no women were to be seen—and asked
to be led to the Brother Ithiel.

The man to whom they spoke, who was robed in white, and engaged in
cooking outside a large building, averted his eyes in answering, as
though it were not lawful for him to look upon the face of a woman. He
said, very civilly, however, that Brother Ithiel was working in the
fields, whence he would not return till supper time.

Nehushta asked where these fields were, since she desired to speak with
him at once. The man answered that if they walked towards the green
trees that lined the banks of Jordan, which he pointed out to them,
they could not fail to find Ithiel, as he was ploughing in the
irrigated land with two white oxen, the only ones they had. Accordingly
they set out again, having the Dead Sea on their right, and travelled
for the half of a league through the thorn-scrub that grows in this
desert. Passing the scrub they came to lands which were well cultivated
and supplied with water from the Jordan by means of wheels and long
poles with a jar at one end and a weight at the other, which a man
could work, emptying the contents of the jar again and again into an
irrigation ditch.

In one of these fields they saw the two white oxen at their toil, and
behind them the labourer, a tall man of about fifty years of age,
bearded, and having a calm face and eyes that were very deep and quiet.
He was clad in a rough robe of camel’s hair, fastened about his middle
with a leathern girdle, and wore sandals on his feet. To him they went,
asking leave to speak with him, whereon he halted the oxen and greeted
them courteously, but, like the man in the village, turned his eyes
away from the faces of the women. Nehushta bade the nurse stand back
out of hearing, and, bearing the child in her arms, said:

“Sir, tell me, I pray you, if I speak to Ithiel, a priest of high rank
among this people of the Essenes, and brother to the dead lady Miriam,
wife of Benoni the Jew, a merchant of Tyre?”

At the mention of these names Ithiel’s face saddened, then grew calm
again.

“I am so called,” he answered; “and the lady Miriam is my sister, who
now dwells in the happy and eternal country beyond the ocean with all
the blessed”—for so the Essenes imagined that heaven to which they went
when the soul was freed from the vile body.

“The lady Miriam,” continued Nehushta, “had a daughter Rachel, whose
servant I was.”

“Was?” he interrupted, startled from his calm. “Has she then been put
to death by those fierce men and their king, as was as her husband
Demas?”

“Nay, sir, but she died in childbirth, and this is the babe she bore”;
and she held the sleeping little one towards him, at whom he gazed
earnestly, yes, and bent down and kissed it—since, although they saw so
few of them, the Essenes loved children.

“Tell me that sad story,” he said.

“Sir, I will both tell it and prove it to be true”; and Nehushta told
him all from the beginning to the end, producing to his sight the
tokens which she had taken from the breast of her mistress, and
repeating her last message to him word for word. When she had finished,
Ithiel turned away and mourned a while. Then, speaking aloud, he put up
a prayer to God for guidance—for without prayer these people would not
enter upon anything, however simple—and came back to Nehushta, who
stood by the oxen.

“Good and faithful woman,” he said, “who it would seem are not fickle
and light-hearted, or worse, like the multitude of your sex—perchance
because your dark skin shields you from their temptations—you have set
me in a cleft stick, and there I am held fast. Know that the rule of my
order is that we should have naught to do with females, young or old;
therefore how can I receive you or the child?”

“Of the rules of your order, sir, I know nothing,” answered Nehushta
sharply, since the words about the colour of her skin had not pleased
her; “but of the rules of nature I do know, and something of the rules
of God also, for, like my mistress and this infant, I am a Christian.
These tell me, all of them, that to cast out an orphan child who is of
your own blood, and whom a cruel fortune has thus brought to your door,
would be an evil act, and one for which you must answer to Him who is
above the rules of any order.”

“I may not wrangle, especially with a woman,” replied Ithiel, who
seemed ill at ease; “but if my first words are true, this is true also,
that those same rules enjoin upon us hospitality, and above all, that
we must not turn away the helpless or the destitute.”

“Clearly, then, sir, least of any must you turn away this child whose
blood is your blood, and whose dead mother sent her to you, that she
might not fall into the power of a grandfather who has dealt so cruelly
with those he should have cherished, to be brought up among Zealots as
a Jew and taught to make offering of living things, and be anointed
with the oil and blood of sacrifice.”

“No, no, the thought is horrible,” answered Ithiel, holding up his
hands. “It is better, far better that she should be a Christian than
one of that fanatic and blood-spilling faith.” This he said, because
among the Essenes the use of oil was held to be unclean. Also above all
things, they loathed the offering of life in sacrifice to God; who,
although they did not acknowledge Christ—perhaps because He was never
preached to them, who would listen to no new religion—practised the
most of His doctrines with the greatest strictness.

“The matter is too hard for me,” he went on. “I must lay it before a
full Court of the hundred curators, and what they decide, that will be
done. Still, this is our rule: to assist those who need and to show
mercy, to accord succour to such as deserve it, and to give food to
those in distress. Therefore, whatever the Court, which it will take
three days to summon, may decide, in the meanwhile I have the right to
give you, and those with you, shelter and provision in the guest-house.
As it chances, it is situated in that part of the village where dwell
the lowest of our brethren, who are permitted to marry, so there you
will find company of your own sex.”

“I shall be glad of it,” answered Nehushta drily. “Also I should call
them the highest of the brethren, since marriage is a law of God, which
God the Father has instituted, and God the Son has blessed.”

“I may not wrangle, I may not wrangle,” replied Ithiel, declining the
encounter; “but certainly, that is a lovely babe. Look. Its eyes are
open and they are beautiful as flowers”; and again he bent down and
kissed the child, then added with a groan of remorse, “Alas! sinner
that I am, I am defiled; I must purify myself and do penance.”

“Why?” asked Nehushta shortly.

“For two reasons: I have touched your dress, and I have given way to
earthly passion and embraced a child—twice. Therefore, according to our
rule, I am defiled.”

Then Nehushta could bear it no more.

“Defiled! you puppet of a foolish rule! It is the sweet babe that is
defiled! Look, you have fouled its garments with your grimy hand and
made it weep by pricking it with your beard. Would that your holy rule
taught you how to handle children and to respect honest women who are
their mothers, without whom there would be no Essenes.”

“I may not wrangle,” said Ithiel, nervously; for now woman was
appearing before him in a new light; not as an artful and a fickle, but
as an angry creature, reckless of tongue and not easy to be answered.
“These matters are for the decision of the curators. Have I not told
you so? Come, let us be going. I will drive the oxen, although it is
not time to loose them from the plough, and do you and your companion
walk at a distance behind me. No, not behind—in front, that I may see
that you do not drop the babe, or suffer it to come to any harm. Truly
it is sweet to look at, and, may God forgive me, I do not like to lose
sight of its face, which, it seems to me, resembles that of my sister
when she was also in arms.”

“Drop the babe!” began Nehushta; then understanding that this victim of
a rule already loved it dearly, and would suffer much before he parted
with it, pitying his weakness, she said only, “Be careful that you do
not frighten it with your great oxen, for you men who scorn women have
much to learn.”

Then, accompanied by the nurse, she stalked ahead in silence, while
Ithiel followed after at a distance, leading the cattle by the hide
loops about their horns, lest in their curiosity or eagerness to get
home, they should do some mischief to the infant or wake it from its
slumbers. In this way they proceeded to the lower part of the village,
till they came to a good house—empty as it chanced—where guests were
accommodated in the best fashion that this kind and homely folk could
afford. Here a woman was summoned, the wife of one of the lower order
of the Essenes, to whom Ithiel spoke, holding his hand before his eyes,
as though she were not good to look at. To her, from a distance, he
explained the case, bidding her to provide all things needful, and to
send a man to bring in the husband of the nurse with the beasts of
burden, and attend to his wants and theirs. Then, warning Nehushta to
be very careful of the infant and not to expose it to the sun, he
departed to report the matter to the curators, and to summon the great
Court.

“Are all of them like this?” asked Nehushta of the woman,
contemptuously.

“Yes, sister,” she answered, “fools, every one. Why, of my own husband
I see little; and although, being married, he ranks but low among them,
the man is forever telling me of the faults of our sex, and how they
are a snare set for the feet of the righteous, and given to the leading
of these same righteous astray, especially if they be not their own
husbands. At times I am tempted indeed to prove his words true. Oh! it
would not be difficult for all their high talk; I have learned as much
as that, for Nature is apt to make a mock of those who deny Nature, and
there is no parchment rule that a woman cannot bring to nothing. Yet,
since they mean well, laugh at them and let them be, say I. And now
come into the house, which is good, although did women manage it, it
would be better.”

So Nehushta went into that house with the nurse and her husband, and
there for several days dwelt in great comfort. Indeed, there was
nothing that she or the child, or those with them, could want which was
not provided in plenty. Messages reached her even, through the woman,
to ask if she would wish the rooms altered in any way, and when she
said that there was not light enough in that in which the child slept,
some of the elders of the Essenes arrived and pierced a new window in
the wall, working very hard to finish the task before sunset. Also even
the husband of the nurse was not allowed to attend to his own beasts,
which were groomed and fed for him, till at length he grew so weary of
doing nothing, that on the third day he went out to plough with the
Essenes and worked in the fields till dark.

It was on the fourth morning that the full Court gathered in the great
meeting-house, and Nehushta was summoned to appear before it, bringing
the babe with her. Thither she went accordingly, to find the place
filled with a hundred grave and reverend men, all clad in robes of the
purest white. In the lower part of that large chamber she sat alone
upon a chair, while before her upon benches ranged one above the other,
so that all could see, were gathered the hundred curators.

It seemed that Ithiel had already set out the case, since the President
at once began to question her on various points of her story, all of
which she was able to explain to the satisfaction of the Court. Then
they debated the matter among themselves, some of them arguing that as
the child was a female, as well as its nurse, neither of them could
properly be admitted to the care of the community, especially as both
were of the Christian faith, and it was stipulated that in this faith
they should remain. Others answered that hospitality was their first
duty, and that he would be weak indeed who was led aside from their
rule by a Libyan woman of middle age and an infant of a few months.
Further, that the Christians were a good people, and that there was
much in their doctrines which tallied with their own. Next, one made a
strange objection—namely, that if they adopted this child they would
learn to love it too much, who should love God and their order only. To
this another answered, Nay, they should love all mankind, and
especially the helpless.

“Mankind, not womankind,” was the reply; “for this infant will grow
into a woman.”

Now they desired Nehushta to retire that they might take the votes.
Before she went, however, holding up the child that all could see it as
it lay smiling in her arms, she implored them not to reject the prayer
of a dead woman, and so deprive this infant of the care of the relative
whom that departed lady had appointed to be its guardian, and of the
guidance and directing wisdom of their holy Order. Lastly, she reminded
them that if they thrust her out, she must carry the infant to its
grandfather, who, if he received it at all, would certainly bring it up
in the Jewish faith, and thereby, perhaps, cause it to lose its soul,
the weight of which sin would be upon their heads.

After this Nehushta was led away to another chamber and remained there
a long while, till at length she was brought back again by one of the
curators. On entering the great hall her eyes sought the face of
Ithiel, who had not been allowed to speak, since the matter having to
do with a great-niece of his own, it was held that his judgment might
be warped. Seeing that he smiled, and evidently was well pleased, she
knew her cause was won.

“Woman,” said the President, “by a great majority of this Court we have
come to an irrevocable decision upon the matter that has been laid
before it by our brother Ithiel. It is, for reasons which I need not
explain, that on this point our rule may be stretched so far as to
admit the child Miriam to our care, even though it be of the female
sex, which care is to endure until she comes to a full age of eighteen
years, when she must depart from among us. During this time no attempt
will be made to turn her from her parents’ faith in which she has been
baptised. A house will be given you to live in, and you will be
supplied with the best we have for the use of our ward Miriam and
yourself. Twice a week a deputation of the curators will visit the
house, and stay there for an hour to see that the health of the infant
is good, and that you are doing your duty by it, in which, if you fail,
you will be removed. It is prayed that you will not talk to these
curators on matters which do not concern the child. When she grows old
enough the maid Miriam will be admitted to our gatherings, and
instructed also by the most learned amongst us in all proper matters of
letters and philosophy, on which occasions you will sit at a distance
and not interfere unless your care is required.

“Now, that every one may know our decision, we will escort you back to
your house, and to show that we have taken the infant under our care,
our brother Ithiel will carry it while you walk behind and give him
such instruction in this matter as may be needful.”

Accordingly a great procession was formed, headed by the President and
ended by the priests. In the centre of the line marched Ithiel bearing
the babe Miriam, to his evident delight, and Nehushta, who instructed
him so vigorously that at length he grew confused and nearly let it
fall. Thereon, setting this detail of the judgment at defiance,
Nehushta snatched it from his arms, calling him a clumsy and ignorant
clown only fit to handle an ox. To this Ithiel made no answer, nor was
he at all wroth, but finished the journey walking behind her and
smiling foolishly.

Thus was the child Miriam, who afterwards came to be called the Queen
of the Essenes, royally escorted to her home. But little did these good
men know that it was not a house which they were giving her, but a
throne, built of the pure gold of their own gentle hearts.




CHAPTER VI
CALEB


It may be wondered whether any girl who was ever born into the world
could boast a stranger or a happier upbringing than Miriam. She was, it
is true, motherless, but by way of compensation Fate endowed her with
several hundred fathers, each of whom loved her as the apple of his
eye. She did not call them “Father” indeed, a term which under the
circumstances they thought incorrect. To her, one and all, they went by
the designation of “Uncle,” with their name added if she happened to
know it, if not as Uncle simply. It cannot be said, however, that
Miriam brought peace to the community of the Essenes. Indeed, before
she had done with them she rent it with deep and abiding jealousies, to
the intense but secret delight of Nehushta, who, although she became a
person of great importance among them as the one who had immediate
charge of their jewel, could never forgive them certain of their
doctrines or their habit of persistent interference.

The domiciliary visits which took place twice a week, and, by special
subsequent resolution passed in full Court, on the Sabbath also, were,
to begin with, the subject of much covert bitterness. At first a
standing committee was appointed to make these visits, of whom Ithiel
was one. Before two years had gone by, however, much murmuring arose in
the community upon this matter. It was pointed out in language that
became vehement—for an Essene—that so much power should not be left in
the hands of one fixed set of individuals, who might become careless or
prejudiced, or, worst of all, neglectful of the welfare of the child
who was the guest not of them only, but of the whole order. It was
demanded, therefore, that this committee should change automatically
every month, so that all might serve upon it in turn, Ithiel, as the
blood-relation of Miriam, remaining its only permanent member. This
proposal was opposed by the committee, but as no one else would vote
for them the desired alteration was made. Further, to be removed
temporarily, or for good, from its roster was thenceforth recognised as
one of the punishments of the order.

Indeed, the absurdities to which its existence gave rise, especially as
the girl grew in years, sweetness and beauty, cannot be numbered. Thus,
every visiting member must wash his whole person and clothe himself in
clean garments before he was allowed to approach the child, “lest he
should convey to her any sickness, or impure substance, or odour.” Then
there was much trouble because some members were discovered to be
ingratiating themselves with Miriam by secretly presenting her with
gifts of playthings, some of them of great beauty, which they fashioned
from wood, shells, or even hard stones. Moreover, they purveyed
articles of food such as they found the child loved; and this it was
that led to their detection, for, having eaten of them, she was ill.
Thereupon Nehushta, enraged, disclosed the whole plot, using the most
violent language, and, amidst murmurs of “Shame on them!” designating
the offenders by name. They were removed from their office, and it was
decreed that henceforth any gifts made to the child must be offered to
her by the committee as a whole, and not by a single individual, and
handed over in their name by Ithiel, her uncle.

Once, when she was seven years old, and the idol of every brother among
the Essenes, Miriam fell ill with a kind of fever which often strikes
children in the neighbourhood of Jericho and the Dead Sea. Among the
brethren were several skilful and famous physicians, who attended her
night and day. But still the fever could not be abated, and at last,
with tears, they announced that they feared for the child’s life. Then
indeed there was lamentation among the Essenes. For three days and
three nights did they wrestle in constant prayer to God that she might
be spared, many of them touching nothing but water during all that
time. Moreover, they sat about at a distance from her house, praying
and seeking tidings. If it was bad they beat their breasts, if good
they gave thanks. Never was the sickbed of a monarch watched with more
care or devotion than that of this little orphan, and never was a
recovery—for at length she did recover—received with greater
thankfulness and joy.

This was the truth. These pure and simple men, in obedience to the
strict rule they had adopted, were cut off from all the affections of
life. Yet, the foundation-stone of their doctrine being Love, they who
were human must love something, so they loved this child whom they
looked upon as their ward, and who, as there was none other of her age
and sex in their community, had no rival in their hearts. She was the
one joy of their laborious and ascetic hours; she represented all the
sweetness and youth of this self-renewing world, which to them was so
grey and sapless. Moreover, she was a lovely maid, who, wherever she
had been placed, would have bound all to her.

The years went by and the time came when, in obedience to the first
decree, Miriam must be educated. Long were the discussions which ensued
among the curators of the Essenes. At length three of the most learned
of their body were appointed to this task, and the teaching began. As
it chanced, Miriam proved an apt pupil, for her memory was good, and
she had a great desire to learn many things, more especially history
and languages, and all that has to do with nature. One of her tutors
was an Egyptian, who, brought up in the priests’ college at Thebes,
when on a journey to Judæa had fallen sick near Jericho, been nursed by
the Essenes and converted to their doctrine. From him Miriam learnt
much of their ancient civilisation, and even of the inner mysteries of
the Egyptian religion, and of its high and secret interpretations which
were known only to the priests. The second, Theophilus by name, was a
Greek who had visited Rome, and he taught her the tongues and
literature of those countries. The third, all his life long had studied
beasts and birds and insects, and the workings of nature, and the stars
and their movements, in which things he instructed her day by day,
taking her abroad with him that examples of each of them might be
before her eyes.

Lastly, when she grew older, there was a fourth master, who was an
artist. He taught Miriam how to model animals, and even men, in the
clay of the Jordan, and how to carve them out in marble, and something
of the use of pigments. Also this man, who was very clever, had a
knowledge of singing and instrumental music, which he imparted to her
in her odd hours. Thus it came about that Miriam grew learned and well
acquainted with many matters of which most girls of her day and years
had never even heard. Nor did she lack knowledge of the things of her
own faith, though in these the Essenes did not instruct her further
than its doctrines tallied with their own. Of the rest, Nehushta told
her something; moreover, on several occasions Christian travellers or
preachers visited this country to address the Essenes or the other Jews
who dwelt there. When they learned her case, these showed themselves
very eager to inform her of the Christian doctrine. Among them was one
old man who had heard the preaching of Jesus Christ, and been present
at His Crucifixion, to all of which histories the girl listened with
eagerness, remembering them to the last hour of her life.

Further, and perhaps this was the best part of her education, she lived
in the daily company of Nature. But a mile or two away spread the Dead
Sea, and along its melancholy and lifeless shores, fringed with the
white trunks of trees that had been brought down by Jordan, she would
often walk. Before her day by day loomed the mountains of Moab, while
behind her were the fantastic and mysterious sand-hills of the desert,
backed again by other mountains and that grey, tormented country which
stretches between Jericho and Jerusalem. Quite near at hand also ran
the broad and muddy Jordan, whose fertile banks were clothed in spring
with the most delicious greenery and haunted by kingfishers, cranes,
wildfowl, and many other birds. About these banks, too, stretching into
the desert land beyond, the flowers of the field grew by myriads, at
different periods of the year carpeting the whole earth with various
colours, brilliant as are those of the rainbow. These it was her
delight to gather, and even to cultivate in the garden of her house.

Thus wisdom, earthly and divine, was gathered in Miriam’s heart till
very soon its light began to shine through her eyes and face, making
them ever more tender and beautiful. Nor did she lack charm and grace
of person. From the first, in stature she was small and delicate, pale
also in complexion; but her dark hair was plenteous and curling, and
her eyes were large and of a deep and tender blue. Her hands and feet
were very slender, and her every gesture quick and agile as that of a
bird. Thus she grew up loving all things and beloved by all; for even
the flowers which she tended and the creatures that she fed, seemed in
her to find a friend.

Now of so much learning and all this system of solemn ordered hours,
Nehushta did not approve. For a while she bore with it, but when Miriam
was about eleven years of age, she spoke her mind to the Committee and
through them to the governing Court of Curators.

Was it right that a child should be brought up thus, she asked, and
turned into a grave old woman whilst, quite heedless of such things,
others of her age were occupied with youthful games? The end of it
might be that her brain would break and she would die or become crazy,
and then what good would so much wisdom do her? It was necessary that
she should have more leisure and other children with whom she could
associate.

“White-bearded hermits,” she added with point, “were not suitable as
sole companions to a little maid.”

Thereon followed much debate and consultation with the doctors, who
agreed that friends of her own years should be found for the child.
This, however, proved difficult, since among these Essenes were no
other girls. Therefore those friends must be of the male sex. Here too
were difficulties, as at that time, of the lads adopted by this
particular community which they were destined to join in after days,
there was but one of equal birth with Miriam. Now so far as concerned
their own order the Essenes thought little of social distinctions, or
even of the differences of blood and race. But Miriam was not of their
order; she was their guest, no more, to whom they stood in the place of
parents, and who would go from them out into the great world.
Therefore, notwithstanding their childlike simplicity, being, many of
them, men experienced in life, they did not think it right that she
should mix with those of lower breeding.

This one lad, Caleb by name, was born in the same year as Miriam, when
Cuspius Fadus became governor on the death of Agrippa. His father was a
Jew of very high rank named Hilliel, who, although he sided from time
to time with the Roman party, was killed by them, or perished among the
twenty thousand who were trampled to death at the Feast of the Passover
at Jerusalem, when Cumanus, the Procurator, ordered his soldiers to
attack the people. Thereon the Zealots, who considered him a traitor,
managed to get possession of all his property, so that his son Caleb,
whose mother was dead, was brought in a destitute condition by one of
her friends to Jericho. There, as she could not dispose of him
otherwise, he was given over to the Essenes, to be educated in their
doctrine, and, should he wish it, to enter their order when he reached
full age. This lad, it was now decreed, should become the playmate of
Miriam, a decision that pleased both of them very well.

Caleb was a handsome child with quick, dark eyes that watched
everything without seeming to watch, and black hair which curled upon
his shoulders. He was clever also and brave; but though he did his best
to control his temper, by nature very passionate and unforgiving.
Moreover, that which he desired he would have, if by any means it could
be obtained, and was faithful in his loves as in his hates. Of these
hates Nehushta was one. With all the skill of a Libyan, whose only book
is that of Nature and men’s faces, she read the boy’s heart at once and
said openly that he might come to be the first in any cause—if he did
not betray it—and that when God mixed his blood of the best, lest Cæsar
should find a rival He left out the salt of honesty and filled up the
cup with the wine of passion. When these sayings were repeated to Caleb
by Miriam, who thought them to be a jest fit to tease her playmate
with, he did not fly into one of his tempers, as she had hoped, but
only screwed up his eyelids after his fashion in certain moods, and
looked black as the rain-storm above Mount Nebo.

“Did you hear, Caleb?” asked Miriam, somewhat disappointed.

“Oh, yes! Lady Miriam,” for so he had been ordered to call her. “I
heard. Do you tell that old black woman that I will lead more causes
than she ever thought of, for I mean to be the first everywhere. Also
that whatever God left out of my cup, at least He mixed it with a good
memory.”

When Nehushta heard this, she laughed and said that it was true enough,
only he that tried to climb several ladders at once generally fell to
the ground, and that when a head had said good-bye to its shoulders,
the best of memories got lost between the two.

Miriam liked Caleb, but she never loved him as she did the old men, her
uncles, or Nehushta, who to her was more than all. Perhaps this may
have been because he never grew angry with her whatever she might say
or do, never even spoke to her roughly, but always waited on her
pleasure and watched for her wish. Still, of all companions he was the
best. If Miriam desired to walk by the Dead Sea, he would desire the
same. If she wanted to go fishing in the Jordan, he would make ready
the baits or net, and take the fishes off the hook—a thing she hated.
If she sought a rare flower, Caleb would hunt it out for days, although
she knew well that in himself he did not care for flowers, and when he
had found it, would mark the spot and lead her there in triumph. Also
there was this about him, as she was soon quick enough to learn: he
worshipped her. Whatever else might be false, that note in his nature
rang true. If one child could love another, then Caleb loved Miriam,
first with the love of children, then as a man loves a woman. Only—and
this was the sorrow of it—Miriam never loved Caleb. Had she done so
both their stories would have been very different. To her he was a
clever companion and no more.

What made the thing more strange was that he loved no one else, except,
mayhap, himself. In this way and in that the lad soon came to learn his
own history, which was sad enough, with the result that if he hated the
Romans who had invaded the country and trampled it beneath their heel,
still more did he hate those of the Jews who looked upon his father as
their enemy and had stolen all the lands and goods that were his by
right. As for the Essenes who reared and protected him, so soon as he
came to an age when he could weigh such matters, he held them in
contempt, and because of their continual habit of bathing themselves
and purifying their garments, called them the company of washer-women.
On him their doctrines left but a shallow mark. He thought, as he
explained to Miriam, that people who were in the world should take the
world as they found it, without dreaming ceaselessly of another world
to which, as yet, they did not belong; a sentiment that to some extent
Nehushta shared.

Wishing, with the zeal of the young, to make a convert, Miriam preached
to him the doctrine of Christianity, but without success. By blood
Caleb was a Jew of the Jews, and could not understand or admire a God
who would consent to be trodden under foot and crucified. The Messiah
he desired to follow must be a great conqueror, one who would overthrow
the Cæsars and take the throne of Cæsar, not a humble creature with his
mouth full of maxims. Like the majority of his own, and, indeed, of
every generation, to the last day of his life, Caleb was unable to
divine that mind is greater than matter, while spirit is greater than
mind; and that in the end, by many slow advances and after many
disasters seemingly irremediable, spirituality will conquer all. He
looked to a sword flashing from thrones, not to the word of truth
spoken by lowly lips in humble streets or upon the flanks of deserts,
trusting to the winds of Grace to bear it into the hearts of men and
thus regenerate their souls.

Such was Caleb, and these things are said of him here because the child
is father to the man.

Swiftly the years went by. There were tumults in Judæa and massacres in
Jerusalem. False prophets such as Theudas, who pretended that he could
divide Jordan, attracted thousands to their tinsel standards, to be
hewn down, poor folk! by the Roman legions. Cæsars rose and fell; the
great Temple was at length almost completed in its glory, and many
events happened which are remembered even to this day.

But in the little village of the Essenes by the grey shores of the Dead
Sea, nothing seemed to change, except that now and again an aged
brother died, and now and again a new brother was admitted. They rose
before daylight and offered their invocation to the sun; they went out
to toil in the fields and sowed their crops, to reap them in due
season, thankful if they were good, still thankful if they were bad.
They washed, they prayed, they mourned over the wickedness of the
world, and wove themselves white garments emblematic of a better. Also,
although of this Miriam knew nothing, they held higher and more secret
services wherein they invoked the presence of their “angels,” and by
arts of divination that were known to them, foretold the future, an
exercise which brought them little joy. But as yet, however evil might
be the omens, none came to molest their peaceful life, which ran
quietly towards the great catastrophe as often deep waters swirl to the
lip of a precipice.

At length when Miriam was seventeen years of age, the first stroke of
trouble fell upon them.

From time to time the high priests at Jerusalem, who hated the Essenes
as heretics, had made demands upon them that they should pay tithe for
the support of the sacrifices in the Temple. This they refused to do,
since all sacrifices were hateful to them. So things went on until the
day of the high priest Ananos, who sent armed men to the village of the
Essenes to take the tithes. These were refused to them, whereon they
broke open the granary and helped themselves, destroying a great deal
which they could not carry away. As it chanced, on that day Miriam,
accompanied by Nehushta, had visited Jericho. Returning in the
afternoon they passed through a certain torrent bed in which were many
rocks, and among them thickets of thorn trees. Here they were met by
Caleb, now a noble-looking youth very strong and active, who carried a
bow in his hand and on his back a sheath of six arrows.

“Lady Miriam,” he said, “well met. I have come to seek you, and to warn
you not to return by the road to-day, since on it you will meet
presently those thieves sent by the high priest to plunder the stores
of the Order, who, perhaps, will offer you insult or mischief, for they
are drunk with wine. Look, one of them has struck me,” and he pointed
to a bruise upon his shoulder and scowled.

“What then shall we do?” asked Miriam. “Go back to Jericho?”

“Nay, for there they will come too. Follow up this gully till you reach
the footpath a mile away, and by it walk to the village; so you will
miss these robbers.”

“That is a good plan,” said Nehushta. “Come, lady.”

“Whither are you going, Caleb?” asked Miriam, lingering, since she saw
that he did not mean to accompany them.

“I? Oh, I shall hide among the rocks near by till the men are passed,
and then go to seek that hyena which has been worrying the sheep. I
have tracked him down and may catch him as he comes from his hole at
sunset. That is why I have brought my bow and arrows.”

“Come,” broke in Nehushta impatiently, “come. The lad well knows how to
guard himself.”

“Be careful, Caleb, that you get no hurt from the hyena,” said Miriam,
doubtfully, as Nehushta seized her by the wrist and dragged her away.
“It is strange,” she added as they went, “that Caleb should choose this
evening to go hunting.”

“Unless I mistake, it is a human hyena whom he hunts,” answered
Nehushta shortly. “One of those men struck him, and he desires to wash
the wound with his blood.”

“Oh, surely not! Nou. That would be taking vengeance, and revenge is
evil.”

Nehushta shrugged her shoulders. “Caleb may think otherwise, as I do at
times. Wait, and we shall see.”

As it chanced, they did see something. The footpath by which they
returned to the village ran over a high ridge of ground, and from its
crest, although they were a mile or more away, in that clear desert air
they could easily discern the line of the high priest’s servants
straggling along, driving before them a score or so of mules, laden
with wine and other produce which they had stolen from the stores.
Presently the company of them descended into that gully along which the
road ran, whence a minute or two later rose a sound of distant
shouting. Then they appeared on the further side, running, or riding
their beasts hither and thither, as though in search of some one, while
four of them carried between them a man who seemed to be hurt, or dead.

“I think that Caleb has shot his hyena,” said Nehushta meaningly; “but
I have seen nothing, and if you are wise, you will say nothing. I do
not like Caleb, but I hate these Jewish thieves, and it is not for you
to bring your friend into trouble.”

Miriam looked frightened but nodded her head, and no more was said of
the matter.

That evening, as Miriam and Nehushta stood at the door of their house
in the cool, by the light of the full moon they saw Caleb advancing
towards them down the road, a sight that made Miriam glad at heart, for
she feared lest he might have come into trouble. Catching sight of
them, he asked permission to enter through the door, which he closed
behind them, so that now they stood in the little garden within the
wall.

“Well,” said Nehushta, “I see that you had a shot at your hyena; did
you kill it?”

“How do you know that?” he asked, looking at her suspiciously.

“A strange question to put to a Libyan woman who was brought up among
bowmen,” she replied. “You had six arrows in your quiver when we met
you, and now I count but five. Also your bow was newly waxed; and look,
the wax is rubbed where the shaft lay.”

“I shot at the beast, and, as I think, hit it. At least, I could not
find the arrow again, although I searched long.”

“Doubtless. You do not often miss. You have a good eye and a steady
hand. Well, the loss of a shaft will not matter, since I noticed, also,
that this one was differently barbed from the others, and double
feathered; a true Roman war-shaft, such as they do not make here. If
any find your wounded beast you will not get its hide, since it is
known that you do not use such arrows.” Then, with a smile that was
full of meaning, Nehushta turned and entered the house, leaving him
staring after her, half in wrath and half in wonder at her wit.

“What does she mean?” he asked Miriam, but in the voice of one who
speaks to himself.

“She thinks that you shot at a man, not at a beast,” replied Miriam;
“but I know well that you could not have done this, since that would be
against the rule of the Essenes.”

“Even the rule of the Essenes permits a man to protect himself and his
property from thieves,” he answered sulkily.

“Yes, to protect himself if he is attacked, and his property—if he has
any. But neither that faith nor mine permits him to avenge a blow.”

“I was one against many,” he answered boldly. “My life was on the
hazard: it was no coward’s act.”

“Were there, then, a troop of these hyenas?” asked Miriam, innocently.
“I thought you said it was a solitary beast that took the sheep.”

“It was a whole company of beasts who took the wine, and smote those in
charge of it as though they were street dogs.”

“Hyenas that took wine like the tame ape whom the boys make drunken
over yonder——”

“Why do you mock me,” broke in Caleb, “who must know the truth? Or if
you do not know it, here it is. That thief beat me with his staff, and
called me the son of a dog, and I swore that I would pay him back. Pay
him back I did, for the head of that shaft which Nehushta noted, stands
out a span beyond his neck. They never saw who shot it; they never saw
me at all, who thought at first that the man had fallen from his horse.
By the time they knew the truth I was away where they could not follow.
Now go and tell the story if you will, or let Nehushta, who hates me,
tell it, and give me over to be tortured by the servants of the high
priest, or crucified as a murderer by the Romans.”

“Neither Nehushta nor I saw this deed done, nor shall we bear witness
against you, Caleb, or judge you, who doubtless were provoked by
violent and lawless men. Yet, Caleb, you told me that you came out to
warn us, and it grieves me to learn that the true wish of your heart
was to take the life of a man.”

“It is false,” he answered angrily; “I said that I came to warn you,
and afterwards to kill a hyena. To make you safe—that was my first
thought, and until you were safe my enemy was safe also. Miriam, you
know it well.”

“Why should I know it? To you, Caleb, I think revenge is more than
friendship.”

“Perhaps; for I have few friends who am a penniless orphan brought up
by charity. But, Miriam, to me revenge is not more than—love.”

“Love,” she stammered, turning crimson to her hair and stepping back a
pace; “what do you mean, Caleb?”

“What I say, neither more nor less,” he answered sullenly. “As I have
worked one crime to-day, I may as well work two, and dare to tell the
lady Miriam, the Queen of the Essenes, that I love her, though she
loves not me—as yet.”

“This is madness,” faltered Miriam.

“Mayhap, but it is a madness which began when first I saw you—that was
soon after we learned to speak—a madness which will continue until I
cease to see you, and that shall be soon before I grow silent forever.
Listen, Miriam, and do not think my words only those of a foolish boy,
for all my life shall prove them. This love of mine is a thing with
which you must reckon. You love me not—therefore, even had I the power,
I would not force myself upon you against your will; only I warn you,
learn to love no other man, for then it shall go ill either with him or
with me. By this I swear it,” and, snatching her to him, Caleb kissed
her on the forehead, then let her go, saying, “Fear not. It is the
first and last time, except by your own will. Or if you fear, tell the
story to the Court of the Essenes, and—to Nehushta, who will right your
wrongs.”

“Caleb,” she gasped, stamping her foot upon the ground in anger,
“Caleb, you are more wicked than I dreamed, and,” she added, as though
to herself—“and greater!”

“Yes,” he answered, as he turned to go, “I think that you are right. I
am more wicked than you dreamed and—greater. Also, Miriam, I love you
as you will never be loved again. Farewell!”




CHAPTER VII
MARCUS


That night those of the curators who were engaged in prayer and fasting
were disturbed by the return of an officer of those Jews that had
robbed them, who complained violently that a man of his company had
been murdered by one of the Essenes. They asked how and when, and were
told that the man had been shot down with an arrow, in a gully upon the
road to Jericho, by a person unknown. They replied that robbers
sometimes met with robbers, and asked to see the arrow, which proved to
be of a Roman make, such as these men carried in their own quivers.
This the Essenes pointed out, and at length, growing angry at the
unreasonableness of a complaint made by persons of the worst character,
drove him and his escort from their doors, bidding them take their
story to the high priest Ananos, with the goods which they had stolen,
or, if they preferred it, to that still greater thief, the Roman
procurator, Albinus.

This they did not neglect to do, with the result that presently the
Essenes were commanded to send some of their head men to appear before
Albinus to answer the charges laid against them. Accordingly they
dispatched Ithiel and two others, who were kept waiting three months at
Jerusalem before they could even obtain a hearing. At length the cause
came on, and after some few minutes of talk was adjourned, being but a
petty matter. That same evening Ithiel was informed by an intermediary
that if his Order would pay a certain large sum of money to Albinus,
nothing more would be heard of the question. This the Essenes refused
to do, as it was against their principles, saying that they demanded
nothing but justice, which they were not prepared to buy. So they
spoke, being ignorant that one of their neophytes, Caleb, had in fact
aimed the fatal arrow.

Then Albinus, wearying of the business and finding that there was no
profit to be made out of the Essenes, commanded them to be gone, saying
that he would send an officer to make inquiry on the spot.

Another two months went by, and at length this officer arrived,
attended by an escort of twenty soldiers.

As it chanced, on a certain morning in the winter season, Miriam with
Nehushta was walking on the Jericho road, when suddenly they saw
approaching towards them this little body of armed men. Perceiving that
they were Romans, they turned out of the path to hide themselves among
the thorns of the desert. Thereon he who seemed to be the officer
spurred his horse forward to intercept them.

“Do not run—stand still,” said Nehushta to Miriam, “and show no sign of
fear.”

So Miriam halted and began to gather a few autumn flowers that still
bloomed among the bushes, till the shadow of the officer fell upon
her—that shadow in which she was destined to walk all her life-days.

“Lady,” said a pleasant voice in Greek, spoken with a somewhat foreign
accent—“lady, pardon, and I pray you, do not be alarmed. I am a
stranger to this part of the country, which I visit on official
business. Will you of your kindness direct me to the village of a
people called Essenes, who live somewhere in this desert?”

“Oh, sir!” answered Miriam, “do you, who come with Roman soldiers, mean
them any harm?”

“Not I. But why do you ask?”

“Because, sir, I am of their community.”

The officer stared at her—this beautiful, blue-eyed, white-skinned,
delicate-featured girl, whose high blood proclaimed itself in every
tone and gesture.

“You, lady, of the community of the Essenes! Surely then those priests
in Jerusalem lie more deeply than I thought. They told me that the
Essenes were old ascetics who worship Apollo, and could not bear so
much as the sight of a woman. And now you say you are an Essene—you, by
Bacchus! you!” and he looked at her with an admiration which, although
there was nothing brutal or even rude about it, was amusingly
undisguised.

“I am their guest,” she said.

“Their guest? Why, this is stranger still. If these spiritual
outlaws—the word is that old high priest’s, not mine—share their bread
and water with such guests, my sojourn among them will be happier than
I thought.”

“They brought me up, I am their ward,” Miriam explained again.

“In truth, my opinion of the Essenes rises, and I am convinced that
those priests slandered them. If they can shape so sweet a lady, surely
they must themselves be good and gentle”; and he bowed gravely, perhaps
to mark the compliment.

“Sir, they are both good and gentle,” answered Miriam; “but of this you
will be able to judge for yourself very shortly, seeing that they live
near at hand. If you will follow us over yonder rise we will show you
their village, whither we go.”

“By your leave, I will accompany you,” he said, dismounting before she
could answer; then added, “Pardon me for one moment—I must give some
orders,” and he called to a soldier, who, with his companions, had
halted at a little distance.

The man advanced saluting, and, turning aside, his captain began to
talk with him, so that now, for the first time, Miriam could study his
face. He was young—not more than five or six and twenty years of age—of
middle height, and somewhat slender, but active in movement and
athletic in build. Upon his head, which was round and not large, in
place of the helmet that hung at his saddle-bow, he wore a little cap,
steel lined and padded as a protection against the sun, and beneath it
she could see that his short, dark brown hair curled closely. Under the
tan caused by exposure to the heat, his skin was fair, and his grey
eyes, set rather wide apart, were quick and observant. For the rest,
his mouth was well-shaped, though somewhat large, and the chin
clean-shaved, prominent and determined. His air was that of a soldier
accustomed to command, but very genial, and, when he smiled, showing
his regular white teeth, even merry—the air of one with a kind and
generous heart.

Miriam looked at him, and in an instant was aware that she liked him
better than any man—that is any young man—she had ever seen. This,
however, was no great or exclusive compliment to the Roman, since of
such acquaintances she had but few, if, indeed, Caleb was not the only
one. However, of this she was sure, she liked him better than Caleb,
because, even then and there, comparing them in her thoughts, this
truth came home to her; with it, too, a certain sense of shame that the
newcomer should be preferred to the friend of her childhood, although
of late that friend had displeased her by showing too warm a
friendship.

Having given his instructions, the captain dismissed the orderly,
commanding him to follow at a distance with the men. Then saying,
“Lady, I am ready,” he began to walk forward, leading his horse by the
bridle.

“You will forgive me,” he added, “if I introduce myself more formally.
I am called Marcus, the son of Emilius—a name which was known in its
day,” and he sighed, “as I hope before I have done with it, mine will
be. At present I cannot boast that this is so, who, unless it should
please my uncle Caius to decease and leave me the great fortune he
squeezes out of the Spaniards—neither of which things he shows any
present intention of doing—am but a soldier of fortune: an officer
under the command of the excellent and most noble procurator Albinus,”
he added sarcastically. “For the rest,” he went on, “I have spent a
year in this interesting and turbulent but somewhat arid land of yours,
coming here from Egypt, and am now honoured with a commission to
investigate and make report on a charge laid at the door of your
virtuous guardians, the Essenes, of having murdered, or been privy to
the murder of, a certain rascally Jew, who, as I understand, was sent
with others to steal their goods. That, lady, is my style and history.
By way of exchange, will you be pleased to tell me yours?”

Miriam hesitated, not being sure whether she should enter on such
confidences at so short a notice. Thereon, Nehushta, who was untroubled
by doubts, and thought it politic to be quite open with this Roman, a
man in authority, answered for her.

“Lord, this maiden, whose servant I am, as I was that of her
grandmother and mother before her——”

“Surely you cannot be so old,” interrupted Marcus. He made it a rule to
be polite to all women, whatever their colour, having noticed that life
went more easily with those who were courteous to the sex.

Nehushta smiled a little as she answered—for at what age does a woman
learn to despise a compliment?—“Lord, they both died young”; then
repeated, “This maiden is the only child of the high-born Græco-Syrian
of Tyre, Demas, and his noble wife, Rachel——”

“I know Tyre,” he interrupted. “I was quartered there till two months
ago”; adding in a different tone, “I understand that this pair no
longer live.”

“They died,” said Nehushta sadly, “the father in the amphitheatre at
Berytus by command of the first Agrippa, and the mother when her child
was born.”

“In the amphitheatre at Berytus? Was he then a malefactor?”

“No, sir,” broke in Miriam proudly; “he was a Christian.”

“Oh! I understand. Well, they are ill-spoken of as enemies of the human
race, but for my part I have had to do with several Christians and
found them very good people, though visionary in their views.” Here a
doubt struck him and he said, “But, lady, I understand that you are an
Essene.”

“Nay, sir,” she replied in the same steady voice, “I also am a
Christian, who have been protected by the Essenes.”

He looked at her with pity and replied, “It is a dangerous profession
for one so young and fair.”

“Dangerous let it be,” she said; “at least it is mine from the
beginning to the end.”

Marcus bowed, perceiving that the subject was not to be pursued, and
said to Nehushta, “Continue the story, my friend.”

“Lord, the father of my lady’s mother is a very wealthy Jewish merchant
of Tyre, named Benoni.”

“Benoni,” he said, “I know him well, too well for a poor man!—a Jew of
the Jews, a Zealot, they say. At least he hates us Romans enough to be
one, although many is the dinner that I have eaten at his palace. He is
the most successful trader in all Tyre, unless it be his rival Amram,
the Phœnician, but a hard man, and as able as he is hard. Now I think
of it, he has no living children, so why does not your lady, his
grandchild, dwell with him rather than in this desert?”

“Lord, you have answered your own question. Benoni is a Jew of the
Jews; his granddaughter is a Christian, as I am also. Therefore when
her mother died, I brought her here to be taken care of by her uncle
Ithiel the Essene, and I do not think Benoni knows even that she lives.
Lord, perhaps I have said too much; but you must soon have heard the
story from the Essenes, and we trust to you, who chance to be Benoni’s
friend, to keep our secret from him.”

“You do not trust in vain; yet it seems sad that all the wealth and
station which are hers by right should thus be wasted.”

“Lord, rank and station are not everything; freedom of faith and person
are more than these. My lady lacks for nothing, and—this is all her
story.”

“Not quite, friend; you have not told me her name.”

“Lord, it is Miriam.”

“Miriam, Miriam,” he repeated, his slightly foreign accent dwelling
softly on the syllables. “It is a very pretty name, befitting such a——”
and he checked himself.

By now they were on the crest of the rise, and, stopping between two
clumps of thorn trees, Miriam broke in hastily:

“See, sir, there below lies the village of the Essenes; those green
trees to the left mark the banks of Jordan, whence we irrigate our
fields, while that grey stretch of water to the right, surrounded by a
wall of mountain, is the Dead Sea.”

“Is it so? Well, the green is pleasant in this desert, and those fields
look well cultivated. I hope to visit them some day, for I was brought
up in the country, and, although I am a soldier, still understand a
farm. As for the Dead Sea, it is even more dreary than I expected. Tell
me, lady, what is that large building yonder?”

“That,” she answered, “is the gathering hall of the Essenes.”

“And that?” he asked, pointing to a house which stood by itself.

“That is my home, where Nehushta and I dwell.”

“I guessed as much by the pretty garden.” Then he asked her other
questions, which she answered freely enough, for Miriam, although she
was half Jewish, had been brought up among men, and felt neither fear
nor shame in talking with them in a friendly and open fashion, as an
Egyptian or a Roman or a Grecian lady might have done.

While they were still conversing thus, of a sudden the bushes on their
path were pushed aside, and from between them emerged Caleb, of whom
she had seen but little of late. He halted and looked at them.

“Friend Caleb,” said Miriam, “this is the Roman captain Marcus, who
comes to visit the curators of the Order. Will you lead him and his
soldiers to the council hall and advise my uncle Ithiel and the others
of his coming, since it is time for us to go home?”

Caleb glared at her, or rather at the stranger, with sullen fury; then
he answered:

“Romans always make their own road; they do not need a Jew to guide
them,” and once more he vanished into the scrub on the further side of
the path.

“Your friend is not civil,” said Marcus, as he watched him go. “Indeed,
he has an inhospitable air. Now, if an Essene could do such a thing, I
should think that here is a man who might have drawn an arrow upon a
Jewish tax-gatherer,” and he looked inquiringly at Miriam.

“That lad!” put in Nehushta. “Why, he never shot anything larger than a
bird of prey.”

“Caleb,” added Miriam in excuse, “does not like strangers.”

“So I see,” answered Marcus; “and to be frank, lady, I do not like
Caleb. He has an eye like a knife-point.”

“Come, Nehushta,” said Miriam, “this is our road, and there runs that
of the captain and his company. Sir, farewell, and thank you for your
escort.”

“Lady, for this while farewell, and thank you for your guidance.”

Thus for that day they parted.

The dwelling which many years before had been built by the Essenes for
the use of their ward and her nurse, stood next to the large
guest-house. Indeed, it occupied a portion of the ground which
originally belonged to it, although now the plot was divided into two
gardens by an irrigation ditch and a live pomegranate fence, covered at
this season of the year with its golden globes of fruit. That evening,
as Miriam and Nehushta walked in the garden, they heard the familiar
voice of Ithiel calling to them from the other side of this fence, and
presently above it saw his kindly face and venerable white head.

“What is it, my uncle?” asked Miriam running to him.

“Only this, child; the noble Roman captain, Marcus, is to stay in the
guest-house during his visit to us, so do not be frightened if you hear
or see men moving about in this garden—If, indeed, Romans care to walk
in gardens. I am to bide here also, to play host to him and see that he
lacks nothing. Also I do not think that he will give you any trouble,
since, for a Roman, he seems both courteous and kindly.”

“I am not afraid, my uncle,” said Miriam; “indeed,” she added, blushing
a little in spite of herself, “Nehushta and I have already become
acquainted with this captain”; and she told him of their meeting beyond
the village.

“Nehushta, Nehushta,” said Ithiel reprovingly, “have I not said to you
that you should not walk so far afield without some of the brethren as
an escort? You might, perchance, have met thieves, or drunken men.”

“My lady wished to gather some flowers she sought,” answered Nehushta,
“as she has done without harm for many a year; and being armed, I did
not fear thieves, if such men are to be found where all are poor.”

“Well, well, as it chances, no harm has happened; but do not go out
unattended again, lest the soldiers should not be so courteous as their
captain. They will not trouble you by the way, since, with the
exception of a single guard, they camp yonder by the streamlet.
Farewell for this night, my child; we will meet to-morrow.”

Then Miriam went to rest and dreamed of the Roman captain, and that he,
she, and Nehushta made a journey together and met with many great
adventures, wherein Caleb played some strange part. In that dream the
captain Marcus protected them from all these dangers, till at length
they came to a calm sea, on which floated a single white ship wherein
they must embark, having the sign of the Cross woven in its sails. Then
she awoke and found that it was morning.

Of all the arts she had been taught, Miriam was fondest of that of
modelling in clay, for which she had a natural gift. Indeed, so great
had her skill become, that these models which she made, after they had
been baked with fire, were, at her wish, sold by the Essenes to any who
took a fancy to them. As to the money which they fetched, it was paid
into a fund to be distributed among the poor.

This art Miriam carried on in a reed-thatched shed in the garden,
where, by an earthen pipe, water was delivered into a stone basin,
which she used to damp her clay and cloths. Sometimes also, with the
help of masons and the master who had taught her, now a very old man,
she copied these models in marble, which the Essenes brought to her
from the ruins of a palace near Jericho. At the time that the Romans
came she was finishing a work more ambitious than any which she had
undertaken as yet; namely, a life-sized bust cut from the fragment of
an ancient column to the likeness of her great-uncle, Ithiel. On the
afternoon following the day that she met Marcus, clad in her white
working-robe, she was occupied in polishing this bust, with the
assistance of Nehushta, who handed her the cloths and grinding-powder.
Suddenly shadows fell upon her, and turning, she beheld Ithiel and the
Roman.

“Daughter,” said Ithiel, smiling at her confusion, “I have brought the
captain Marcus to see your work.”

“Oh, my uncle!” she replied indignantly, “am I in a state to receive
any captain?” and she held out her wet hands and pointed to her
garments begrimed with clay and powder. “Look at me.”

“I look,” said Ithiel innocently, “and see naught amiss.”

“And I look, lady,” added Marcus in his merry voice, “and see much to
admire. Would that more of your sex could be found thus delightfully
employed.”

“Alas, sir,” she replied, adroitly misunderstanding him, for Miriam did
not lack readiness, “in this poor work there is little to admire. I am
ashamed that you should look on the rude fashionings of a half-trained
girl, you who must have seen all those splendid statues of which I have
been told.”

“By the throne of Cæsar, lady,” he exclaimed in a voice that carried a
conviction of his earnestness, staring hard at the bust of Ithiel
before him, “as it chances, although I am not an artist, I do know
something of sculpture, since I have a friend who is held to be the
best of our day, and often for my sins have sat as model to him. Well,
I tell you this—never did the great Glaucus produce a bust like that.”

“I daresay not,” said Miriam smiling. “I daresay the great Glaucus
would go mad if he saw it.”

“He would—with envy. He would say that it was the work of one of the
glorious Greeks, and of no modern.”

“Sir,” said Ithiel reprovingly, “do not make a jest of the maid, who
does the best she can; it pains her and—is not fitting.”

“Friend Ithiel,” replied Marcus, turning quite crimson, “you must
indeed think that I lack manners who would come to the home of any
artist to mock his work. I say what I mean, neither more nor less. If
this bust were shown in Rome, together with yourself who sat for it,
the lady Miriam would find herself famous within a week. Yes,” and he
ran his eye quickly over various statuettes, some of them baked and
some in the raw clay, models, for the most part, of camels or other
animals or birds, “yes, and it is the same with all the rest: these are
the works of genius, no less.”

At this praise, to them so exaggerated, Miriam, pleased as she could
not help feeling, broke into clear laugher, which both Ithiel and
Nehushta echoed. Now, so wroth was he, the face of Marcus grew quite
pale and stern.

“It seems,” he said severely, “that it is not I who mock. Tell me,
lady, what do you with these things?” and he pointed to the statuettes.

“I, sir? I sell them; or at least my uncles do.”

“The money is given to the poor,” interposed Ithiel.

“Would it be rude to ask at what price?”

“Sometimes,” replied Ithiel with pride, “travellers have given me as
much as a silver shekel.[*] Once indeed, for a group of camels with
their Arabian drivers, I received four shekels; but that took my niece
three months to do.”

[*] About 2s. 6d. of English money.

“A shekel! Four shekels!” said Marcus in a voice of despair; “I will
buy them all—no, I will not, it would be robbery. And this bust?”

“That, sir, is not for sale; it is a gift to my uncle, or rather to my
uncles, to be set up in their court-room.”

An idea struck Marcus. “I am here for a few weeks,” he said. “Tell me,
lady, if your uncle Ithiel will permit it, at what price will you
execute a bust of myself of the same size and quality?”

“It would be dear,” said Miriam, smiling at the notion, “for the marble
costs something, and the tools, which wear out. Oh, it would be very
dear!” This she repeated, wondering what she could ask in her
charitable avarice. “It would be——” yes, she would venture it—“fifty
shekels!”

“I am poor enough,” replied Marcus quietly, “but I will give you two
hundred.”

“Two hundred!” gasped Miriam. “It is absurd. I could never accept two
hundred shekels for a piece of stonework. Then indeed you might say
that you had fallen among thieves on the banks of Jordan. No. If my
uncles will permit it and there is time, I will do my poor best for
fifty—only, sir, I advise you against it, since to win that bad
likeness you must sit for many weary hours.”

“So be it,” said Marcus. “As soon as I get to any civilised place I
will send you enough commissions to make the beggars in these parts
rich for life, and at a very different figure. Let us begin at once.”

“Sir, I have no leave.”

“The matter,” explained Ithiel, “must be laid before the Court of
Curators, which will decide upon it to-morrow. Meanwhile, as we are
talking here, I see no harm if my niece chooses to work a lump of clay,
which can be broken up later should the Court in its wisdom refuse your
request.”

“I hope for its own sake that the Court in its wisdom will not be such
a fool,” muttered Marcus to himself; adding aloud, “Lady, where shall I
place myself? You will find me the best of sitters. Have I not the
great Glaucus for a friend—until I show him this work of yours?”

“If you will, sir, be seated on that stool and be pleased to look
towards me.”

“I am your servant,” said Marcus, in a cheerful voice; and the sitting
began.




CHAPTER VIII
MARCUS AND CALEB


On the morrow, as he had promised, Ithiel brought this question of
whether or no Miriam was to be allowed to execute a bust of the
centurion, Marcus, before the Court of the Curators of the Essenes, who
were accustomed thus to consider questions connected with their ward’s
welfare in solemn conclave. There was a division of opinion. Some of
them saw no harm; others, more strait-laced, held that it was scarcely
correct that a Roman whose principles, doubtless, were lax, should be
allowed to sit to the lady whom they fondly called their child. Indeed,
it seemed dubious whether the leave would be given, until a curator,
with more worldly wisdom than the rest, suggested that as the captain
seemed desirous of having his picture taken in stone, under the
circumstances of his visit, which included a commission to make a
general report upon their society to the authorities, it might be
scarcely wise to deny his wish. Finally, a compromise was effected. It
was agreed that Miriam should be permitted to do the work, but only in
the presence of Ithiel and two other curators, one of them her own
instructor in art.

Thus it came about that when Marcus presented himself for the second
time, at an hour fixed by Ithiel, he found three white-bearded and
white-robed old gentlemen seated in a row in the workshop, and behind
them, a smile on her dusky face, Nehushta. As he entered they rose and
bowed to him, a compliment which he returned. Now Miriam appeared, to
whom he made his salutation.

“Are these,” he said, indicating the elders, “waiting their turn to be
modelled, or are they critics?”

“They are critics,” said Miriam drily, as she lifted the damp cloths
from the rude lump of clay.

Then the work began. As the three curators were seated in a line at the
end of the shed, and did not seem to think it right to leave their
chairs, they could see little of its details, and as they were early
risers and the afternoon was hot, soon they were asleep, every one of
them.

“Look at them,” said Marcus; “there is a subject for any artist.”

Miriam nodded, and taking three lumps of clay, working deftly and
silently, presently produced to his delighted sight rough but excellent
portraits of these admirable men, who, when they woke up, laughed at
them very heartily.

Thus things went on from day to day. Each afternoon the elders
attended, and each afternoon they sank to slumber in their comfortable
chairs, an example that Nehushta followed, or seemed to follow, leaving
Miriam and her model practically alone. As may be guessed, the model,
who liked conversation, did not neglect these opportunities. Few were
the subjects which the two of them failed to discuss. He told her of
all his life, which had been varied and exciting, omitting, it is true,
certain details; also of the wars in which he had served, and the
countries that he had visited. She in turn told him the simple story of
her existence among the Essenes, which he seemed to find of interest.
When these subjects were exhausted they discussed other things—the
matter of religion, for instance. Indeed, Miriam ventured to expound to
him the principles of her faith, to which he listened respectfully and
with attention.

“It sounds well,” he said at length with a sigh, “but how do such
maxims fit in with this world of ours? See now, lady, I am not old, but
already I have studied so many religions. First, there are the gods of
Greece and Rome, my own gods, you understand—well, the less said of
them the better. They serve, that is all. Then there are the gods of
Egypt, as to which I made inquiry, and of them I will say this: that
beneath the grotesque cloak of their worship seems to shine some spark
of a holy fire. Next come the gods of the Phœnicians, the fathers of a
hideous creed. After them the flame worshippers and other kindred
religions of the East. There remain the Jews, whose doctrine seems to
me a savage one; at least it involves bloodshed with the daily offering
of blood. Also they are divided, these Jews, for some are Pharisees,
some Sadducees, some Essenes. Lastly, there are you Christians, whose
faith is pure enough in theory, but whom all unite against in hate.
What is the worth of a belief in this crucified Preacher who promises
that He will raise those who trust in Him from the dead?”

“That you will find out when everything else has failed you,” answered
Miriam.

“Yes, it is a religion for those whom everything else has failed. When
that chances to the rest of us we commit suicide and sink from sight.”

“And we,” she said proudly, “rise to life eternal.”

“It may be so, lady, it may be so; but let us talk of something more
cheerful,” and he sighed. “At present, I hold that nothing is
eternal—except perhaps such art as yours.”

“Which will be forgotten in the first change of taste, or crumbled in
the first fire. But see, he is awake. Come here, my master, and work
this nostril, for it is beyond me.”

The old artist advanced and looked at the bust with admiration.

“Maid Miriam,” he said, “I used to have some skill in this art, and I
taught you its rudiments; but now, child, I am not fit to temper your
clay. Deal with the nostril as you will; I am but a hodman who bears
the bricks, you are the heaven-born architect. I will not meddle, I
will not meddle; yet perhaps——” and he made a suggestion.

“So?” said Miriam, touching the clay with her tool. “Oh, look! it is
right now. You are clever, my master.”

“It was always right. I may be clever, but you have genius, and would
have found the fault without any help from me.”

“Did I not say so?” broke in Marcus triumphantly.

“Sir,” replied Miriam, “you say a great deal, and much of it, I think,
you do not mean. Please be silent; at this moment I wish to study your
lips, and not your words.”

So the work went on. They did not always talk, for soon they found that
speech is not necessary to true companionship. Once Miriam began to
sing, and since she discovered that her voice pleased Marcus and
soothed the slumbers of the elders, she sang often; quaint, sad songs
of the desert and of the Jordan fishermen. Also she told him tales and
legends, and when she had done Nehushta told others—wild stories of
Libya, some of them very dark and bloody, others of magic, black or
white. Thus these afternoons passed happily enough, and the clay model
being finished, after the masons among the brethren had rough hewn it
for her, Miriam began to fashion it in marble.

There was one, however, for whom these days did not pass happily—Caleb.
From the time that he had seen Miriam walking side by side with Marcus
he hated the brilliant-looking Roman in whom, his instinct warned him,
he had found a dangerous rival. Oh, how he hated him! So much, indeed,
that even in the moment of first meeting he could not keep his rage and
envy in his heart, but suffered them to be written on his face, and to
shine like danger signals in his eyes, which, it may be remembered,
Marcus did not neglect to note.

Of Miriam Caleb had seen but little lately. She was not angry with him,
since his offence was of a nature which a woman can forgive, but in her
heart she feared him. Of a sudden, as it were, the curtain had been
drawn, and she had seen this young man’s secret spirit and learned that
it was a consuming fire. It had come home to her that every word he
spoke was true, that he who was orphaned and not liked even by the
gentle elders of the Essenes, loved but one being upon earth—herself,
whereas already his bosom seethed with many hates. She was sure also
that any man for whom she chanced to care, if such an one should ever
cross her path, would, as Caleb had promised, go in danger at his
hands, and the thought frightened her. Most of all did it frighten her
when she saw him glower upon Marcus, although in truth the Roman was
nothing to her. Yet, as she knew, Caleb had judged otherwise.

But if she saw little of him, of this Miriam was sure enough—that he
was seldom far from her, and that he found means to learn from day to
day how she spent her hours. Indeed, Marcus told her that wherever he
went he met that handsome young man with revengeful eyes, who she had
said was named Caleb. Therefore Miriam grew frightened and, as the
issue will show, not without cause.

One afternoon, while Miriam was at work upon the marble, and the three
elders were as usual sunk in slumber, Marcus said suddenly:

“I forgot. I have news for you, lady. I have found out who murdered
that Jewish thief whose end, amongst other things, I was sent to
investigate. It was your friend Caleb.”

Miriam started so violently that her chisel gave an unexpected effect
to one of Marcus’s curls.

“Hush!” she said, glancing towards the sleepers, one of whom had just
snored so loudly that he began to awake at the sound; then added in a
whisper, “They do not know, do they?”

He shook his head and looked puzzled.

“I must speak to you of this matter,” she went on with agitation, and
in the same whisper. “No, not now or here, but alone.”

“When and where you will,” answered Marcus, smiling, as if the prospect
of a solitary conversation with Miriam did not displease him, although
this evil-doing Caleb was to be its subject. “Name the time and place,
lady.”

By now the snoring elder was awake, and rising from his chair with a
great noise, which in turn roused the others. Nehushta also rose from
her seat and in doing so, as though by accident, overset a copper tray
on which lay metal tools.

“In the garden one hour after sunset. Nehushta will leave the little
lower door unlocked.”

“Good,” answered Marcus; then added in a loud voice, “Not so, lady. Ye
gods! what a noise! I think the curl improved by the slip. It looks
less as though it had been waxed after the Egyptian fashion. Sirs, why
do you disturb yourselves? I fear that to you this long waiting must be
as tedious as to me it seems unnecessary.”

The sun was down, and the last red glow had faded from the western sky,
which was now lit only by the soft light of a half-moon. All the world
lay bathed in peace and beauty; even the stern outlines of the
surrounding mountains seemed softened, and the pale waters of the Dead
Sea and the ashen face of the desert gleamed like silver new cast from
the mould. From the oleanders and lilies which bloomed along the edge
of the irrigation channels, and from the white flowers of the glossy,
golden-fruited orange trees, floated a perfume delicious to the sense,
while the silence was only broken from time to time by the bark of a
wandering dog or the howl of a jackal in the wilderness.

“A very pleasant night—to talk about Caleb,” reflected Marcus, who had
reached the appointed spot ten minutes before the time, as he strolled
from the narrow belt of trees that were planted along the high, outer
wall, into the more open part of the garden. Had Marcus chanced to
notice that this same Caleb, walking softly as a cat, and keeping with
great care in the shadow, had followed him through the little door
which he forgot to lock, and was now hidden among those very trees, he
might have remembered a proverb to the effect that snakes hide in the
greenest grass and the prettiest flowers have thorny stems. But he
thought of no such thing, who was lost in happy anticipations of a
moonlight interview with a lovely and cultured young lady, whose image,
to speak truth, had taken so deep a hold upon his fancy, that sometimes
he wondered how he would be able to banish it thence again. At present
he could think of no better means than that which at this moment he was
following with delight. Meetings in moonlit gardens tend proverbially
to disenchantment!

Presently Marcus caught the gleam of a white robe followed by a dark
one, flitting towards him through the dim and dewy garden, and at the
sight his heart stood still, then began to beat again in a disorderly
fashion. Had he known it, another heart a few yards behind him also
stood still, and then began to beat like that of a man in a violent
rage. It seems possible, also, that a third heart experienced unusual
sensations.

“I wish she had left the old lady behind,” muttered Marcus. “No, I
don’t, for then there are brutes who, if they knew, might blame her”;
and, luckily for himself, he walked forward a few paces to meet the
white robe, leaving the little belt of trees almost out of hearing.

Now Miriam stood before him, the moonlight shining on her delicate face
and in her tranquil eyes, which always reminded him of the blue depths
of heaven.

“Sir,” she began——

“Oh, I pray you,” he broke in, “cease from ceremony and call me
Marcus!”

“Captain Marcus,” she repeated, dwelling a little on the unfamiliar
name, “I beg that you will forgive me for disturbing you at so
unseasonable an hour.”

“Certainly I forgive you, Lady Miriam,” he replied, also dwelling on
her name and copying her accent in a fashion that made the grim-faced
Nehushta smile.

She waved her hand in deprecation. “The truth is, that this matter of
Caleb’s——”

“Oh, may all the infernal gods take Caleb! as I have reason to believe
they shortly will,” broke in Marcus angrily.

“But that is just what I wish to prevent; we have met here to talk of
Caleb.”

“Well, if you must—talk and let us be done with him. What about Caleb?”

Miriam clasped her hands. “What do you know of him, Captain Marcus?”

“Know? Why, just this: a spy I have in my troop has found out a country
fellow who was hunting for mushrooms or something—I forget what—in a
gully a mile away, and saw this interesting youth hide himself there
and shoot that Jewish plunderer with a bow and arrow. More—he has found
another man who saw the said Caleb an hour or two before help himself
to an arrow out of one of the Jew’s quivers, which arrow appears to be
identical with, or at any rate, similar to, that which was found in the
fellow’s gullet. Therefore, it seems that Caleb is guilty, and that it
will be my duty to-morrow to place him under arrest, and in due course
to convey him to Jerusalem, where the priests will attend to his little
business. Now, Lady Miriam, is your curiosity satisfied about Caleb?”

“Oh,” she said, “it cannot be, it must not be! The man had struck him
and he did but return a blow for a blow.”

“An arrow for a blow, you mean; the point of a spear for the push of
its handle. But, Lady Miriam, you seem to be very deep in the
confidence of Caleb. How do you come to know all this?”

“I don’t know, I only guess. I daresay, nay, I am sure, that Caleb is
quite innocent.”

“Why do you take such an interest in Caleb?” asked Marcus suspiciously.

“Because he was my friend and playmate from childhood.”

“Umph,” he answered, “a strange couple—a dove and a raven. Well, I am
glad that you did not catch his temper, or you would be more dangerous
even than you are. Now, what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to spare Caleb. You, you, you—need not believe those
witnesses.”

“To think of it!” said Marcus, in mock horror. “To think that one whom
I thought so good can prove so immoral. Do you then wish to tempt me
from my duty?”

“Yes, I suppose so. At least the peasants round here are great liars.”

“Lady,” said Marcus, with stern conviction, “Caleb has improved upon
his opportunities as a playmate; he has been making love to you. I
thought so from the first.”

“Oh,” she answered, “how can you know that? Besides, he promised that
he would never do it again.”

“How can I know that? Why, because Caleb would have been a bigger fool
than I take him for if he had not. And if it rested with me, certainly
he never would do it again. Now be honest with me, if a woman can on
such a matter, and tell me true: are you in love with this Caleb?”

“I—I? In love with Caleb? Of course not. If you do not believe me, ask
Nehushta.”

“Thank you, I will be content with your own reply. You deny that you
are in love with him, and I incline to believe you; but, on the other
hand, I remember that you would naturally say this, since you might
think that any other answer would prejudice the cause of Caleb with
me.”

“With you! What can it matter to you, sir, whether or no I am in love
with Caleb, who, to tell you the truth, frightens me?”

“And that, I suppose, is why you plead so hard for him?”

“No,” she answered with a sudden sternness, “I plead hard for him as in
like case I would plead hard for you—because he has been my friend, and
if he did this deed he was provoked to it.”

“Well spoken,” said Marcus, gazing at her steadily. Indeed, she was
worth looking at as she stood there before him, her hands clasped, her
breast heaving, her sweet, pale face flushed with emotion and her
lovely eyes aswim with tears. Of a sudden as he gazed Marcus lost
control of himself. Passion for this maiden and bitter jealousy of
Caleb arose like twin giants in his heart and possessed him.

“You say you are not in love with Caleb,” he said. “Well, kiss me and I
will believe you.”

“How could such a thing prove my words?” she asked indignantly.

“I do not know and I do not care. Kiss me once and I will believe
further that the peasants of these parts are all liars. I feel myself
beginning to believe it.”

“And if I will not?”

“Then I am afraid I must refer the matter to a competent tribunal at
Jerusalem.”

“Nehushta, Nehushta, you have heard. What shall I do?”

“What shall you do?” said Nehushta drily. “Well, if you like to give
the noble Marcus a kiss, I shall not blame you overmuch or tell on you.
But if you do not wish it, then I think you would be a fool to put
yourself to shame to save Caleb.”

“Yet, I will do it—and to save Caleb only,” said Miriam with a sob, and
she bent towards him.

To her surprise Marcus drew back, placing his hand before his face.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I was a brute who wished to buy kisses in such
a fashion. I forgot myself; your beauty is to blame, and your sweetness
and everything that is yours. I pray,” he added humbly, “that you will
not think the worse of me, since we men are frail at times. And now,
because you ask me, though I have no right, I grant your prayer. Mayhap
those witnesses lied; at least, the man’s sin, if sin there be, can be
excused. He has naught to fear from me.”

“No,” broke in Nehushta, “but I think you have much to fear from him;
and I am sorry for that, my lord Marcus, for you have a noble heart.”

“It may be so; the future is on the knees of the gods, and that which
is fated will befall. My Lady Miriam, I, your humble servant and
friend, wish you farewell.”

“Farewell,” she answered. “Yes, Nehushta is right, you have a noble
heart”; and she looked at him in such a fashion that it flashed across
his mind that were he to proffer that request of his again, it might
not be refused. But Marcus would not do it. He had tasted of the joy of
self-conquest, who hitherto, after the manner of his age and race, had
denied himself little, and, as it seemed to him, a strange new power
was stirring in his heart—something purer, higher, nobler, than he had
known before. He would cherish it a while.

Of all that were spoken there in the garden, Caleb, the watcher, could
catch no word. The speakers did not raise their voices and they stood
at a distance, so that although he craned his head forward as far as he
dared in the shadow of the trees, sharp and trained as they were,
naught save a confused murmur reached his ears. But if these failed
him, his eyes fed full, so that he lost no move or gesture. It was a
passionate love scene, this was clear, for Nehushta stood at a little
distance with her back turned, while the pair poured out their sweet
speeches to each other. Then at length, as he had expected, came the
climax. Yes, oh! shameless woman—they were embracing. A mist fell upon
Caleb’s eyes, in which lights flashed like red-hot swords lifting and
smiting, the blood drummed in his ears as though his raging, jealous
heart would burst. He would kill that Roman now on the spot. Miriam
should never kiss him more—alive.

Already Caleb had drawn the short-sword from its hiding-place in his
ample robe; already he had stepped out from the shadow of the trees,
when of a sudden his reason righted itself like a ship that has been
laid over by a furious squall, and caution came back to him. If he did
this that faithless guardian, Nehushta, who without doubt had been
bought with Roman gold, would come to the assistance of her patron and
thrust her dagger through his back, as she well could do. Or should he
escape that dagger, one or other of them would raise the Essenes on
him, and he would be given over to justice. He wished to slay, not to
be slain. It would be sweet to kill the Roman, but if he himself were
laid dead across his body, leaving Miriam alive to pass to some other
man, what would he be advantaged? Presently they must cease from their
endearments; presently his enemy would return as he had come, and then
he might find his chance. He would wait, he would wait.

Look, they had parted; Miriam was gliding back to the house, and Marcus
came towards him, walking like a man in his sleep. Only Nehushta stood
where she was, her eyes fixed upon the ground as though she were
reasoning with herself. Still like a man in a dream, Marcus passed him
within touch of his outstretched hand. Caleb followed. Marcus opened
the door, went out of it, and pulled it to behind him. Caleb caught it
in his hand, slipped through and closed it. A few paces down the
wall—eight or ten perhaps—was another door, by which Marcus entered the
garden of the guest-house. As he turned to shut this, Caleb pushed in
after him, and they were face to face.

“Who are you?” asked the Roman, springing back.

Caleb, who by now was cool enough, closed the door and shot the bolt.
Then he answered, “Caleb, the son of Hilliel, who wishes a word with
you.”

“Ah!” said Marcus, “the very man, and, as usual, unless the light
deceives me, in an evil humour. Well, Caleb the son of Hilliel, what is
your business with me?”

“One of life and death, Marcus the son of Emilius,” he answered, in
such a tone that the Roman drew his sword and stood watching him.

“Be plain and brief, young man,” he said.

“I will be both plain and brief. I love that lady from whom you have
just parted, and you also love, or pretend to love, her. Nay, deny it
not; I have seen all, even to your kisses. Well, she cannot belong to
both of us, and I intend that in some future day she shall belong to me
if arm and eye do not fail me now. Therefore one of us must die
to-night.”

Marcus stepped back, overcome not with fear, but with astonishment.

“Insolent,” he said, “you lie! There were no kisses, and our talk was
of your neck, that I gave to her because she asked it, which is forfeit
for the murder of the Jew.”

“Indeed,” sneered Caleb. “Now, who would have thought that the noble
Captain Marcus would shelter thus behind a woman’s robe? For the rest,
my life is my own and no other’s to give or to receive. Guard yourself,
Roman, since I would kill you in fair fight. Had I another mind you
would be dead by now, never knowing the hand that struck you. Have no
fear; I am your equal, for my forefathers were nobles when yours were
savages.”

“Boy, are you mad,” asked Marcus, “to think that I, who have fought in
three wars, can fear a beardless youth, however fierce? Why, if I
feared you I have but to blow upon this whistle and my guards would
hale you hence to a felon’s death. For your own sake it is that I pray
you to consider. Setting aside my rank and yours, I will fight you if
you will, and now. Yet think. If I kill you there is an end, and if by
chance you should kill me, you will be hunted down as a double
murderer. As it is, I forgive you, because I know how bitter is the
jealousy of youth, and because you struck no assassin’s blow when you
might have done so safely. Therefore, I say, go in peace, knowing that
I shall not break my word.”

“Cease talking,” said Caleb, “and come out into the moonlight.”

“I am glad that is your wish,” replied Marcus. “Having done all I can
to save you, I will add that I think you a dangerous cub, of whom the
world, the lady Miriam and I alike will be well rid. Now, what weapon
have you? A short sword and no mail? Well, so have I. In this we are
well matched. Stay, I have a steel-lined cap, and you have none. There
it goes, to make our chances equal. Wind your cloak about your left arm
as I do. I have known worse shields. Good foothold, but an uncertain
light. Now, go!”

Caleb needed no encouragement. For one second they stood facing each
other, very types of the Eastern and Western world; the Roman—sturdy,
honest-eyed, watchful and fearless, his head thrown back, his feet
apart, his shield arm forward, his sword hand pressed to his side from
which the steel projected. Over against him was the Jew, crouched like
a tiger about to spring, his eyes half closed as though to concentrate
the light, his face working with rage, and every muscle quivering till
his whole flesh seemed to move upon his bones, like to that of a snake.
Suddenly, uttering a low cry, he sprang, and with that savage onslaught
the fight began and ended.

Marcus was ready; moreover, he knew what he would do. As the man came,
stepping swiftly to one side, he caught the thrust of Caleb’s sword in
the folded cloak, and since he did not wish to kill him, struck at his
hand. The blow fell upon Caleb’s first finger and severed it, cutting
the others also, so that it dropped to the ground with the sword that
they had held. Marcus put his foot upon the blade, and wheeled round.

“Young man,” he said sternly, “you have learnt your lesson and will
bear the mark of it till your death day. Now begone.”

The wretched Caleb ground his teeth. “It was to the death!” he said,
“it was to the death! You have conquered, kill me,” and with his bloody
hand he tore open his robe to make a path for the sword.

“Leave such talk to play-actors,” answered Marcus. “Begone, and be sure
of this—that if ever you try to bring treachery on me, or trouble on
the lady Miriam, I will kill you sure enough.”

Then with a sound that was half curse and half sob, Caleb turned and
slunk away. With a shrug of the shoulder Marcus also turned to go, when
he felt a shadow fall upon him, and swung round, to find Nehushta at
his side.

“And pray where did you come from, my Libyan friend?” he asked.

“Out of that pomegranate fence, my Roman lord, whence I have seen and
heard all that passed.”

“Indeed. Then I hope that you give me credit for good sword-play and
good temper.”

“The sword-play was well enough, though nothing to boast of with such a
madman for a foe. As for the temper, it was that of a fool.”

“Such,” soliloquised Marcus, “is the reward of virtue. But I am
curious. Why?”

“Because, my lord Marcus, this Caleb will grow into the most dangerous
man in Judæa, and to none more dangerous than to my lady Miriam and
yourself. You should have killed him while you had the chance, before
his turn comes to kill you.”

“Perhaps,” answered Marcus with a yawn; “but, friend Nehushta, I have
been associating with a Christian and have caught something of her
doctrines. That seems a fine sword. You had better keep it.
Good-night.”




CHAPTER IX
THE JUSTICE OF FLORUS


On the following morning, when the roll of the neophytes of the Essenes
was called, Caleb did not appear. Nor did he answer to his name on the
next day, or indeed ever again. None knew what had become of him until
a while after a letter was received addressed to the Curators of the
Court, in which he announced that, finding he had no vocation for an
Essenic career, he had taken refuge with friends of his late father, in
some place not stated. There, so far as the Essenes were concerned, the
matter ended. Indeed, as the peasant who was concealed in the gully
when the Jew was murdered had talked of what he had witnessed, even the
most simple-minded of the Essenes could suggest a reason for this
sudden departure. Nor did they altogether regret it, inasmuch as in
many ways Caleb had proved himself but an unsatisfactory disciple, and
already they were discussing the expediency of rejecting him from the
fellowship of their peaceful order. Had they known that when he
vanished he left behind him a drawn sword and one of his forefingers,
their opinion on this point might have been strengthened. But this they
did not know, although Miriam knew it through Nehushta.

A week went by, during which time Miriam and Marcus did not meet, as no
further sittings were arranged for the completion of the bust. In fact,
they were not needful, since she could work from the clay model, which
she did, till, labouring at it continually, the marble was done and
even polished. One morning as the artist was putting the last touches
to her labours, the door of the workshop was darkened and she looked up
to see Marcus, who, except for his helmet, was clad in full mail as
though about to start upon a journey. As it chanced, Miriam was alone
in the place, Nehushta having gone to attend to household affairs. Thus
for the first time they met with no other eyes to watch them.

At the sight of him she coloured, letting the cloth fall from her hand
which remained about the neck of the marble.

“I ask your pardon, Lady Miriam,” said Marcus, bowing gravely, “for
breaking in thus upon your privacy; but time presses with me so that I
lacked any to give notice to your guardians of my visit.”

“Are you leaving us?” she faltered.

“Yes, I am leaving you.”

Miriam turned aside and picked up the cloth, then answered, “Well, the
work is done, or will be in a few minutes; so if you think it worth the
trouble, take it.”

“That is my intention. The price I will settle with your uncles.”

She nodded. “Yes, yes, but if you will permit me, I should like to pack
it myself, so that it comes to no harm upon the journey. Also with your
leave I will retain the model, which by right belongs to you. I am not
pleased with this marble; I wish to make another.”

“The marble is perfect; but keep the model if you will. I am very glad
that you should keep it.”

She glanced at him, a question in her eyes, then looked away.

“When do you go?” she asked.

“Three hours after noon. My task is finished, my report—which is to the
effect that the Essenes are a most worthy and harmless people who
deserve to be encouraged, not molested—is written. Also I am called
hence in haste by a messenger who reached me from Jerusalem an hour
ago. Would you like to know why?”

“If it pleases you to tell me, yes.”

“I think that I told you of my uncle Caius, who was pro-consul under
the late emperor for the richest province of Spain, and—made use of his
opportunities.”

“Yes.”

“Well, the old man has been smitten with a mortal disease. For aught I
know he may be already dead, although the physicians seemed to think he
would live for another ten months, or perhaps a year. Being in this
case, suddenly he has grown fond of his relations, or rather relation,
for I am the only one, and expressed a desire to see me, to whom for
many years he has never given a single penny. He has even announced his
intention—by letter—of making me his heir ‘should he find me worthy,’
which, to succeed Caius, whatever my faults, indeed I am not, since of
all men, as I have told him in past days, I hold him the worst. Still,
he has forwarded a sum of money to enable me to journey to him in
haste, and with it a letter from the Cæsar, Nero, to the procurator
Albinus, commanding him to give me instant leave to go. Therefore,
lady, it seems wise that I should go.”

“Yes,” answered Miriam. “I know little of such things, but I think that
it is wise. Within two hours the bust shall be finished and packed,”
and she stretched out her hand in farewell.

Marcus took the hand and held it. “I am loth to part with you thus,” he
said suddenly.

“There is only one fashion of parting,” answered Miriam, striving to
withdraw her hand.

“Nay, there are many; and I hate them all—from you.”

“Sir,” she asked with gentle indignation, “is it worth your while to
play off these pretty phrases upon me? We have met for an hour; we
separate—for a lifetime.”

“I do not see the need of that. Oh, the truth may as well out. I wish
it least of all things.”

“Yet it is so. Come, let my hand go; the marble must be finished and
packed.”

The face of Marcus became troubled, as though he were reasoning with
himself, as though he wished to take her at her word and go, yet could
not.

“Is it ended?” asked Miriam presently, considering him with her quiet
eyes.

“I think not; I think it is but begun. Miriam, I love you.”

“Marcus,” she answered steadily, “I do not think I should be asked to
listen to such words.”

“Why not? They have always been thought honest between man and woman.”

“Perhaps, when they are meant honestly, which in this case can scarcely
be.”

He grew hot and red. “What do you mean? Do you suppose——”

“I suppose nothing, Captain Marcus.”

“Do you suppose,” he repeated, “that I would offer you less than the
place of wife?”

“Assuredly not,” she replied, “since to do so would be to insult you.
But neither do I suppose that you really meant to offer me that place.”

“Yet that was in my mind, Miriam.”

Her eyes grew soft, but she answered:

“Then, Marcus, I pray you, put it out of your mind, since between us
rolls a great sea.”

“Is it named Caleb?” he asked bitterly.

She smiled and shook her head. “You know well that it has no such
name.”

“Tell me of this sea.”

“It is easy. You are a Roman worshipping the Roman gods; I am a
Christian worshipping the God of the Christians. Therefore we are
forever separate.”

“Why? I do not understand. If we were married you might come to think
like me, or I might come to think like you. It is a matter of the
spirit and the future, not of the body and the present. Every day
Christians wed those who are not Christians; sometimes, even, they
convert them.”

“Yes, I know; but in my case this may not be—even if I wished that it
should be.”

“Why not?”

“Because both by the command of my murdered father and of her own
desire my mother laid it on me with her dying breath that I should take
to husband no man who was not of our faith.”

“And do you hold yourself to be bound by this command?”

“I do, without doubt and to the end.”

“However much you might chance to love a man who is not a Christian?”

“However much I might chance to love such a man.”

Marcus let fall her hand. “I think I had best go,” he said.

“Yes.”

Then came a pause while he seemed to be struggling with himself.

“Miriam, I cannot go.”

“Marcus, you must go.”

“Miriam, do you love me?”

“Marcus, may Christ forgive me, I do.”

“Miriam, how much?”

“Marcus, as much as a woman may love a man.”

“And yet,” he broke out bitterly, “you bid me begone because I am not a
Christian.”

“Because my faith is more than my love. I must offer my love upon the
altar of my faith—or, at the least,” she added hurriedly, “I am bound
by a rope that cannot be cut or broken. To break it would bring down
upon your head and mine the curse of Heaven and of my parents, who are
its inhabitants.”

“And if I became of your faith?”

Her whole face lit up, then suddenly its light died.

“It is too much to hope. This is not a question of casting incense on
an altar; it is a matter of a changed spirit and a new life. Oh! have
done. Why do you play with me?”

“A changed spirit and a new life. At the best that would take time.”

“Yes, time and thought.”

“And would you wait that time? Such beauty and such sweetness as are
yours will not lack for suitors.”

“I shall wait. I have told you that I love you; no other man will be
anything to me. I shall wed no other man.”

“You give all and take nothing; it is not just.”

“It is as God has willed. If it pleases God to touch your heart and to
preserve us both alive, then in days to come our lives may be one life.
Otherwise they must run apart till perchance we meet—in the eternal
morning.”

“Oh, Miriam, I cannot leave you thus! Teach me as you will.”

“Nay, go, Marcus, and teach yourself. Am I a bait to win your soul? The
path is not so easy, it is very difficult. Fare you well!”

“May I write to you from Rome?” he asked.

“Yes, why not, if by that time you should care to write, who then will
have recovered from this folly of the desert and an idle moon?”

“I shall write and I shall return, and we will talk of these matters;
so, most sweet, farewell.”

“Farewell, Marcus, and the love of God go with you.”

“What of your love?”

“My love is with you ever who have won my heart.”

“Then, Miriam, at least I have not lived in vain. Remember this always,
that much as I may worship you, I honour you still more,” and kneeling
before her he kissed first her hand, and next the hem of her robe. Then
he turned and went.

That night, watching from the roof of her house by the light of the
full moon, Miriam saw Marcus ride away at the head of his band of
soldiers. On the crest of a little ridge of ground outside the village
he halted, leaving them to go on, and turning his horse’s head looked
backward. Thus he stood awhile, the silver rays of the moon shining on
his bright armour and making him a point of light set between two vales
of shadow. Miriam could guess whither his eyes were turned and what was
in his heart. It seemed to her, even, that she could feel his loving
thought play upon her and that with the ear of his spirit he could
catch the answer of her own. Then suddenly he turned and was lost in
the gloom of the night.

Now that he was gone, quite gone, Miriam’s courage seemed to leave her,
and leaning her head upon the parapet she wept tears that were soft but
very bitter. Suddenly a hand was laid upon her shoulder and a voice,
that of old Nehushta, spoke in her ear.

“Mourn not,” it said, “since him whom you lose in the night you may
find again in the daytime.”

“In no day that dawns from an earthly sun, I fear me, Nou. Oh, Nou! he
has gone, and taken my heart with him, leaving in its place a throbbing
pain which is more than I can bear.”

“He will come back; I tell you that he will come back,” she answered,
almost fiercely; “for your life and his are intertwined—yes, to the
end—a single cord bearing a double destiny. I know it; ask me not how;
but be comforted, for it is truth. Moreover, though it be sharp, your
pain is not more than you can bear, else it would never be laid upon
you.”

“But, Nou, if he does come back, what will it help me, who am built in
by this strict command of them that begat me, to break through which
would be to sin against and earn the curse of God and man?”

“I do not know; I only know this, that in that wall, as in others, a
door will be found. Trouble not for the future, but leave it in the
hand of Him Who shapes all futures. Sufficient to the day is the evil
thereof. So He said. Accept the saying and be grateful. It is something
to have gained the love of such a one as this Roman, for, unless the
wisdom which I have gained through many years is at fault, he is true
and honest; and that man must be good at heart who can be reared in
Rome and in the worship of its gods and yet remain honest. Remember
these things, and I say be grateful, since there are many who go
through their lives knowing no such joy, even for an hour.”

“I will try, Nou,” said Miriam humbly, still staring at the ridge
whence Marcus had vanished.

“You will try, and you will succeed. Now there is another matter of
which I must speak to you. When the Essenes received us it was solemnly
decreed that if you lived to reach the full age of eighteen years you
must depart from among them. That hour struck for you nearly a year
ago, and, although you heard nothing of it, this decree was debated by
the Court. Now such decrees may not be broken, but it was argued that
the words ‘full age of eighteen years,’ meant and were intended to mean
until you reached your nineteenth birthday; that is—in a month from
now.”

“Then must we go, Nou?” asked Miriam in dismay, for she knew no other
world but this village in the desert, and no other friends than these
venerable men whom she called her uncles.

“It seems so, especially as it is now guessed that Caleb fought the
Captain Marcus upon your account. Oh! that tale is talked of—for one
thing, the young wild-cat left a claw behind him which the gardener
found.”

“I trust then it is known also that the fault was none of mine. But,
Nou, whither shall we go who have neither friends, nor home, nor
money?”

“I know not; but doubtless in this wall also there is a door. If the
worst comes to the worst, a Christian has many brothers; moreover, with
your skill in the arts you need never lack for a living in any great
city in the world.”

“It is true,” said Miriam, brightening; “that is, if I may believe
Marcus and my old master.”

“Also,” continued Nehushta, “I have still almost all the gold that the
Phœnician Amram gave us when I fled with your mother, and added to it
that which I took from the strong box of the captain of the galley on
the night when you were born. So have no fear, we shall not want; nor
indeed would the Essenes suffer such a thing. Now, child, you are
weary; go to rest and dream that you have your lover back again.”

It was with a heavy heart that Caleb, defeated and shamed, shook the
dust of the village of the Essenes off his feet. At dawn on the morning
after the night that he had fought the duel with Marcus, he also might
have been seen, a staff in his bandaged hand and a bag of provisions
over his shoulder, standing upon the little ridge and gazing towards
the house which sheltered Miriam. In love and war things had gone ill
with him, so ill that at the thought of his discomfiture he ground his
teeth. Miriam cared nothing for him; Marcus had defeated him at the
first encounter and given him his life; while, worst of all, these two
from whom he had endured so much loved each other. Few, perhaps, have
suffered more sharply than he suffered in that hour; for what agonies
are there like those of disappointed love and the shame of defeat when
endured in youth? With time most men grow accustomed to disaster and
rebuff. The colt that seems to break its heart at the cut of a whip,
will hobble at last to the knacker unmoved by a shower of blows.

While Caleb looked, the red rim of the sun rose above the horizon,
flooding the world with light and life. Now birds began to chirp, and
beasts to move; now the shadows fled away. Caleb’s impressionable
nature answered to this change. Hope stirred in his breast, even the
pain of his maimed hand was forgotten.

“I will win yet,” he shouted to the silent sky; “my troubles are done
with. I will shine like the sun; I will rule like the sun, and my
enemies shall wither beneath my power. It is a good omen. Now I am glad
that the Roman spared my life, that in a day to come I may take his—and
Miriam.”

Then he turned and trudged onward through the glorious sunlight,
watching his own shadow that stretched away before him.

“It goes far,” he said again; “this also is a very good omen.”

Caleb thought much on his way to Jerusalem; moreover he talked with all
whom he met, even with bandits and footpads whom his poverty could not
tempt, for he desired to learn how matters stood in the land. Arrived
in Jerusalem he sought out the home of that lady who had been his
mother’s friend and who gave him over, a helpless orphan, to the care
of the Essenes. He found that she was dead, but her son lived, a man of
kind heart and given to hospitality, who had heard his story and
sheltered him for his mother’s sake. When his hand was healed and he
procured some good clothes and a little money from his friend, without
saying anything of his purpose, Caleb attended the court of Gessius
Florus, the Roman procurator, at his palace, seeking an opportunity to
speak with him.

Thrice did he wait thus for hours at a time, on each occasion to be
driven away at last by the guards. On his fourth visit he was more
fortunate, for Florus, who had noted him before, asked why he stood
there so patiently. An officer replied that the man had a petition to
make.

“Let me hear it then,” said the governor. “I sit in this place to
administer justice by the grace and in the name of Cæsar.”

Accordingly, Caleb was summoned and found himself in the presence of a
small, dark-eyed, beetle-browed Roman with cropped hair, who looked
what he was—one of the most evil rulers that ever held power in Judæa.

“What do you seek, Jew?” he asked in a harsh voice.

“What I am assured I shall find at your hands, O most noble Florus,
justice against the Jews—pure justice”; words at which the courtiers
and guards tittered, and even Florus smiled.

“It is to be had at a price,” he replied.

“I am prepared to pay the price.”

“Then set out your case.”

So Caleb set it out. He told how many years before his father had been
accidentally slain in a tumult, and how he, the son, being but an
infant, certain Jews of the Zealots had seized and divided his estate
on the ground that his father was a partisan of the Romans, leaving
him, the son, to be brought up by charity—which estate, consisting of
tracts of rich lands and certain house property in Jerusalem and Tyre,
was still in their possession or in that of their descendants.

The black eyes of Florus glistened as he heard.

“Their names,” he said, snatching at his tablets. But as yet Caleb was
not minded to give the names. First, he intimated that he desired to
arrive at a formal agreement as to what proportion of the property, if
recovered, would be handed over to him, the heir. Then followed much
haggling; but in the end it was agreed that as he had been robbed
because his father was supposed to favour the Romans, the lands and a
large dwelling with warehouse attached, at Tyre, together with one-half
the back rents, if recoverable, should be given to the plaintiff. The
governor, or as he put it, Cæsar, for his share was to retain the
property in Jerusalem and the other half of the rents. In this
arrangement Caleb proved himself, as usual, prescient. Houses, as he
explained afterwards, could be burned or pulled down, but beyond the
crops on it, land no man could injure. Then, after the agreement had
been duly signed and witnessed, he gave the names, bringing forward
good testimony to prove all that he had said.

Within a week those Jews who had committed the theft, or their
descendants, were in prison, whence they did not emerge till they had
been stripped, not only of the stolen property, but of everything else
that they possessed. Either because he was pleased at so great and
unexpected a harvest, or perhaps for the reason that he saw in Caleb an
able fellow who might be useful in the future, Florus fulfilled his
bargain with him to the letter.

Thus it came about that by a strange turn of the wheel of chance,
within a month of his flight from the colony of the Essenes, Caleb, the
outcast orphan, with his neck in danger of the sword, became a man of
influence, having great possessions. His sun had risen indeed.




CHAPTER X
BENONI


A while later Caleb, no longer a solitary wanderer with only his feet
to carry him, his staff to protect him, and a wallet to supply him with
food, but a young and gallant gentleman, well-armed, clad in furs and a
purple cloak, accompanied by servants and riding a splendid horse, once
more passed the walls of Jerusalem. On the rising ground beyond the
Damascus gate he halted and looked back at the glorious city with her
crowded streets, her mighty towers, her luxurious palaces, and her
world-famed temple that dominated all, which from here seemed as a
mountain covered with snow and crowned with glittering gold.

“I will rule there when the Romans have been driven out,” he said to
himself, for already Caleb had grown very ambitious. Indeed, the wealth
and the place that had come to him so suddenly, with which many men
would have been satisfied, did but serve to increase his appetite for
power, fame, and all good things. To him this money was but a
stepping-stone to greater fortunes.

Caleb was journeying to Tyre to take possession of his house there,
which the Roman commander of the district had been bidden to hand over
to him. Also he had another object. At Tyre dwelt the old Jew, Benoni,
who was Miriam’s grandfather, as he had discovered years before; for
when they were still children together she had told him all her story.
This Benoni, for reasons of his own, he desired to see.

On a certain afternoon in one of the palaces of Tyre a man might have
been seen sitting in a long portico, or verandah as we should call it,
which overlooked the Mediterranean, whose blue waters lapped the
straight-scarped rock below—for this house was in the island city, not
in that of the mainland where most of the rich Syrians dwelt.

The man was old and very handsome. His dark eyes were quick and full of
fire, his nose was hooked like the beak of a bird of prey, his hair and
beard were long and snowy white. His robes also were rich and splendid,
and over them, since at this season of the year even at Tyre it was
cold, he wore a cloak of costly northern furs. The house was worthy of
its owner. Built throughout of the purest marble, the rooms were roofed
and panelled with sweet-smelling cedar of Lebanon, whence hung many
silver lamps, and decorated by statuary and frescoes. On the marble
floors were spread rugs, beautifully wrought in colours, while here and
there stood couches, tables and stools, fashioned for the most part of
ebony from Libya, inlaid with ivory and pearl.

Benoni, the owner of all this wealth, having finished his business for
that day—the taking count of a shipload of merchandise which had
reached him from Egypt—had eaten his midday meal and now sought his
couch under the portico to rest a while in the sun. Reclining on the
cushions, soon he was asleep; but it would seem that his dreams were
unhappy—at the least he turned from side to side muttering and moving
his hands. At last he sat up with a start.

“Oh, Rachel, Rachel!” he moaned, “why will you haunt my sleep? Oh! my
child, my child, have I not suffered enough? Must you bring my sin back
to me in this fashion? May I not shut my eyes even here in the sunlight
and be at peace a while? What have you to tell me that you come thus
often to stand here so strengthless and so still? Nay, it is not you;
it is my sin that wears your shape!” and Benoni hid his face in his
hands, rocking himself to and fro and moaning aloud.

Presently he sprang up. “It was no sin,” he said, “it was a righteous
act. I offered her to the outraged majesty of Jehovah, as Abraham, our
father, would have offered Isaac, but the curse of that false prophet
is upon me and mine. That was the fault of Demas, the half-bred hound
who crept into my kennel, and whom, because she loved him, I gave to
her as husband. Thus did he repay me, the traitor, and I—I repaid him.
Ay! But the sword fell upon two necks. He should have suffered, and he
alone. Oh, Rachel, my lost daughter Rachel, forgive me, you whose bones
lie there beneath the sea, forgive me! I cannot bear those eyes of
yours. I am old, Rachel, I am old.”

Thus Benoni muttered to himself, as he walked swiftly to and fro; then,
worn out with his burst of solitary, dream-bred passion, he sank back
upon the couch.

As he sat thus, an Arab doorkeeper, gorgeously apparelled and armed
with a great sword, appeared in the portico, and after looking
carefully to see that his master was not asleep, made a low salaam.

“What is it?” asked Benoni shortly.

“Master, a young lord named Caleb wishes speech with you.”

“Caleb? I know not the name,” replied Benoni. “Stay, it must be the son
of Hilliel, whom the Roman governor”—and turning, he spat upon the
ground—“has brought to his own again. I heard that he had come to take
possession of the great house on the quay. Bring him hither.”

The Arab saluted and went. Presently he returned and ushered in Caleb,
now a noble-looking young man clad in fine raiment. Benoni bowed to him
and prayed him to be seated. Caleb bowed in return, touching his
forehead in Eastern fashion with his hand, from which, as his host
noticed, the forefinger was missing.

“I am your servant, sir,” said Benoni with grave courtesy.

“Master, I am your slave,” answered Caleb. “I have been told that you
knew my father; therefore, on this, my first visit to Tyre, I come to
make my respects to you. I am the son of Hilliel, who perished many
years ago in Jerusalem. You may have heard his story and mine.”

“Yes,” answered Benoni scanning his visitor, “I knew Hilliel—a clever
man, but one who fell into a trap at last, and I see that you are his
son. Your face proves it; indeed, it might be Hilliel who stands before
me.”

“I am proud that you should say so,” answered Caleb, though already he
guessed that between Benoni and his father no love had been lost. “You
know,” he added, “that certain of our people seized my inheritance,
which now has been restored to me—in part.”

“By Gessius Florus the procurator, I think, who on this account, has
cast many Jews—some of them innocent—into prison.”

“Indeed! Is that so? Well, it was concerning this Florus that I came
chiefly to ask your advice. The Roman has kept a full half of my
property,” and Caleb sighed and looked indignant.

“You are indeed fortunate that he has not kept it all.”

“I have been brought up in the desert far from cities,” pleaded Caleb.
“Is there no law by which I may have justice of this man? Cannot you
help me who are great among our people?”

“None,” answered Benoni. “Roman citizens have rights, Jews what they
can get. You can appeal to Cæsar if you wish, as the jackal appealed to
the lion. But if you are wise you will be content with half the
carcase. Also I am not great; I am but an old merchant without
authority.”

Caleb looked downfallen. “It seems that the days are hard for us Jews,”
he said. “Well, I will be content and strive to forgive my enemies.”

“Better be content and strive to smite your enemies,” answered Benoni.
“You who were poor are rich; for this much thank God.”

“Night and morning I do thank Him,” replied Caleb earnestly and with
truth.

Then there was silence for a while.

“Is it your intention to reside in Hezron’s—I mean in your house—in
Tyre?” asked Benoni, breaking it.

“For a time, perhaps, until I find a tenant. I am not accustomed to
towns, and at present they seem to stifle me.”

“Where were you brought up, sir?”

“Among the Essenes by Jericho. But I am not an Essene—their creed
disgusted me; I belong to that of my fathers.”

“There are worse men,” replied Benoni. “A brother of my late wife is an
Essene, a kindly natured fool named Ithiel; you may have known him.”

“Oh, yes, I know him. He is one of their curators and the guardian of
the lady Miriam, his great-niece.”

The old man started violently, then, recovering himself, said:

“Forgive me, but Miriam was the name of my lost wife—one which it
disturbs me to hear. But how can this girl be Ithiel’s grand-niece? He
had no relations except his sister.”

“I do not know,” answered Caleb carelessly. “The story is that the lady
Miriam, whom they call the Queen of the Essenes, was brought to them
nineteen or twenty years ago by a Libyan woman named Nehushta,”—here
again Benoni started—“who said that the child’s mother, Ithiel’s niece,
had been shipwrecked and died after giving birth to the infant,
commanding that it should be brought to him to be reared. The Essenes
consenting, he accepted the charge, and there she is still.”

“Then is this lady Miriam an Essene?” asked Benoni in a thick, slow
voice.

“No; she is of the sect of the Christians, in which faith she has been
brought up as her mother desired.”

The old man rose from his couch and walked up and down the portico.

“Tell me of the lady Miriam, sir,” he said presently, “for the tale
interests me. What is she like?”

“She is, as I believe, the most beautiful maiden in the whole world,
though small and slight; also she is the most sweet and learned.”

“That is high praise, sir,” said Benoni.

“Yes, master, and perhaps I exaggerate her charms, as is but natural.”

“Why is it natural?”

“Because we were brought up together, and I hope that one day she will
be my wife.”

“Are you then affianced to this maid?”

“No, not affianced—as yet,” replied Caleb, with a little smile; “but I
will not trouble you with a history of my love affairs. I have already
trespassed too long upon your kindness. It is something to ask of you
who may not desire my acquaintance, but if you will do me the honour to
sup with me to-morrow night, your servant will be grateful.”

“I thank you, young sir. I will come, I will come, for in truth,” he
added hastily, “I am anxious to hear news of all that passes at
Jerusalem, which, I understand, you left but a few days since, and I
perceive that you are one whose eyes and ears are always open.”

“I try both to see and to hear,” said Caleb modestly. “But I am very
inexperienced, and am not sure which cause a man who hopes to become
both wise and good, ought to espouse in these troubled days. I need
guidance such as you could give me if you wished. For this while,
farewell.”

Benoni watched his visitor depart, then once more began to wander up
and down the portico.

“I do not trust that young man,” he thought, “of whose doings I have
heard something; but he is rich and able, and may be of service to our
cause. This Miriam of whom he speaks, who can she be? unless, indeed,
Rachel bore a daughter before she died. Why not? She would not have
left it to my care who desired that it should be reared in her own
accursed faith and looked upon me as the murderer of her husband and
herself. If so, I who thought myself childless, yet have issue upon the
earth—at least there is one in whom my blood runs. Beautiful,
gifted—but a Christian! The sin of the parents has descended on the
child—yes, the curse is on her also. I must seek her out. I must know
the truth. Man, what is it now? Can you not see that I would be alone?”

“Master, your pardon,” said the Arab servant, bowing, “but the Roman
captain, Marcus, desires speech with you.”

“Marcus? Oh, I remember the officer who was stationed here. I am not
well, I cannot see him. Bid him come to-morrow.”

“Master, he bid me say that he sails for Rome to-night.”

“Well, well, admit him,” answered Benoni. “Perchance he comes to pay
his debt,” he added.

The Arab departed, and presently the Roman was ushered in.

“Greetings, Benoni,” he said, with his pleasant smile. “Here am I, yet
alive, for all your fears; so you see your money is still safe.”

“I am glad to hear it, my lord Marcus,” answered the Jew, bowing low.
“But if it will please you to produce it, with the interest, I think,”
he added drily, “it may be even safer in my strongbox.”

Marcus laughed pleasantly.

“Produce it?” he said. “What jest is this? Why, I come to borrow more
to defray my costs to Rome.”

Benoni’s mouth shut like a trap.

“Nay,” said Marcus, holding up his hand, “don’t begin. I know it all.
The times are full of trouble and danger. Such little ready cash as you
have at command is out at interest in safer countries—Egypt, Rome, and
Italy; your correspondent at Alexandria has failed to make you the
expected remittance; and you have reason to believe that every ship in
which you are concerned is now at the bottom of the ocean. So would you
be so good as to lend me half a talent of silver—a thousand shekels in
cash and the rest in bills of exchange on your agents at Brundisium?”

“No,” said Benoni, sternly.

“Yes,” replied Marcus, with conviction. “Look you, friend Benoni, the
security is excellent. If I don’t get drowned, or have my throat slit
between here and Italy, I am going to be one of the richest men in
Rome; so this is your last chance of lending me a trifle. You don’t
believe it? Then read this letter from Caius, my uncle, and this
rescript signed by Nero the Cæsar.”

Benoni perused the documents and returned them.

“I offer you my congratulations,” he said. “If God permits it and you
will walk steadily, your future should be brilliant, since you are of a
pleasant countenance, and when you choose to use it, behind that
countenance lies a brain. But here I see no security for my money,
since even if all things go right, Italy is a long way off.”

“Man, do you think that I should cheat you?” asked Marcus hotly.

“No, no, but accidents might happen.”

“Well, I will make it worth your while to risk them. For the
half-talent write a talent charged upon my estate, whether I live or
die. And be swift, I pray you, for I have matters to speak of, of more
importance than this miserable money. Whilst I was commissioner among
the Essenes on the banks of Jordan——”

“The Essenes! What of the Essenes?” broke in Benoni.

Marcus considered him with his grey eyes, then answered:

“Let us settle this little matter of business and I will tell you.”

“Good. It is settled; you shall have the acknowledgment to sign and the
consideration in cash and bills before you leave my house. Now what of
these Essenes?”

“Only this,” said Marcus; “they are a strange people who read the
future, I know not how. One of them with whom I became friendly,
foretold that mighty troubles were about to fall upon this land of
yours—slaughter and pestilence, and famine, such as the world has not
seen.”

“That is an old prophecy of those accursed Nazarenes,” broke in Benoni.

“Call them not accursed, friend,” said Marcus, in an odd voice, “for
you should do so least of all men. Nay, hear me out. It may be a
prophecy of the Nazarenes, but it is also a prophecy of the Essenes,
and I believe it, who watch the signs of the times. Now the elder told
me this, that there will be a great uprising of the Jews against the
strength of Cæsar, and that most of those who join in it shall perish.
He even gave names, and among them was yours, friend Benoni. Therefore,
because you have lent me money, although I am a Roman, I have come to
Tyre to warn you to keep clear of rebellions and other tumults.”

The old man listened quietly, but not as one who disbelieves.

“All this may be so,” he said, “but if my name is written in that book
of the dead, the angel of Jehovah has chosen me, and I cannot escape
his sword. Moreover, I am aged, and”—here his eyes flashed—“it is a
good end to die fighting one’s country’s enemies.”

“How you Jews do love us to be sure!” said Marcus with a little laugh.

“The nation that sends a Gessius Florus, or even an Albinus, to rule
its alien subjects must needs be loved,” replied Benoni with bitter
sarcasm. “But let us be done with politics lest we grow angry. It is
strange, but a visitor has just left me who was brought up among these
Essenes.”

“Indeed,” said Marcus, staring vacantly into the sea.

“He told me that a young and beautiful woman resides with them who is
named the Queen of the Essenes. Did you chance to see her, my lord?”

Instantly Marcus became very wide awake. “Oh, yes, I saw her; and what
else did he tell you?”

“He told me that this lady was both beautiful and learned.”

“That is true,” said Marcus with enthusiasm. “To my mind, although she
is small, I never saw one lovelier, nor do I know a sculptor who is her
equal. If you will come with me to the ship I will open the case and
show you the bust she made of me. But tell me, did this visitor of
yours lack the forefinger on one hand—his right?”

“He did.”

“Then I suppose that he is named Caleb.”

“Yes; but how do you know that?”

“Because I cut off his forefinger,” said Marcus, “in a fair fight,
and,” he added savagely, “he is a young rascal, as murderous as he is
able, whose life I did ill to spare.”

“Ah,” said Benoni, “it seems that I have still some discernment, for
just so I judged him. Well, what more do you know of the lady?”

“Something, since in a way I am affianced to her.”

“Indeed! Well, this is strange, for so, as he told me, is Caleb.”

“He told you that?” said Marcus springing from his chair. “Then he
lies, and would that I had time to prove it on his body! She rejected
him; I have it from Nehushta; also I know it in other ways.”

“Then she did accept you, my lord Marcus?”

“Not quite,” he replied sadly; “but that was only because I am not a
Christian. She loves me all the same,” he added, recovering. “Upon that
point there can be no doubt.”

“Caleb seemed to doubt it,” suggested Benoni.

“Caleb is a liar,” repeated Marcus with emphasis, “and one of whom you
will do well to beware.”

“Why should I beware of him?”

Marcus paused a moment, then answered boldly:

“Because the lady Miriam is your granddaughter and the heiress of your
wealth. I say it, since if I did not Caleb would; probably he has done
so already.”

For a moment Benoni hid his face in his hands. Then he lifted it and
said:

“I thought as much, and now I am sure. But, my lord Marcus, if my blood
is hers my wealth is my own.”

“Just so. Keep it if you will, or leave it where you will. It is Miriam
I seek, and not your money.”

“I think that Caleb seeks both Miriam and my money—like a prudent man.
Why should he not have them? He is a Jew of good blood; he will, I
think, rise high.”

“And I am a Roman of better blood who will rise higher.”

“Yes, a Roman, and I, the grandfather, am a Jew who do not love you
Romans.”

“And Miriam is neither Jew nor Roman, but a Christian, brought up not
by you, but by the Essenes; and she loves me, although she will not
marry me because I am not a Christian.”

Benoni shrugged his shoulders as he answered:

“All of this is a problem which I must ponder on and solve.”

Marcus sprang from his seat and stood before the old man with menace in
his air.

“Look you, Benoni,” he said, “this is a problem not to be solved by you
or by Caleb, but by Miriam herself, and none other. Do you understand?”

“I understand that you threaten me.”

“Ay, I do. Miriam is of full age; her sojourn with the Essenes must
come to an end. Doubtless you will take her to dwell with you. Well,
beware how you deal by her. If she wishes to marry Caleb of her own
free will, let her do so. But if you force her to it, or suffer him to
force her, then by your God, and by my gods, and by her God, I tell you
that I will come back and take such a vengeance upon him and upon you,
and upon all your people, that it shall be a story for generations. Do
you believe me?”

Benoni looked up at the man who stood before him in his youth and
beauty, his eyes on fire and his form quivering with rage, and looking,
shrank back a little. He did not know that this light-hearted Roman had
such strength and purpose at command. Now he understood for the first
time that he was a true son of the terrible race of conquerors, who, if
he were crossed, could be as merciless as the worst of them, one whose
very honesty and openness made him to be feared the more.

“I understand that you believe what you say. Whether when you are back
at Rome, where there are women as fair as the Queen of the Essenes, you
will continue to believe it, is another matter.”

“Yes, a matter for me to settle.”

“Quite so—for you to settle. Have you anything to add to the commands
you are pleased to lay upon your humble creditor, Benoni the merchant?”

“Yes, two things. First, that when I leave this house you will no
longer be my creditor. I have brought money to pay you off in full,
principal and interest. My talk of borrowing was but a play and excuse
to learn what you knew of Miriam. Nay, do not start, though it may seem
strange to you that I also can be subtle. Foolish man, did you think
that I with my prospects should be left to lack for a miserable
half-talent? Why, there at Jerusalem I could have borrowed ten, or
twenty, if I would promise my patronage by way of interest. My servants
wait with the gold without. Call them in presently and pay yourself,
principal and interest, and something for a bonus. Now for the second,
Miriam is a Christian. Beware how you tamper with her faith. It is not
mine, but I say—beware how you tamper with it. You gave her father and
her mother, your own daughter, to be slaughtered by gladiators and to
be torn by lions because, forsooth, they did not think as you do. Lift
one finger against her and I will hale you into the amphitheatre at
Rome, there yourself to be slaughtered by gladiators, or to be torn by
lions. Although I am absent I shall know all that you do, for I have
friends who are good and spies that are better. Moreover, I return here
shortly. Now I ask you, will you give me your solemn word, swearing it
by that God whom you worship, first, that you will not attempt to force
your granddaughter Miriam into marriage with Caleb the Jew; and
secondly, that you will shelter her, treating her with all honour, and
suffering her to follow her own faith in freedom?”

Benoni sprang from his couch.

“No, Roman, I will not. Who are you who dare to dictate to me in my own
house as to how I shall deal with my own grandchild? Pay what you owe
and get you gone, and darken my doors no more. I have done with you.”

“Ah!” said Marcus. “Well, perhaps it is time that you should travel.
Those who travel and see strange countries and peoples, grow
liberal-minded, which you are not. Be pleased to read this paper,” and
he laid a writing before him.

Benoni took it and read. It was worded thus:

“To Marcus, the son of Emilius, the captain, in the name of Cæsar,
greetings. Hereby we command you, should you in your discretion think
fit, to seize the person of Benoni, the Jewish merchant, a dweller in
Tyre, and to convey him as a prisoner to Rome, there to answer charges
which have been laid against him, with the particulars of which you are
acquainted, which said particulars you will find awaiting you in Rome,
of having conspired with certain other Jews, to overthrow the authority
of Cæsar in this his province of Judæa.

“(Signed) Gessius Florus, Procurator.”

Benoni having read sank back upon his couch, gasping, his white face
livid with surprise and fear. Then a thought seemed to strike him.
Seizing the paper he tore it into fragments.

“Now, Roman,” he said, “where is your warrant?”

“In my pocket,” answered Marcus; “that which I showed you was but a
copy. Nay, do not ring, do not touch that bell. See this,” and he drew
a silver whistle from his robe. “Outside your gate stand fifty
soldiers. Shall I sound it?”

“Not so,” answered Benoni. “I will swear the oath, though indeed it is
needless. Why should you suppose that I could wish to force this maid
into any marriage, or to work her evil on account of matters of her
faith?”

“Because you are a Jew and a bigot. You gave her father and her mother
to a cruel death, why should you spare her? Also you hate me and all my
people; why, then, should you not favour my rival, although he is a
murderer whose life I have twice spared at the prayer of Miriam? Swear
now.”

So Benoni lifted his hand and swore a solemn oath that he would not
force his granddaughter, Miriam, to marry Caleb, or any other man; and
that he would not betray the secret of her faith, or persecute her
because of it.

“It is not enough,” said Marcus. “Write it down and sign.”

So Benoni went to the table and wrote out his undertaking and signed
it, Marcus signing also as a witness.

“Now, Benoni,” he said, as he took the paper, “listen to me. That
warrant leaves your taking to my discretion, after I have made search
into the facts. I have made such search and it seems that I am not
satisfied. But remember that the warrant is still alive and can be
executed at any moment. Remember also that you are watched and if you
lift a finger against the girl, it will be put in force. For the
rest—if you desire that the prophecy of the Essene should not come
true, it is my advice that you cease from making plots against the
majesty of Cæsar. Now bid your servant summon him who waits in the
antechamber, that he may discharge my debt. And so farewell. When and
where we shall meet again I do not know, but be sure that we shall
meet.” Then Marcus left the portico.

Benoni watched him go, and as he watched, an evil look gathered on his
face.

“Threatened. Trodden to the dirt. Outwitted by that Roman boy,” he
murmured. “Is there any cup of shame left for me to drink? Who is the
traitor and how much does he know? Something, but not all, else my
arrest could scarcely have been left to the fancy of this patrician,
favourite though he be. Yes, my lord Marcus, I too am sure that we
shall meet again, but the fashion of that meeting may be little to your
taste. You have had your hour, mine is to come. For the rest, I must
keep my oath, since to break it would be too dangerous, and might cut
the hair that holds the sword. Also, why should I wish to harm the
girl, or to wed her to this rogue Caleb, than whom, mayhap, even the
Roman would be better? At least he is a man who does not cheat or lie.
Indeed, I long to see the maid. I will go at once to Jordan.”

Then he sounded his bell and commanded that the servant of the lord
Marcus should be admitted.




CHAPTER XI
THE ESSENES LOSE THEIR QUEEN


The Court of the Essenes was gathered in council debating the subject
of the departure of their ward, Miriam. She must go, that was evident,
since not even for her, whom they loved as though each of them had been
in truth her father or her uncle, could their ancient, sacred rule be
broken. But where was she to go and how should she be supported as
became her? These were the questions that troubled them and that they
debated earnestly. At length her great-uncle Ithiel suggested that she
should be summoned before them, that they might hear her wishes. To
this his brethren agreed, and he was sent to fetch her.

A while later, attended by Nehushta, Miriam arrived, clad in a robe of
pure white, and wearing on her head a wimple of white, edged with
purple, and about her waist a purple scarf. So greatly did the Essenes
love and reverence this maid, that as she entered, all the hundred of
the Court rose and remaining standing until she herself was seated.
Then the President, who was sorrowful and even shamefaced, addressed
her, telling her their trouble, and praying her pardon because the
ordinance of their order forced them to arrange that she should depart
from among them. At the end of this speech he asked her what were her
wishes as regarded her own future, adding that for her maintenance she
need have no fear, since out of their revenues a modest sum would be
set aside annually which would suffice to keep her from poverty.

In answer Miriam, also speaking sadly, thanked them from her heart for
all their goodness, telling them she had long known this hour of
separation to be at hand. As to where she should dwell, since tumults
were so many in Jerusalem, she suggested that she might find a home in
one of the coast cities, where perhaps some friend or relative of the
brethren would shelter Nehushta and herself.

Instantly eight or ten of those present said that they knew such trusty
folk in one place or another, and the various offers were submitted to
the Court for discussion. While the talk was still going on there came
a knock upon the door. After the usual questions and precautions, a
brother was admitted who informed them that there had arrived in the
village, at the head of a considerable retinue, Benoni, the Jewish
merchant of Tyre. He stated that he desired speech with them on the
subject of his granddaughter Miriam, who, he learned, was, or had been
recently, in their charge.

“Here may be an answer to the riddle,” said the President. “We know of
this Benoni, also that he purposed to demand his granddaughter of us,
though until he did so it was not for us to speak.” Then he put it to
the Court that Benoni should be admitted.

To this they agreed, and presently the Jew came, splendidly attired,
his long white beard flowing down a robe that glittered with
embroideries of gold and silver. Entering the dim, cool hall, he stared
in amazement at the long half-circles of venerable, white-robed men who
were gathered there. Next his quick eyes fell upon the lovely maiden
who, attended by the dark-visaged Nehushta, sat before them on a seat
of honour; and looking, he guessed that she must be Miriam.

“Little wonder,” reflected Benoni to himself, “that all men seem to
love this girl, since at the first sight of her my own heart softens.”

Then he bowed to the President of the Court and the President bowed
back in answer. But not one of the rest so much as moved his head,
since already every man of them hated this stranger who was about to
carry away her whom they called their Queen.

“Sirs,” said Benoni breaking the silence, “I come here upon a strange
errand—namely, to ask of you a maid whom I believe to be my
granddaughter, of whose existence I learned not long ago, and whom, as
it seems, you have sheltered from her birth. Is she among you here?”
and he looked at Miriam.

“The lady Miriam sits yonder,” said the President. “You are right in
naming her your granddaughter, as we have known her to be from the
beginning.”

“Then why,” said Benoni, “did I not know it also?”

“Because,” answered the President quietly, “we did not think it fitting
to deliver a child that was committed to our charge, to the care of one
who had brought her father, and tried to bring her mother, his own
seed, to the most horrible of deaths.”

As he spoke he fixed his eyes indignantly upon Benoni; as did every man
of all that great company, till even the bold-faced Jew dropped his
head abashed.

“I am not here,” he said, recovering himself, “to make defence of what
I have done, or have not done in the past. I am here to demand that my
grandchild, now as I perceive a woman grown, may be handed over to me,
her natural guardian.”

“Before this can be considered,” answered the President, “we who have
been her guardians for so many years, should require guarantees and
sureties.”

“What guarantees, and what sureties?” asked Benoni.

“These among others—That money sufficient for her support after your
death should be settled upon her. That she shall be left reasonable
liberty in the matter of her daily life and her marriage, if it should
please her to marry. Lastly, that as we have undertaken not to meddle
with her faith, or to oppress her into changing it, so must you
undertake also.”

“And if I refuse these things?” asked Benoni.

“Then you see the lady Miriam for the first and last time,” answered
the President boldly, while the others nodded approval. “We are men of
peace, but, merchant, you must not, therefore, think us men without
power. We must part with the lady Miriam, who to every one of us is as
a daughter, because the unbreakable rule of our order ordains that she,
who is now a woman grown, can no longer remain among us. But wherever
she dwells, to the last day of her life our love shall go with her and
the whole strength of our Order shall protect her. If any harm is
attempted to her, we shall be swift to hear and swifter to avenge. If
you refuse our conditions, she will vanish from your sight, and then,
merchant, go, search the world, the coasts of Syria, the banks of
Egypt, and the cities of Italy—and find her if you can. We have
spoken.”

Benoni stroked his white beard before he answered.

“You talk proudly,” he said. “Did I shut my eyes I might fancy that
this voice was the voice of a Roman procurator speaking the decrees of
Cæsar. Still, I am ready to believe that what you promise you can
perform, since I for one am sure that you Essenes are not mere harmless
heretics who worship angels and demons, see visions, prophesy things to
come by the help of your familiars, and adore the sun in huts upon the
desert.” He paused, but the President, without taking the slightest
notice of his insults or sarcasms, repeated merely:

“We have spoken,” and as with one voice, like some great echo, the
whole hundred of them cried, “We have spoken!”

“Do you hear them, master?” said Nehushta in the silence that followed.
“Well, I know them. They mean what they say, and you are right—what
which they threaten they can perform.”

“Let my grandchild speak,” said Benoni. “Daughter, is it your wish that
such dishonouring bonds should be laid upon me?”

“Grandsire,” replied Miriam, in a pure, clear voice, “I may not quarrel
with that which is done for my own good. For the wealth I care little,
but I would not become a slave in everything save the name, nor do I
desire to set my feet in that path my parents trod. What my uncles
say—all of these”—and she waved her hand—“speaking in the name of the
thousands that are without, that I do, for they love me and I love
them, and their mind is my mind and their words are my words.”

“Proud-spirited, and well spoken, like all her race,” muttered Benoni.
Still he stroked his beard and hesitated.

“Be pleased to give your answer,” said the President, “that we may
finish our discussion before the hour of evening prayer. To help you to
it, remember one thing—we ask no new conditions.” Benoni glanced up
quickly and the President added: “Those of which we have received a
copy, that you swore to and signed in the presence of Marcus the Roman,
are enough for us.”

Now it was Miriam’s turn to look, first up and then down. As for her
grandfather, he turned white with anger, and broke into a bitter laugh.

“Now I understand——”

“——that the arm of the Essenes is longer than you thought, since it can
reach from here to Rome,” said the President.

“Ay! that you can plot with Romans. Well, be careful lest the sword of
these Romans prove longer than _you_ thought and reach even to your
hearts, O you peaceful dwellers in the desert!” Then, as though he
feared some answer, he added quickly, “I am minded to return and leave
this maiden with you to dispose of as you think fit. Yet I will not do
so, for she is very fair and gracious, and with the wealth that I can
give her, may fill some high place in the world. Also—and this is more
to me—I am old and draw near my end and she alone has my blood in her
veins. Therefore I will agree to all your terms, and take her home with
me to Tyre, trusting that she may learn to love me.”

“Good,” said the President. “To-morrow the papers shall be prepared and
signed. Meanwhile we pray you to be our guest.”

Next evening signed they were accordingly, Benoni agreeing without
demur to all that the Essenes asked on behalf of her who had been their
ward, and even assigning to her a separate revenue during his lifetime.
Indeed, now that he had seen her, so loth was he to part with this
new-found daughter, that he would have done still more had it been
asked of him, lest she should be spirited from his sight, as, did he
refuse, might well happen.

Three days later Miriam bade farewell to her protectors, who
accompanied her by hundreds to the ridge above the village. Here they
stopped, and seeing that the moment of separation was at hand, Miriam’s
tears began to flow.

“Weep not, beloved child,” said Ithiel, “for though we part with you in
body, yet shall we always be with you in the spirit, now in this life,
and as we think, after this life. Moreover, by night and day, we shall
watch over you, and if any attempt to harm you—” here he glanced at
Benoni, that brother-in-law to whom he bore but little love—“the very
winds will bear us tidings, and in this way or that, help will come.”

“Have no fear, Ithiel,” broke in Benoni, “my bond, which you hold, is
good and it will be backed by love.”

“That I believe also,” said Miriam; “and if it be so, grandsire, I will
repay love for love.” Then she turned to the Essenes and thanked them
in broken words.

“Be not downhearted,” said Ithiel in a thick voice, “for I hope that
even in this life we shall meet again.”

“May it be so,” answered Miriam, and they parted, the Essenes returning
sadly to their home, and Benoni taking the road through Jericho to
Jerusalem.

Travelling slowly, at the evening of the second day they set their camp
on open ground not far from the Damascus gate of the Holy City, but
within the new north wall that had been built by Agrippa. Into the city
itself Benoni would not enter, fearing lest the Roman soldiers should
plunder them. At moonrise Nehushta took Miriam by the hand and led her
through the resting camels to a spot a few yards from the camp.

There, standing with her back to the second wall, she pointed out to
her a cliff, steep but of no great height, in which appeared little
caves and ridges of rock that, looked at from this distance, gave to
its face a rude resemblance to a human skull.

“See,” she said solemnly. “Yonder the Lord was crucified.”

Miriam heard and sank to her knees in prayer. As she knelt there the
grave voice of her grandfather spoke behind her, bidding her rise.

“Child,” he said, “it is true. True is it also that signs and wonders
happened after the death of that false Messiah, and that for me and
mine He left a curse behind Him which it may well be is not done with
yet. I know your faith, and I have promised to let you follow it in
peace. Yet I beseech of you, do not make prayers to your God here in
public, where with malefactors He suffered as a malefactor, lest others
less tolerant should see you and drag you to your father’s death.”

Miriam bowed her head and returned to the camp, nor at that time did
any further words pass between them on this matter of her religion.
Thenceforward, however, she was careful to do nothing which could bring
suspicion on her grandfather.

Four days later they came to the rich and beautiful city of Tyre, and
Miriam saw the sea upon which she had been born. Hitherto, she had
fancied that its waters were much like those of the Dead Lake, upon
whose shores she had dwelt so many years; but when she perceived the
billows rushing onwards, white-crested, to break in thunder against the
walls of island Tyre, she clapped her hands with joy. Indeed, from that
day to the end of her life she loved the sea in all its moods, and for
hours at a time would find it sufficient company. Perhaps this was
because the seethe of its waves was the first sound that her ears had
heard, while her first breath was salted with its spray.

From Jerusalem, Benoni had sent messengers mounted on swift horses
bidding his servants make ready to receive a guest. So it came about
that when she entered his palace in Tyre, Miriam found it decked as
though for a bride, and wandered in amazement—she who had known nothing
better than the mud-houses of the Essenes—from hall to hall of the
ancient building that in bygone generations had been the home of kings
and governors. Benoni followed her steps, watching her with grave eyes,
till at length all was visited save the gardens belonging to him which
were on the mainland.

“Are you pleased with your new home, daughter?” he asked presently.

“My grandfather, it is beautiful,” she answered. “Never have I dreamed
of such a place as this. Say, may I work my art in one of these great
rooms?”

“Miriam,” he answered, “of this house henceforth you are the mistress,
as in time to come you will be its owner. Believe me, child, it was not
needed that so many and such different men should demand from me
sureties for your comfort and your safety. All I have is yours, whilst
all you have, including your faith and your friends, of whom there seem
to be many, remains your own. Yet, should it please you to give me in
return some small share of your love, I who am childless and friendless
shall be grateful.”

“That is my desire,” answered Miriam hurriedly; “only, grandsire,
between you and me——”

“Speak it not,” he said, with a gesture almost of despair, “or rather I
will speak it—between you and me runs the river of your parents’ blood.
It is so, yet, Miriam, I will confess to you that I repent me of that
deed. Age makes us judge more kindly. To me your faith is nothing and
your God a sham, yet I know now that to worship Him is not worthy of
death—at least not for that cause would I bring any to their death
to-day, or even to stripes and bonds. I will go further; I will stoop
even to borrow from His creed. Do not His teachings bid you to forgive
those who have done you wrong?”

“They do, and that is why Christians love all mankind.”

“Then bring that law into this home of ours, Miriam, and love me who
sorrow for what I did in the blind rage of my zeal, and who now in my
old age am haunted by its memory.”

Then for the first time Miriam threw herself into the old man’s arms
and kissed him on the brow.

So it came about that they made their peace and were happy together.

Indeed, day by day Benoni loved her more, till at length she was
everything to him, and he grew jealous of all who sought her company,
and especially of Nehushta.




CHAPTER XII
THE RING, THE NECKLACE AND THE LETTER


So Miriam came to Tyre, where, for many months, her life was peaceful
and happy enough. At first she had feared meeting Caleb, who she knew
from her grandfather was dwelling there; but as it chanced, he had left
the city upon business of his own, so for the while she was free of
him. In Tyre were many Christians with whom she made friends and
worshipped, Benoni pretending to know nothing of the matter. Indeed, at
this time and place it was the Jews rather than the Christians who were
in danger at the hands of the Syrians and Greeks, who hated them for
their wealth and faith, threatening them continually with robbery and
massacre. But as yet that storm did not burst, and in its brewing the
Christians, who were few, humble, and of all races, escaped notice.

Thus it came about that Miriam dwelt in quiet, occupying herself much
with her art of modelling and going abroad but little, since it was
scarcely safe for her, the grandchild of the rich Jew merchant, to show
her face in the streets. Though she was surrounded by every luxury, far
more than she needed, indeed, this lack of liberty irked her who had
been reared in the desert, till at times she grew melancholy and would
sit for hours looking on the sea and thinking. She thought of her
mother who had sat thus before her; of her father, who had perished
beneath the gladiators’ swords; of the kindly old men who had nurtured
her, and of the sufferings of her brothers and sisters in the faith in
Rome and at Jerusalem. But most of all she thought of Marcus, her Roman
lover, whom, strive as she would, she could never forget—no, not for a
single hour. She loved him, that was the truth of it, and between them
there was a great gulf fixed, not of the sea only, which ships could
sail, but of that command which the dead had laid upon her. He was a
pagan and she was a Christian, and they might not wed. By now, too, it
was likely that he had forgotten her, the girl who took his fancy in
the desert. At Rome there were many noble and lovely women—oh! she
could scarcely bear to think of it. Yet night by night she prayed for
him, and morn by morn his face arose before her half-awakened eyes.
Where was he? What was he doing? For aught she knew he might be dead.
Nay, for then, surely, her heart would have warned her. Still, she
craved for tidings, and alas! there were none.

At length tidings did come—the best of tidings. One day, wearying of
the house, with the permission of her grandfather, and escorted by
servants, Miriam had gone to walk in the gardens that he owned to the
north of that part of the city on the mainland, which was called
Palætyrus. They were lovely gardens, well watered and running down to
the sea-edge, and in them grew beautiful palms and other trees, with
fruitful shrubs and flowers. Here, when they had roamed a while, Miriam
and Nehushta sat down upon the fallen column of some old temple and
rested. Suddenly they heard a footstep, and Miriam looked up to see
before her a Roman officer, clad in a cloak that showed signs of
sea-travel, and, guiding him, one of Benoni’s servants.

The officer, a rough but kindly looking man of middle age, bowed to
her, asking in Greek if he spoke to the lady Miriam, the granddaughter
of Benoni the Jew, she who had been brought up among the Essenes.

“Sir, I am she,” answered Miriam.

“Then, lady, I, who am named Gallus, have an errand to perform”; and
drawing from his robe a letter tied with silk and sealed, and with the
letter a package, he handed them to her.

“Who sends these?” she asked, hope shining in her eyes, “and whence
come they?”

“From Rome, lady, as fast as sails could waft them and me. And the
sender is the noble Marcus, called the Fortunate.”

“Oh!” said Miriam, blushing to her eyes, “tell me, sir, is he well?”

“Not so well but that such a look as that, lady, would better him, or
any other man, could he be here to see it,” answered the Roman, gazing
at her with admiration.

“Did you then leave him ill? I do not understand.”

“Nay, his health seemed sound, and his uncle Caius being dead his
wealth can scarce be counted, or so they say, since the old man made
him his heir. Perhaps that is why the divine Nero has taken such a
fancy to him that he can scarce leave the palace. Therefore I cannot
say that Marcus is well to-day, since sometimes Nero’s friends are
short-lived. Nay, be not frightened, I did but jest; your Marcus is
safe enough. Read the letter, lady, and waste no time. As for me, my
mission is fulfilled. Thank me not; it is reward enough to have seen
that sweet face of yours. Fortunate indeed is the star of Marcus, and,
though I am jealous of the man, for your sake I pray that it may lead
him back to you. Lady, farewell.”

“Cut the silk, Nou,” said Miriam when the Captain Gallus had gone.
“Quick. I have no knife.”

Nehushta obeyed smiling and the letter was unrolled. It, or those parts
of it which concern us, ran thus:

“To the lady Miriam, from Marcus the Roman, her friend, by the hand of
the Captain Gallus.

“Dear friend and lady, greeting. Already since I came here I have
written you one letter, but this day news has reached me that the ship
which bore it foundered off the coast of Sicily. So, as Neptune has
that letter, and with it many good men, although I write more ill than
I do most things, I send you another by this occasion, hoping, I who am
vain, that you have not forgotten me, and that the reading of it may
even give you pleasure. Most dear Miriam, know that I accomplished my
voyage to Rome in safety, visiting your grandsire on the way to pay him
a debt I owed. But that story you will perhaps have heard.

“From Tyre I sailed for Italy, but was cast away upon the coasts of
Melita, where many of us were drowned. By the favour of some god,
however—ah! what god I wonder—I escaped, and taking another ship came
safely to Brundisium, whence I travelled as fast as horses would carry
me to Rome. Here I arrived but just in time, for I found my uncle Caius
very ill. Believing, moreover, that I had been drowned in the shipwreck
at Melita, he was about to make a will bequeathing his property to the
Emperor Nero, but by good fortune of this he had said nothing. Had he
done so I should, I think, be as poor to-day as when I left you, dear,
and perhaps poorer still, for I might have lost my head with my
inheritance.

“As it was I found favour in the sight of my uncle Caius, who a week
after my arrival executed a formal testament leaving to me all his
land, goods, and moneys, which on his death three months later I
inherited. Thus I have become rich—so rich that now, having much money
to spend, by some perversity which I cannot explain, I have grown
careful and spend as little as possible. After I had entered into my
inheritance I made a plan to return to Judæa, for one reason and one
alone—to be near to you, most sweet Miriam. At the last moment I was
stayed by a very evil chance. That bust which you made of me I had
managed to save from the shipwreck and bring safe to Rome—now I wish it
was at the bottom of the sea, and you shall learn why.

“When I came into possession of this house in the Via Agrippa, which is
large and beautiful, I set it in a place of honour in the antechamber
and summoned that sculptor, Glaucus, of whom I have spoken to you, and
others who follow the art, to come and pass judgment upon the work.
They came, they wondered and they were silent, for each of them feared
lest in praising it he should exalt some rival. When, however, I told
them that it was the work of a lady in Judæa, although they did not
believe me, since all of them declared that no woman had shaped that
marble, knowing that they had nothing to fear from so distant an artist
whoever he might be, they began to praise the work with one voice, and
all that evening until the wine overcame them, talked of nothing else.
Also they continued talking on the morrow, until at length the fame of
the thing came to the ears of Nero, who also is an artist of music and
other things. The end of it was that one day, without warning, the
Emperor visited my house and demanded to see the bust, which I showed
to him. For many minutes he examined it through the emerald with which
he aids his sight, then asked:

“‘What land had the honour to bear the genius who wrought this work?’

“I answered, ‘Judæa,’ a country, by the way, of which he seemed to know
little, except that some fanatics dwelt there, who refused to worship
him. He said that he would make that artist ruler of Judæa. I replied
that the artist was a woman, whereon he answered that he cared
nothing—she should still rule Judæa, or if this could not be managed he
would send and bring her to Rome to make a statue of him to be set up
in the Temple at Jerusalem for the Jews to worship.

“Now I saw that I had been foolish, and knowing well what would have
been your fate, my Miriam, had he once set eyes on you, I sighed and
answered, that alas! it was impossible, since you were dead, as I
proved to him by a long story with which I will not trouble you.
Moreover, now that he was sure that you were dead, I showed him the
little statuette of yourself looking into water, which you gave me.
Whereon he burst into tears, at the thought that such an one had
departed from the earth, while it was still cursed with so many who are
wicked, old and ugly.

“Still he did not go, but remained admiring the bust, till at length
one of his favourites who accompanied him, whispered in my ear that I
must present it to the Emperor. I refused, whereon he whispered back
that if I did not, assuredly before long it would be taken, and with it
all my other goods, and, perhaps, my life. So, since I must, I changed
my mind and prayed him to accept it; whereon he embraced, first the
marble and then me, and caused it to be borne away then and there,
leaving me mad with rage.

“Now I tell you all this silly story for a reason, since it has
hindered and still hinders me from leaving Rome. Thus: two days later I
received an Imperial decree, in which it was stated that the
incomparable work of art brought from Judæa by Marcus, the son of
Emilius, had been set up in a certain temple, where those who would
please their Emperor were desired to present themselves and worship it
and the soul of her by whom it was fashioned. Moreover, it was
commanded that I, Marcus, whose features had served as a model for the
work, should be its guardian and attend twice weekly in the temple,
that all might see how the genius of a great artist is able to make a
thing of immortal beauty from a coarse original of flesh and blood. Oh,
Miriam, I have no patience to write of this folly, yet the end of it
is, that except at the cost of my fortune and the risk of my life, it
is impossible for me to leave Rome. Twice every week, or by special
favour, once only, must I attend in that accursed temple where my own
likeness stands upon a pedestal of marble, and before it a marble
altar, on which are cut the words: ‘Sacrifice, O passer-by, to the
spirit of the departed genius who wrought this divine work.’

“Yes, there I sit, I who am a soldier, while fools come in and gaze
first at the marble and then at me, saying things for which often I
long to kill them, and casting grains of incense into the little fire
on the altar in sacrifice to your spirit, whereby I trust it may be
benefited. Thus, Miriam, are we ruled in Rome to-day.

“Meanwhile, I am in great favour with Nero, so that men call me ‘the
Fortunate,’ and my house the ‘Fortunate House,’ a title of ill-omen.

“Yet out of this evil comes some good, since because of his present
affection for me, or my bust, I have now and again for your sake,
Miriam, been able to do service, even to the saving of their lives, to
those of your faith. Here there are many Christians whom it is an
amusement to Nero to persecute, torture, and slay, sometimes by soaking
them in tar and making of them living torches to illuminate his
gardens, and sometimes in other fashions. The lives of sundry of these
poor people he has given to me, when I begged them of him. Indeed, he
has done more. Yesterday Nero came himself to the temple and suggested
that certain of the Christians should be sacrificed in a very cruel
fashion here as an offering to your spirit. I answered that this could
give it little pleasure, seeing that in your lifetime you also were a
Christian. Thereon he wrung his hands, crying out, ‘Oh! what a crime
have I committed,’ and instantly gave orders that no more Christians
should be killed. So for a little while, thanks to your handiwork, and
to me who am called ‘the Model,’ they are safe—those who are left of
them.

“I hear that there are wars and tumults in Judæa, and that Vespasian, a
great general, is to be sent to quell them. If I can I will come with
him, but at present—such is the madness of my master—this is too much
to hope, unless, indeed, he wearies suddenly of the ‘Divine Work’ and
its attendant ‘Model.’

“Meanwhile I also cast incense upon your altar, and pray that in these
troubles you may come to no harm.

“Miriam, I am most unhappy. I think of you always and yet I cannot come
to you. I picture you in many dangers, and I am not there to save you.
I even dare to hope that you would wish to see me again; but it is the
Jew Caleb, and other men, who see you and make offerings to your sweet
beauty as I make them to your spirit. I beseech you, Miriam, do not
accept the offerings, lest in some day to come, when I am once more a
soldier, and have ceased to be a custodian of busts, it should be the
worse for those worshippers, and especially for Caleb.

“What else have I to tell you? I have sought out some of the great
preachers of your faith, hoping that by the magic whereof they are said
to be masters, they would be able to assure me of your welfare. But to
my sorrow they gave me no magic—in which it seems they do not deal—only
maxims. Also, from these I bought for a great sum certain manuscripts
written by themselves containing the doctrines of your law, which I
intend to study so soon as I have time. Indeed, this is a task which I
wish to postpone, since did I read I might believe and turn Christian,
to serve in due course as a night-light in Nero’s gardens.

“I send you a present, praying that you will accept it. The emerald in
the ring is cut by my friend, the sculptor Glaucus. The pearls are fine
and have a history which I hope to tell you some day. Wear them always,
beloved Miriam, for my sake. I do not forget your words; nay, I ponder
them day and night. But at least you said you loved me, and in wearing
these trinkets you break no duty to the dead. Write to me, I pray you,
if you can find a messenger. Or, if you cannot write, think of me
always as I do of you. Oh, that we were back together in that happy
village of the Essenes, to whom, as to yourself, be all good fortune!
Farewell.

“Your ever faithful friend and lover,

“Marcus.”

Miriam finished her letter, kissed it, and hid it in her bosom. Then
she opened the packet and unlocked the ivory box within by a key that
hung to it. Out of the casket she took a roll of soft leather. This she
undid and uttered a little cry of joy, for there lay a necklace of the
most lovely pearls that she had ever seen. Nor was this all, for
threaded on the pearls was a ring, and cut upon its emerald bezel the
head of Marcus, and her own head taken from the likeness she had given
him.

“Look! Nou, look!” said Miriam, showing her the beauteous trinkets.

“A sight to make old eyes glisten,” answered Nehushta handling them. “I
know something of pearls, and these are worth a fortune. Happy maid, to
whom is given such a lover.”

“Unhappy maid who can never be a happy wife,” sighed Miriam, her blue
eyes filling with tears.

“Grieve not; that still may chance,” answered Nehushta, as she fastened
the pearls about Miriam’s neck. “At least you have heard from him and
he still loves you, which is much. Now for the ring—the marriage
finger—see, how it fits.”

“Nay, I have no right,” murmured Miriam; still she did not draw it off
again.

“Come, let us be going,” said Nehushta, hiding the casket in her amble
robe, “for the sun sinks, and to-night there are guests to supper.”

“What guests?” asked Miriam absently.

“Plotters, every one,” said Nehushta, shrugging her shoulders. “The
great scheme to drive the Romans from the Holy City ripens fast, and
your grandsire waters its root. I pray that we may not all of us gather
bitter grapes from that vine. Have you heard that Caleb is back in
Tyre?”

“Caleb!” faltered Miriam, “No.”

“Well, he is. He arrived yesterday and will be among the guests
to-night. He has been fighting up in the desert there, and bravely, for
I am told that he was one of those who seized the fortress of Masada
and put its Roman garrison to the sword.”

“Then he is against the Romans?”

“Yes, because he hopes to rule the Jews, and risks much to gain more.”

“I do not wish to meet him,” said Miriam.

“Nay, but you must, and the sooner the better. Why do you fear the
man?”

“I know not, but fear him I do, now and always.”

When Miriam entered the supper chamber that night, the guests to the
number of twelve were already seated on their couches, waiting for the
feast to begin. By her grandfather’s command she was arrayed in her
richest robes fashioned and broidered after the Grecian fashion, having
her hair gathered into coils upon her head and held with a golden net.
Round her waist was a girdle of gold set with gems, about her throat
the necklace of pearls which Marcus had sent her, and on her hand a
single ring—that with his likeness and her own. As she entered the
great chamber, looking most lovely, notwithstanding her lack of height,
her grandfather came forward to meet her and present her to the guests,
who rose in greeting. One by one they bowed to her and one by one she
searched their faces with her eyes—faces for the most part stern and
fierce. Now all had passed and she sighed with relief, for among them
there was no Caleb. Even as she did so a curtain swung aside and Caleb
entered.

It was he, of that there could be no doubt; but oh! how changed since
last she had seen him two years before. Then he had been but a raw,
passionate youth; now he was a tall and splendid young man, very
handsome in his dark fashion, very powerful of frame also and quick of
limb. His person was matched by his attire, which was that of an
Eastern warrior noble, and his mien was proud and conquering. As he
advanced the guests bowed to him in respect, as to a man of great and
assured position who may become greater still. Yes, even Benoni showed
him this respect, stepping forward to greet him. All these greetings
Caleb acknowledged lightly, even haughtily, till of a sudden he saw
Miriam standing somewhat in the shadow, and heedless of the other
guests pushed his way towards her.

“Thus we meet again, Miriam,” he said, his proud face softening as he
spoke and his eyes gazing on her with a sort of rapture. “Are you
pleased to see me?”

“Surely, Caleb,” she answered. “Who would not be well pleased to meet
the playfellow of her childhood?”

He frowned, for childhood and its play were not in his thoughts. Before
he could speak again Benoni commanded the company to be seated, whereon
Miriam took her accustomed place as mistress of the house.

To her surprise Caleb seated himself beside her on the couch that
should have been reserved for the oldest guest, who for some moments
was left a wanderer and wrathful, till Benoni, seeing what had passed,
called him to his side. Then, golden vessels of scented water having
been handed by slaves to each guest in turn, the feast began. As Miriam
was about to dip her fingers in the water she remembered the ring upon
her left hand and turned the bezel inwards. Caleb noted the action, but
said nothing.

“Whence come you, Caleb?” she asked.

“From the wars, Miriam. We have thrown down the gate to Rome, and she
has picked it up.”

She looked at him inquiringly and asked, “Was it wise?”

“Who can tell?” he answered. “At least it is done. For my part I
hesitated long, but your grandfather won me over, so now I must follow
my fate.”

Then he began to tell her of the taking of Masada and of the bloody
struggles of the factions in Jerusalem.

After this he spoke of the Essenes, who still occupied their village,
though in fear, for all about them was much fighting; and of their
childish days together—talk which pleased her greatly. Whilst they
spoke thus, a messenger entered the room and whispered something into
the ear of Benoni, who raised his hands to Heaven as though in
gratitude.

“What tidings?” asked one.

“This, my friends. Cestius Gallus the Roman has been hunted from the
walls of Jerusalem and his army is destroyed in the pass of
Beth-horon.”

“God be praised!” said the company as though with one voice.

“God be praised,” repeated Caleb, “for so great and glorious a victory!
The accursed Romans are fallen indeed.”

Only Miriam said nothing.

“What is in your mind?” he asked looking at her.

“That they will spring up again stronger than before,” she replied,
then at a signal from Benoni, rose and left the feast.

From the supper chamber Miriam passed down a passage to the portico and
there seated herself, resting her arms upon the marble balustrade and
listening to the waves as they lapped against the walls below.

That day had been disturbed, different, indeed, from all the peaceful
days which she was wont to spend. First had come the messenger bearing
her lover’s gifts and letter which already she longed to read again;
then hard upon his heels, like storm upon the sunshine, he who, unless
she was mistaken, still wished to be her lover—Caleb. How curious was
the lot of all three of them! How strangely had they been exalted! She,
the orphan ward of the Essenes, was now a great and wealthy lady with
everything her heart could desire—except one thing, indeed, which it
desired most of all. And Marcus, the debt-saddled Roman soldier of
fortune, he also, it seemed, had suddenly become great and wealthy,
pomps that he held at the price of playing some fool’s part in a temple
to satisfy the whimsy of an Imperial madman.

Caleb, too, had found fortune, and in these tumultuous times risen
suddenly to place and power. All three of them were seated upon
pinnacles, but as Miriam felt, they were pinnacles of snow, which for
aught she knew, might be melted by the very sun of their prosperity.
She was young, she had little experience, yet as Miriam sat there
watching the changeful sea, there came upon her a great sense of the
instability of things, and an instinctive knowledge of their vanity.
The men who were great one day, whose names sounded in the mouths of
all, the next had vanished, disgraced or dead. Parties rose and parties
fell, high priest succeeded high priest, general supplanted general,
yet upon each and all of them, like the following waves that rolled
beneath her, came dark night and oblivion. A little dancing in the
sunshine, a little moaning in the shade, then death, and after death——

“What are you thinking of, Miriam?” said a rich voice at her elbow, the
voice of Caleb.

She started, for here she believed herself alone, then answered:

“My thoughts matter nothing. Why are you here? You should be with your
fellow——”

“Conspirators. Why do you not say the word? Well, because sometimes one
wearies even of conspiracy. Just now we triumph and can take our ease.
I wish to make the most of it. What ring is that you wear upon your
finger?”

Miriam straightened herself and grew bold.

“One which Marcus sent me,” she answered.

“I guessed as much. I have heard of him; he has become a creature of
the mad Nero, the laughing-stock of Rome.”

“I do not laugh at him, Caleb.”

“No, you were ever faithful. But, say, do you laugh at me?”

“Indeed not; why should I, since you seem to fill a great and dangerous
part with dignity?”

“Yes, Miriam, my part is both great and dangerous. I have risen high
and I mean to rise higher.”

“How high?”

“To the throne of Judæa.”

“I think a cottage stool would be more safe, Caleb.”

“Mayhap, but I do not like such seats. Listen, Miriam, I will be great
or die. I have thrown in my lot with the Jews, and when we have cast
out the Romans I shall rule.”

“_If_ you cast out the Romans, and _if_ you live. Caleb, I have no
faith in the venture. We are old friends, and I pray of you to escape
from it while there is yet time.”

“Why, Miriam?”

“Because He Whom your people crucified and Whom I serve prophesied its
end. The Romans will crush you, Caleb. His blood lies heavy upon the
head of the Jews, and the hour of payment is at hand.”

Caleb thought a while, and when he spoke again the note of confidence
had left his voice.

“It may be so, Miriam,” he said, “though I put no faith in the sayings
of your prophet; but at least I have taken my part and will see the
play through. Now for the second time I ask you to share its fortunes.
I have not changed my mind. As I loved you in childhood and as a youth,
so I love you as a man. I offer to you a great career. In the end I may
fall, or I may triumph, still either the fall or the triumph will be
worth your sharing. A throne, or a glorious grave—both are good; who
can say which is the better? Seek them with me, Miriam.”

“Caleb, I cannot.”

“Why?”

“Because it is laid upon me as a birthright, or a birth-duty, that I
should wed no man who is not a Christian. You know the story.”

“Then if there were no such duty would you wed me, Miriam?”

“No,” she answered faintly.

“Why not?”

“Because I love another man whom also I am forbid to wed, and until
death I am pledged to him.”

“The Roman, Marcus?”

“Aye, the Roman Marcus. See, I wear his ring,” and she lifted her hand,
“and his gift is about my throat,” and she touched the necklet of
pearls. “Till death I am his and his alone. This I say, because it is
best for all of us that you should know the truth.”

Caleb ground his teeth in bitter jealousy.

“Then may death soon find him!” he said.

“It would not help you, Caleb. Oh! why cannot we be friends as we were
in the old times!”

“Because I seek more than friendship, and soon or late, in this way or
in that, I swear that I will have it.”

As the words left his lips footsteps were heard, and Benoni appeared.

“Friend Caleb,” he said, “we await you. Why, Miriam, what do you here?
To your chamber, girl. Affairs are afoot in which women should have no
part.”

“Yet as I fear, grandfather, women will have to bear the burden,”
answered Miriam. Then, bowing to Caleb, she turned and left them.




CHAPTER XIII
WOE, WOE TO JERUSALEM


Two more years went by, two dreadful, bloody years. In Jerusalem the
factions tore each other. In Galilee let the Jewish leader Josephus,
under whom Caleb was fighting, do what he would, Vespasian and his
generals stormed city after city, massacring their inhabitants by
thousands and tens of thousands. In the coast towns and elsewhere
Syrians and Jews made war. The Jews assaulted Gadara and Gaulonitis,
Sebaste and Ascalon, Anthedon and Gaza, putting many to the sword. Then
came their own turn, for the Syrians and Greeks rose upon them and
slaughtered them without mercy. As yet, however, there had been no
blood shed in Tyre, though all knew that it must come. The Essenes, who
had been driven from their home by the Dead Sea and taken refuge in
Jerusalem, sent messengers to Miriam warning her to flee from Tyre,
where a massacre was being planned; warning her also not to come to
Jerusalem, which city they believed to be doomed, but to escape, if
possible over sea. Nor was this all, for her own people, the
Christians, besought her to fly for her life’s sake with them to the
city of Pella, where they were gathering from Jerusalem and all Judæa.
To both Miriam answered that what her grandsire did, that she must do.
If he fled, she would fly; if he stayed at Tyre, she would stay; if he
went to Jerusalem, she would go; for he had been good to her and she
had sworn that while he lived she would not desert him. So the Essene
messengers went back to Jerusalem, and the Christian elders prayed with
her, and having blessed her and consigned her to the care of the Most
High and His Son, their Lord, departed to Pella, where, as it was
fated, through all those dreadful times not a hair of their heads was
touched.

When she had parted from them, Miriam sought out her grandfather, whom
she found pacing his chamber with a troubled air.

“Why do you look so sad, Miriam?” he asked. “Have some of your friends
warned you that new sorrows are afoot?”

“Yes, grandfather,” and she told him all.

“I do not believe them,” he said passionately. “Say, do you? Where is
their authority? I tell you that we shall triumph. Vespasian is now
Emperor in Rome, and there will forget this little land; and the rest,
those enemies who are of our own house and those without it, we will
conquer and kill. The Messiah will come, the true Messiah. Many signs
and wonders declare that he is at hand. Ay! I myself have had a vision
concerning him. He will come, and he will conquer, and Jerusalem shall
be great and free and see her desire upon her enemies. I ask—where is
your authority for these croakings?”

Miriam drew a roll from her robe and read: “But when ye see Jerusalem
compassed with armies, then know that her desolation is at hand. Then
let them which are in Judæa flee unto the mountains; and let them which
are in the midst of her depart out; and let not them that are in the
country enter therein. For these are days of vengeance, that all things
that are written may be fulfilled. Woe to them that are with child and
to them that give suck in those days! for there shall be great distress
upon the land and wrath unto this people. And they shall fall by the
edge of the sword, and shall be led captive into all the nations; and
Jerusalem shall be trodden down of the Gentiles until the times of the
Gentiles be fulfilled.”

Benoni listened patiently until she had done. Then he answered with
contempt:

“So says the book of your Law, but mine tells me otherwise. Well,
child, if you believe it and are afraid, begone with your friends, the
Christians, and leave me to meet this storm alone.”

“I do believe it,” she answered quietly, “but I am not afraid.”

“That is strange,” he said, “since you must then believe also that you
will come to a cruel death, which has terrors for the young and fair.”

“Not so, grandfather, for this same writing promises that in these
troubles not one of us Christians shall perish. It is for you that I
fear, not for myself, who will go where you go, and bide where you
bide. Therefore, once more, and for the last time, I pray you to be
wise and fly—who otherwise must be slain”; and as Miriam said the words
her blue eyes filled with tears.

Benoni looked at her and for a moment his courage was shaken.

“Of your book I take no account,” he said, “but in the vision of your
pure spirit I am tempted to believe. Perhaps the things that you
foresee will happen, so, child, fly. You will not lack an escort and I
can give you treasure.”

She shook her head. “I have said that I will not go without you.”

“Then I fear that you here must bide, for I will not leave my wealth
and home, even to save my life, and still less will I desert my people
in their holy war. Only, Miriam, if things fall out ill for us,
remember that I entreated you to depart, and do not reproach me.”

“That I shall never do,” she answered, smiling, and coming to the old
man kissed him tenderly.

So they abode on in Tyre, and a week later the storm burst.

For many days it had not been safe for Jews to show themselves in the
streets of the city, since several who crept out about their business,
or to fetch water or provisions, had been set upon and beaten to death
by the mob, stirred up to the work by Roman emissaries. This time
Benoni had employed in putting his house, which was part of an ancient
fortress that had stood many a siege, into a state of defence, and in
supplying it with an ample store of victuals. Also he sent messengers
to Caleb, who was said to be in command of the Jewish force at Joppa,
telling him of their peril. Because it was so strong many of the
principal Jews in Tyre, to the number of over a hundred indeed, had
flocked into Benoni’s palace-fortress, together with their wives and
children, since there was no other place in their power in the town
which could be so easily defended. Lastly, in the outer courts and
galleries were stationed fifty or more faithful servants and slaves who
understood the use of arms.

Thus things remained, the Syrians threatening them through the gates or
from the windows of high houses, and no more, till one night Miriam was
awakened by a dreadful sound of screaming. She sprang from her bed and
instantly Nehushta was at her side.

“What happens?” she gasped as she dressed herself hastily.

“Those Syrian dogs attack the Jews,” answered Nehushta, “on the
mainland and in the lower city. Come to the roof, whence we can see
what passes,” and hand in hand they ran to the sea-portico and up its
steep steps.

The dawn was just breaking, but looking from the walled roof they had
no need of its light, since everywhere in the dim city below and in
Palætyrus on the mainland, houses flared like gigantic torches. In
their red glare they could see the thousands of the attackers dragging
out their inmates to death, or thrusting them back into the flames,
while the night was made horrible with the shouts of the maddened mob,
the cries of the victims and the crackling roar of burning houses.

“Oh! Christ have mercy on them,” sobbed Miriam.

“Why should He?” asked Nehushta. “They slew Him and rejected Him; now
they pay the price He prophesied. May He have mercy on us, His
servants.”

“He would not have spoken thus,” said Miriam indignantly.

“Nay, but justice speaks. Those who take the sword shall perish by the
sword. Even so have these Jews done to the Greeks and Syrians in many
of the cities—they who are blind and mad. Now it is their hour, and
mayhap ours. Come, lady, these are no sights for you, though you might
do well to learn to bear them, since if you escape you may see many
such. Come, and if you wish we will pray for these Jews, especially for
their children, who are innocent, and for ourselves.”

That day at noon, most of the poorer and least protected Jews of the
city having been killed, the Syrians began their attack upon the
fortified palace of Benoni. Now it was that the defenders learned that
they had to deal with no mere rabble, but with savage hordes, many
thousands strong, directed by officers skilled in war. Indeed these men
might be seen moving among them, and from their armour and appearance
it was easy to guess that they were Romans. This, in fact, was the
case, since Gessius Florus, the wicked, and after him other officers,
made it part of their policy to send Romans to stir up the Syrians
against the Jews and to assist them in their slaughter.

First an attack was made upon the main gates, but when it was found
that these were too strong to be taken easily, the assailants retreated
with a loss of a score of men shot by the defenders from the wall. Then
other tactics were adopted, for the Syrians, possessing themselves of
the neighbouring houses, began to gall the garrison with arrows from
the windows. Thus they drove them under cover, but did little more,
since the palace was all of marble with cemented roofs, and could not
be fired with the burning shafts they sent down upon it.

So the first day passed, and during the night no attack was made upon
them. When dawn came they learned the reason, for there opposite to the
gates was reared a great battering-ram; moreover, out at sea a huge
galley was being rowed in as close to their walls as the depth of water
would allow, that from her decks the sailors might hurl stones and
siege arrows by means of catapults and thus break down their defences
and destroy them.

Then it was that the real fight began. The Jews posted on the roof of
the house poured arrows on the men who strove to work the ram, and
killed many of them, till they were able to push the instrument so
close that it could no longer be commanded. Now it got to work and with
three blows of the great baulk of timber, of which the ram was
fashioned, burst in the gates. Thereon the defenders, headed by old
Benoni himself, rushed out and put those who served it to the sword;
then before they could be overcome, retreated across the ditch to the
inner wall, breaking down the wooden bridge behind them. Now, since the
ram was of no further use, as it could not be dragged through the
ditch, the galley, that was anchored within a hundred paces, began to
hurl huge stones and arrows at them, knocking down the walls and
killing several, including two women and three children.

Thus matters went on till noon, the besiegers galling them with their
arrows from the land side and the galley battering them from the sea,
while they could do little or nothing in return, having no engines.
Benoni called a council and set out the case, which was desperate
enough. It was evident, he said, that they could not hold out another
day, since at nightfall the Syrians would cross the narrow protecting
ditch and set up a battering-ram against the inner wall. Therefore,
they must do one of two things—sally out and attempt to cut their way
through and gain open country, or fight on and at the last kill the
women and children and rush out, those that were left of them, to be
hacked down by the besieging thousands. As the first plan gave no hope,
since, cumbered as they were with helpless people, they could not
expect to escape the city, in their despair they decided on the second.
All must die, therefore they would perish by each other’s hands. When
this decision was known, a wail went up from the women and the children
began to scream with fright, those of them who were old enough to
understand their doom.

Nehushta caught Miriam by the arm.

“Come to the highest roof,” she said; “it is safe from the stones and
arrows, and thence, if need be, we can hurl ourselves into the water
and die an easy death.”

So they went and crouched there, praying, for their case was desperate.
Suddenly Nehushta touched Miriam and pointed to the sea. She looked and
saw another galley approaching fast as oars and sails could bring her.

“What of it?” she asked heavily. “It will but hasten the end.”

“Nay,” replied Nehushta, “this ship is Jewish; she does not fly the
Eagles, or a Phœnician banner. Behold! the Syrian vessel is getting up
her anchors and preparing for fight.”

It was true enough, for now the oars of the Syrian shot out and she
forged ahead towards the newcomer. But just then the current caught
her, laying her broadside on, whereon the Jewish ship, driven by the
following wind, shifted her helm and, amidst a mighty shouting from sea
and shore, drove down upon her, striking her amidships with its beak so
that she heeled over. Then there was more tumult, and Miriam closed her
eyes to shut out the horrid sight.

When she opened them again the Syrian galley had vanished, only the
water was spotted with black dots which were the heads of men.

“Gallantly done!” screamed Nehushta. “See, she anchors and puts out her
boats; they will save us yet. Down to the water-gate!”

On their way they met Benoni coming to seek them, and with him won the
steps which were already crowded with fugitives. The two boats of the
galley drew near and in the bow of the first of them stood a tall and
noble-looking figure.

“It is Caleb,” said Miriam, “Caleb who has come to save us.”

Caleb it was indeed. At a distance of ten paces from the steps he
halted his boat and called aloud:

“Benoni, Lady Miriam and Nehushta, if you still live, stand forward.”

They stood forward.

“Now wade into the sea,” he cried again, and they waded out until the
water reached their armpits, when they were seized one by one and
dragged into the boat. Many followed them and were also dragged in,
until that boat and the other were quite full, whereon they turned and
were rowed to the galley. Having embarked them, the two boats went back
and again were filled with fugitives, for the most part women and
children.

Again they went, but as they laded for the third time, the ends of
ladders appeared above the encircling walls of the steps, and Syrians
could be seen rushing out upon the portico, whence they began to lower
themselves with ropes. The end of that scene was dreadful. The boats
were full, till the water indeed began to overflow their gunwales, but
many still remained upon the steps or rushed into the water, women
screaming and holding their children above their heads, and men
thrusting them aside in the mad rush for life. The boats rowed off,
some who could swim following them. For the rest, their end was the
sword. In all, seventy souls were rescued.

Miriam flung herself downwards upon the deck of the galley and burst
into tears, crying out:

“Oh! save them! Can no one save them?” while Benoni seated at her side,
the water running from his blood-stained garment, moaned:

“My house sacked; my wealth taken; my people slain by the Gentiles!”

“Thank God Who has saved us,” broke in old Nehushta, “God and Caleb;
and as for you, master, blame yourself. Did not we Christians warn you
of what was to come? Well, as it has been in the beginning, so it shall
be in the end.”

Just then Caleb appeared before them, proud and flushed with triumph,
as he well might be who had done great things and saved Miriam from the
sword. Benoni rose and, casting his arms about his neck, embraced him.

“Behold your deliverer!” he said to Miriam, and stooping down, he drew
her to her feet.

“I thank you, Caleb. I can say no more,” she murmured; but in her heart
she knew that God had delivered her and that Caleb was but His
instrument.

“I am well repaid,” answered Caleb gravely. “For me this has been a
fortunate day, who on it have sunk the great Syrian galley and rescued
the woman—whom I love.”

“Oath or no oath,” broke in Benoni, bethinking him of what he had
promised in the past, “the life you saved is yours, and if I have my
way you shall take her and such of her heritage as remains.”

“Is this a time to speak of such things?” said Miriam, looking up. “See
yonder,” and she pointed to the scene in progress on the seashore.
“They drive our friends and servants into the sea and drown them,” and
once more she began to weep.

Caleb sighed. “Cease from useless tears, Miriam. We have done our best
and it is the fortune of war. I dare not send out the boats again even
if the mariners would listen to my command. Nehushta, lead your lady to
the cabin and strip her of these wet garments lest she take cold in
this bitter wind. But first, Benoni, what is your mind?”

“To go to my cousin Mathias, the high priest at Jerusalem,” answered
the old man, “who has promised to give me shelter if in these days any
can be found.”

“Nay,” broke in Nehushta, “sail for Egypt.”

“Where also they massacre the Jews by thousands till the streets of
Alexandria run with their blood,” replied Caleb with sarcasm; adding,
“Well, to Egypt I cannot take you who must bring this ship to those who
await her on this side of Joppa, whence I am summoned to Jerusalem.”

“Whither and nowhere else I will go,” said Benoni, “to share in my
nation’s death or triumph. If Miriam wills it, I have told her she can
leave me.”

“What I have said before I say again,” replied Miriam, “that I will
never do.”

Then Nehushta took her to the cabin, and presently the oars began to
beat and the great galley stood out of the harbour, till in the silence
of the sea the screams of the victims and the shouts of the victors
died away, and as night fell naught could be seen of Tyre but the flare
from the burning houses of the slaughtered Jews.

Save for the sobs and cries of the fugitives who had lost their friends
and goods the night passed in quiet, since, although it was winter, the
sea was calm and none pursued their ship. At daybreak she anchored, and
coming from the cabin with Nehushta, in the light of the rising sun
Miriam saw before her a ridge of rocks over which the water poured, and
beyond it a little bay backed by a desolate coast. Nehushta also saw
and sighed.

“What is this place?” asked Miriam.

“Lady, it is the spot where you were born. On yonder flat rock lay the
vessel, and there I burned her many years ago. See those blackened
timbers half buried in the sand upon the beach; doubtless they are her
ribs.”

“It is strange that I should return hither, and thus, Nou,” said Miriam
sighing.

“Strange, indeed, but mayhap there is a meaning in it. Before you came
in storm to grow to womanhood in peace; now, perchance, you come on a
peaceful sea to pass through womanhood in storm.”

“Both journeys began with death, Nou.”

“As all journeys end. Blackness behind and blackness in front, and
between them a space of sunshine and shadow—that is the law. Yet have
no fear, for dead Anna, who had the gift of prophecy, foretold that you
should live out your life, though with me, whose days are almost done,
it may be otherwise.”

Miriam’s face grew troubled.

“I fear neither life nor death, Nou, who am willing to meet either as
may chance. But to part with you—ah! that thought makes me fear.”

“I think that it will not be yet awhile,” said Nehushta, “for although
I am old, I still have work to do before I lay me down and sleep. Come,
Caleb calls us. We are to disembark while the weather holds.”

So Miriam entered the boat with her grandfather and others who had
escaped, for the faces of all of them were set towards Jerusalem, and
was rowed to the shore over that very rock where first she drew her
breath. Here they found Jews who had been watching for the coming of
the galley. These men gave them a kind reception, and, what they needed
even more, food, fire and some beasts of burden for their journey.

When all were gathered on the beach Caleb joined them, having handed
over the galley to another Jew, who was to depart in her with those
that waited on the shore, upon some secret mission of intercepting
Roman corn-ships. When these men heard what he had done at Tyre, at
first they were inclined to be angry, since they said that he had no
authority to risk the vessel thus, but afterwards, seeing that he had
succeeded, and with no loss of men, praised him and said that it was a
very great deed.

So the galley put about and sailed away, and they, to the number of
some sixty souls, began their journey to Jerusalem. A little while
later they came to a village, the same where Nehushta had found the
peasant and his wife, whose inhabitants, at the sight of them, fled,
thinking that they were one of the companies of robbers that hunted the
land in packs, like wolves, plundering or murdering all they met. When
they learnt the truth, however, these people returned and heard their
story in silence, for in those days such tales were common enough. As
it came to an end a withered, sunburned woman advanced to Nehushta,
and, laying one hand upon her arm, pointed with the other at Miriam,
saying:

“Tell me, friend, is that the babe I suckled?”

Then Nehushta, knowing her to be the nurse who had travelled with them
to the village of the Essenes, greeted her, and answered “Yea,”
whereupon the woman cast her arms about Miriam and embraced her.

“Day by day,” she said, “have I thought of you, little one, and now
that my eyes have seen you grown so sweet and fair, I care not—I whose
husband is dead and who have no children—how soon they close upon the
world.” Then she blessed her, and called upon her angel to protect her
yonder in Jerusalem, and found her food and an ass to ride; and so they
parted, to meet no more.

As it happened, they were fortunate upon that journey, since, with the
armed guard of twenty men who accompanied Caleb, they were too strong a
party to be attacked by the wandering bands of thieves, and, although
it was reported that Titus and his army had already reached Cæsarea
from Egypt, they met no Romans. Indeed, their only enemy was the cold,
which proved so bitter that when, on the second night, they camped upon
the heights over against Jerusalem, having no tents and fearing to
light fires, they were obliged to walk about till daylight to keep
their blood astir. Then it was that they saw strange and terrible
things.

In the clear sky over Jerusalem blazed a great comet, in appearance
like a sword of fire. It was true that they had seen it before at Tyre,
but never before had it shown so bright. Moreover, there it had not the
appearance of a sword. This they thought to be an ill omen, all of them
except Benoni, who said that the point of the sword stretched out over
Cæsarea, presaging the destruction of the Romans by the hand of God.
Towards dawn, the pale, unnatural lustre of the comet faded, and the
sky grew overcast and stormy. At length the sun came up, when, to their
marvelling eyes, the fiery clouds took strange shapes.

“Look, look!” said Miriam, grasping her grandfather by the arm, “there
are armies in the heavens, and they fight together.”

They looked, and, sure enough, it seemed as though two great hosts were
there embattled. They could discern the legions, the wind-blown
standards, the charging chariots, and the squadrons of impetuous horse.
The firmament had become a battle-ground, and lo! it was red as with
the blood of the fallen, while the air was full of strange and dreadful
sounds, bred, perhaps, of wind and distant thunder, that came to them
like the wail of the vanquished and the dull roar of triumphant armies.
So terrified were they at the sight, that they crouched upon the ground
and hid their faces in their hands. Only old Benoni standing up, his
white beard and robes stained red by the ominous light, cried out that
this celestial scene foretold the destruction of the enemies of God.

“Ay!” said Nehushta, “but which enemies?”

The tall Caleb, marching on his round of the camp, echoed:

“Yes, which enemies?”

Suddenly the light grew, all these fantastic shapes melted into a red
haze, which sank down till Jerusalem before them seemed as though she
floated in an ocean of blood and fire. Then a dark cloud came up and
for a while the holy Hill of Zion vanished utterly away. It passed, the
blue sky reappeared, and lo! the clear light streamed upon her marble
palaces and clustered houses, and was reflected from the golden roofs
of the Temple. So calm and peaceful did the glorious city look that
none would have deemed indeed that she was already nothing but a
slaughter-house, where factions fought furiously, and day by day
hundreds of Jews perished beneath the knives of their own brethren.

Caleb gave the word to break their camp, and with bodies shivering in
the cold and spirits terrified by fear, they marched across the rugged
hills towards the Joppa gate, noting as they passed into the valley
that the country had been desolated, for but little corn sprang in the
fields, and that was trodden down, while of flocks and herds they saw
none. Reaching the gate they found it shut, and there were challenged
by soldiers, wild-looking men with ferocious faces of the army of Simon
of Gerasa that held the Lower City.

“Who are you and what is your business?” these asked.

Caleb set out his rank and titles, and as these did not seem to satisfy
them Benoni explained that the rest of them were fugitives from Tyre,
where there had been a great slaughter of the Jews.

“Fugitives always have money; best kill them,” said the captain of the
gate. “Doubtless they are traitors and deserve to die.”

Caleb grew angry and commanded them to open, asking by what right they
dared to exclude him, a high officer who had done great service in the
wars.

“By the right of the strong,” they answered. “Those who let in Simon
have to deal with Simon. If you are of the party of John or of Eleazer
go to the Temple and knock upon its doors,” and they pointed mockingly
to the gleaming gates above.

“Has it come to this, then,” asked Benoni, “that Jew eats Jew in
Jerusalem, while the Roman wolves raven round the walls? Man, we are of
no party, although, as I think, my name is known and honoured by all
parties—the name of Benoni of Tyre. I demand to be led, not to Simon,
or to John, or to Eleazer, but to my cousin, Mathias, the high priest,
who bids us here.”

“Mathias, the high priest,” said the captain; “that is another matter.
Well, this Mathias let us into the city, where we have found good
quarters, and good plunder; so as one turn deserves another, we may as
well let in his friends. Pass, cousin of Mathias the high priest, with
all your company,” and he opened the gate.

They entered and marched up the narrow streets towards the Temple. It
was the hour of the day when all men should be stirring and busy with
their work, but lo! the place was desolate—yes, although so crowded, it
still was desolate. On the pavement lay bodies of men and women slain
in some midnight outrage. From behind the lattices of the windows they
caught sight of the eyes of hundreds peeping at them, but none gave
them a good-morrow, or said one single word. The silence of death
seemed to brood upon the empty thoroughfares. Presently it was broken
by a single wailing voice that reached their ears from so far away that
they could not catch its meaning. Nearer and nearer it came, till at
length in the dark and narrow street they caught sight of a thin,
white-bearded figure, naked to the waist as though to show the hideous
scars and rod-weals with which its back and breast were scored, still
festering, some of them. This was the man who uttered the cries, and
these were the words he spoke:

“A voice from the East! a voice from the West! a voice from the four
Winds! a voice against Jerusalem and against the Temple! a voice
against the bridegrooms and the brides! a voice against the whole
people! Woe, woe to Jerusalem!”

Now he was upon them, yes, and marching through them as though he saw
them not, although they shrank to one side and the other of the narrow
street to avoid the touch of this ominous, unclean creature who
scarcely seemed to be a man.

“Fellow, what do these words mean?” cried Benoni in angry fear. But,
taking no heed, his pale eyes fixed upon the heavens, the wanderer
answered only, “Woe, woe to Jerusalem! Woe to you who come up to
Jerusalem!”

So he passed on, still uttering those awful words, till at length they
lost sight of his naked form and the sound of his crying grew faint and
died away.

“What a fearful greeting is this!” said Miriam, wringing her hands.

“Ay!” answered Nehushta, “but the farewell will be worse. The place is
doomed and all in it.”

Only Caleb said, striving to look unconcerned:

“Have no fear, Miriam. I know the man. He is mad.”

“Where does wisdom end and madness begin?” asked Nehushta.

Then they went on towards the gates of the Temple, always through the
same blood-stained, empty streets.




CHAPTER XIV
THE ESSENES FIND THEIR QUEEN AGAIN


They went on towards the gates of the Temple, but many a long day was
destined to go by ere Miriam reached them. The entrance by which they
were told they must approach if they sought speech of the high priest,
was one of the two Huldah Gates on the south side of the Royal
Cloister, and thither they came across the valley of Tyropæon. As they
drew near to them of a sudden that gate which stood most to the east
was flung wide, and out of it issued a thousand or more of armed men,
like ants from a broken nest, who, shouting and waving swords, rushed
towards their company. As it chanced, at the moment they were in the
centre of an open space that once had been covered with houses but was
now cumbered with hundreds of blackened and tottering walls, for fire
had devoured them.

“It is the men of John who attack us,” cried a voice, whereon, moved by
a common impulse, the little band turned and fled for shelter among the
ruined houses; yes, even Caleb and Benoni fled.

Before they reached them, lo! from these crumbling walls that they had
thought untenanted save by wandering dogs, out rushed another body of
savage warriors, the men of Simon who held the Lower City.

After this, Miriam knew little of what happened. Swords and spears
flashed round her, the factions fell upon each other, slaughtering each
other. She saw Caleb cut down one of the soldiers of John, to be
instantly assaulted in turn by a soldier of Simon, since all desired to
kill, but none cared whom they slew. She saw her grandfather rolling
over and over on the ground in the grip of a man who looked like a
priest; she saw women and children pierced with spears. Then Nehushta
seized her by the hand, and plunging a knife into the arm of a man who
would have stayed them, dragged her away. They fled, an arrow sang past
her ear; something struck her on the foot. Still they fled, whither she
knew not, till at length the sound of the tumult died away. But not yet
would Nehushta stop, for she feared that they might be followed. So on
they went, and on, meeting few and heeded by none, till at length
Miriam sank to the ground, worn out with fear and flight.

“Up,” said Nehushta.

“I cannot,” she answered. “Something has hurt my foot. See, it bleeds!”

Nehushta looked about her, and saw that they were outside the second
wall in the new city of Bezetha, not far from the old Damascus Gate,
for there, to their right and a little behind them, rose the great
tower of Antonia. Beneath this wall were rubbish-heaps, foul-smelling
and covered over with rough grasses and some spring flowers, which grew
upon the slopes of the ancient fosse. Here seemed a place where they
might lie hid awhile, since there were no houses and it was unsavoury.
She dragged Miriam to her feet, and, notwithstanding her complaints and
swollen ankle, forced her on, till they came to a spot where, as it is
to-day, the wall was built upon foundations of living rock, roughly
shaped, and lined with crevices covered by tall weeds. To one of these
crevices Nehushta brought Miriam, and, seating her on a bed of grass,
examined her foot, which seemed to have been bruised by a stone from a
sling. Having no water with which to wash the bleeding hurt, she made a
poultice of crushed herbs and tied it about the ankle with a strip of
linen. Even before she had finished her task, so exhausted was Miriam
that she fell fast asleep. Nehushta watched her a while, wondering what
they should do next, till, in that lonely place bathed by the warm
spring sun, she also began to doze.

Suddenly she awoke with a start, having dreamed that she saw a man with
white face and beard peering at them from behind a rough angle of rock.
She stared: there was the rock as she had dreamed of it, but no man.
She looked upward. Above them, piled block upon gigantic block, rose
the wall, towering and impregnable. Thither he could not have gone,
since on it only a lizard could find foothold. Nor was he anywhere
else, for there was no cover; so she decided that he must have been
some searcher of the rubbish-heap, who, seeing them hidden in the tall
grasses, had fled away. Miriam was still sound asleep, and in her
weariness presently Nehushta again began to doze, till at length—it may
have been one hour later, or two or three, she knew not—some sound
disturbed her. Opening her eyes, once more behind that ridge of rock
she saw, not one white-bearded face, but two, staring at her and
Miriam. As she sat up they vanished. She remained still, pretending to
sleep, and again they appeared, scanning her closely and whispering to
each other in eager tones. Suddenly one of the faces turned a little so
that the light fell on it. Now Nehushta knew why in her dream it had
seemed familiar, and in her heart thanked God.

“Brother Ithiel,” she said in a quiet voice, “why do you hide like a
coney in these rocks?”

Both heads disappeared, but the sound of whispering continued. Then one
of them rose again among the green grasses as a man might rise out of
water. It was Ithiel’s.

“It is indeed you, Nehushta?” said his well-remembered voice.

“Who else?” she asked.

“And that lady who sleeps at your side?”

“Once they called her Queen of the Essenes; now she is a hunted
fugitive, waiting to be massacred by Simon, or John, or Eleazer, or
Zealots, or Sicarii, or any other of the holy cut-throats who inhabit
this Holy City,” answered Nehushta bitterly.

Ithiel raised his hands as though in thankfulness, then said:

“Hush! hush! Here the very birds are spies. Brother, creep to that rock
and look if any men are moving.”

The Essene obeyed, and answered, “None; and they cannot see us from the
wall.”

Ithiel motioned to him to return.

“Does she sleep sound?” he asked of Nehushta, pointing to Miriam.

“Like the dead.”

Then, after another whispered conference, the pair of them crept round
the angle of the rock. Bidding Nehushta follow them, they lifted the
sleeping Miriam, and carried her between them through a dense growth of
shrubs to another rock. Here they moved some grass and pushed aside a
stone, revealing a hole not much larger than a jackal would make. Into
this the brother entered, heels first. Then Nehushta, by his
directions, taking the feet of the senseless Miriam, with her help he
bore her into the hole, that opened presently into a wide passage. Last
of all Ithiel, having lifted the grasses which their feet had trodden,
followed them, pulling the stone back to its place, and cutting off the
light. Once more they were in darkness, but this did not seem to
trouble the brethren, for again lifting Miriam, they went forward a
distance of thirty or forty paces, Nehushta holding on to Ithiel’s
robe. Now, at length, the cold air of this cave, or perhaps its deep
gloom and the motion, awoke Miriam from her swoon-like sleep. She
struggled in their hands, and would have cried out, had not Nehushta
bade her to be silent.

“Where am I?” she said. “Is this the hall of death?”

“Nay, lady. Wait a while, all shall be explained.”

While she spoke and Miriam clung to her affrighted, Ithiel struck iron
and flint together. Catching the spark upon tinder he blew it to a
flame and lighted a taper which burnt up slowly, causing his white
beard and face to appear by degrees out of the darkness, like that of a
ghost rising from the tomb.

“Oh! surely I am dead,” said Miriam, “for before me stands the spirit
of my uncle Ithiel.”

“Not the spirit, Miriam, but the flesh,” answered the old man in a
voice that trembled with joy. Then, since he could restrain himself no
longer, he gave the taper to the brother, and, taking her in his arms,
kissed her again and again.

“Welcome, most dear child,” he said; “yes, even to this darksome den,
welcome, thrice welcome, and blessed be the eternal God Who led our
feet forth to find you. Nay, do not stop to talk, we are still too near
the wall. Give me your hand and come.”

Miriam glanced up as she obeyed, and by the feeble light of the taper
saw a vast rocky roof arching above them. On either side of her also
were walls of rough-hewn rock down which dripped water, and piled upon
the floor or still hanging half-cut from the roof, boulders large
enough to fashion a temple column.

“What awful place is this, my uncle?” she asked.

“The cavern whence Solomon, the great king, drew stone for the building
of the Temple. Look, here are his mason’s marks upon the wall. Here he
fashioned the blocks and thus it happened that no sound of saw or
hammer was heard within the building. Doubtless also other kings before
and since his day have used this quarry, as no man knows its age.”

While he spoke thus he was leading her onwards over the rough,
stone-hewn floor, where the damp gathered in little pools. Following
the windings of the cave they turned once, then again and yet again, so
that soon Miriam was utterly bewildered and could not have found her
way back to the entrance for her life’s sake. Moreover, the air had
become so hot and stifling that she could scarcely breathe.

“It will be better presently,” said Ithiel, noticing her distress, as
he drew her limping after him into what seemed to be a natural crevice
of rock hardly large enough to allow the passage of his body. Along
this crevice they scrambled for eight or ten paces, to find themselves
suddenly in a tunnel lined with masonry, and so large that they could
stand upright.

“Once it was a watercourse,” explained Ithiel, “that filled the great
tank, but now it has been dry for centuries.”

Down this darksome shaft hobbled Miriam, till presently it ended in a
wall, or what seemed to be a wall—for when Ithiel pressed upon a stone
it turned. Beyond it the tunnel continued for twenty or thirty paces,
leading them at length into a vast chamber with arched roof and
cemented sides and bottom, which in some bygone age had been a
water-tank. Here lights were burning, and even a charcoal fire, at
which a brother was engaged in cooking. Also the air was pure and
sweet, doubtless because of the winding water-channels that ran
upwards. Nor did the place lack inhabitants, for there, seated in
groups round the tapers, or watching the cooking over the charcoal
fire, were forty or fifty men, still clad, for the most part, in the
robes of the Essenes.

“Brethren,” cried Ithiel, in answer to the challenge of one who was set
to watch the entry, “I bring back to you her whom we lost a while ago,
the lady Miriam.”

They heard, and seizing the tapers, ran forward.

“It is she!” they cried, “our queen and none other, and with her
Nehushta the Libyan! Welcome, welcome, a thousand times, dear lady!”

Miriam greeted them one and all, and before these greetings were
finished they brought her food to eat, rough but wholesome, also good
wine and sweet water. Then while she ate she heard all their story. It
seemed that more than a year ago the Romans, marching on Jericho, had
fallen upon their village and put a number of them to death, seizing
others as slaves. Thereon the remnant fled to Jerusalem, where many
more perished, for, being peaceable folk, all the factions robbed and
slew them. Seeing, at last, that to live at large in the city would be
to doom themselves to extinction, and yet not daring to leave it, they
sought a refuge in this underground place, of which, as it chanced, one
of their brethren had the secret. This he had inherited from his
father, so that it was known to no other living man.

Here by degrees they laid up a great store of provisions of all sorts,
of charcoal for burning, and other necessaries, carrying into the place
also clothes, bedding, cooking utensils and even some rough furniture.
These preparations being made, the fifty of them who remained removed
themselves to the vaults where now they had already dwelt three months,
and here, so far as was possible, continued to practise the rules of
their order. Miriam asked how they kept their health in this darkness,
to which they replied that sometimes they went out by that path which
she had just followed, and mingled with the people in the city,
returning to their hole at night. Ithiel and his companion were on such
a journey when they found her. Also they had another passage to the
upper air which they would show her later.

When Miriam had finished eating, dressed her hurt, and rested a while,
they took her to explore the wonders of the place. Beyond this great
cistern, that was their common room, lay more to the number of six or
seven, one of the smallest of which was given to Nehushta and herself
to dwell in. Others were filled with stores enough to last them all for
months. Last of all was a cave, not very large, but deep, which always
held sweet water. Doubtless there was a spring at the bottom of it,
which, when the other rain-fed tanks grew dry, still kept it supplied.
From this cistern that had been used for generations after the others
were abandoned, a little stair ran upwards, worn smooth by the feet of
folk long dead, who had come hither to draw water.

“Where does it lead?” asked Miriam.

“To the ruined tower above,” answered Ithiel. “Nay, another time I will
show you. Now your place is made ready for you, go, let Nehushta bathe
your foot, and sleep, for you must need it sorely.”

So Miriam went and laid herself down to rest in the little cemented
vault which was to be her home for four long months; and being worn
out, notwithstanding the sufferings she had passed and her fears for
her grandfather, slept there as soundly as ever she had done in her
wind-swept chamber at the palace of Tyre, or in her house at the
village of the Essenes.

When she awoke and saw the darkness all about her, she thought that it
must be night; then remembering that in this place it was always night,
called to Nehushta, who uncovered the little lamp that burned in a
corner of the vault, and went out, to return presently with the news
that according to the Essenes, it was day. So she rose and put on her
robes, and they passed together into the great chamber. Here they found
the Essenes at prayer and making their reverences to the sun which they
could not see, after which they ate their morning meal. Now Miriam
spoke to Ithiel, telling him of her trouble about her grandfather, who,
if he himself still lived, would think that she was dead.

“One thing is certain,” replied her great-uncle: “that you shall not go
out to seek him, nor must you tell him of your hiding-place, since soon
or late this might mean that all of us would be destroyed, if only for
the sake of the food which we have hoarded.”

Miriam asked if she could not send a message. He answered:

“No, since none would dare to take it.” In the end, however, after she
had pleaded with him long and earnestly, it was agreed that she should
write the words, “I am safe and well, but in a place that I must not
tell you of,” and sign her name upon a piece of parchment. This letter
Ithiel, who purposed to creep out into the city that evening disguised
as a beggar, to seek for tidings, said he would take, and, if might be,
bribe some soldier to deliver it to Benoni at the house of the high
priest, if he were there.

So Miriam wrote the letter, and at nightfall Ithiel and another brother
departed, taking it with them.

On the following morning they returned, safe, but with a dreadful tale
of the slaughters in the city and in the Temple courts, where the mad
factions still fought furiously.

“Your tidings, my uncle?” said Miriam, rising to meet him. “Does he
still live?”

“Be of good comfort,” he answered. “Benoni reached the house of Mathias
in safety, and Caleb also, and now they are sheltering within the
Temple walls. This much I had from one of the high priest’s guards,
who, for the price of a piece of gold I gave him, swore that he would
deliver the letter without fail. But, child, I will take no more, for
that soldier eyed me curiously and said it was scarcely safe for
beggars to carry gold.”

Miriam thanked him for his goodness and his news, saying that they
lifted a weight from her heart.

“I have other tidings that may perhaps make it lighter still,” went on
the old man, looking at her sideways. “Titus with a mighty host draws
near to Jerusalem from Cæsarea.”

“There is no joy in that tale,” replied Miriam, “for it means that the
Holy City will be besieged and taken.”

“Nay, but among that host is one who, if all the stories are true,” and
again he glanced at her face, “would rather take you than the city.”

“Who?” she said, pressing her hands against her heart and turning
redder than the lamplight.

“One of Titus’ prefects of horse, the noble Roman, Marcus, whom in
byegone days you knew by the banks of Jordan.”

Now the red blood fled back to Miriam’s heart, and she turned so faint
that had not the wall been near at hand she would have fallen.

“Marcus?” she said. “Well, he swore that he would come, yet it will
bring him little nearer me;” and she turned and sought her chamber.

So Marcus had come. Since he sent the letter and the ring that was upon
her hand, and the pearls which were about her throat, she had heard no
more of him. Twice she had written and forwarded the writings by the
most trusty messenger whom she could find, but whether they reached him
she did not know. For more than two years the silence between them had
been that of death, till, indeed, at times she thought that he must be
dead. And now he was come back, a commander in the army of Titus, who
marched to punish the rebellious Jews. Would she ever see him again?
Miriam could not tell. Yet she knelt and prayed from her pure heart
that if it were once only, she might speak with him face to face.
Indeed, it was this hope of meeting that, more than any other,
supported her through all those dreadful days.

A week went by, and although the hurt to her foot had healed, like some
flower in the dark Miriam drooped and languished in those gloomy
vaults. Twice she prayed her uncle to be allowed to creep to the mouth
of the hole behind the ridge of rock, there to breathe the fresh air
and see the blessed sky. But this he would not suffer. The thing was
too dangerous, he said; for although none knew the secret of their
hiding-place, already two or three fugitives had found their way into
the quarries by other entrances, and these it was very difficult to
pass unseen.

“So be it,” answered Miriam, and crept back to her cell.

Nehushta looked after her anxiously, then said:

“If she cannot have air I think that she will soon die. Is there no
way?”

“One,” answered Ithiel, “but I fear to take it. The staircase from the
spring leads to an ancient tower that, I am told, once was a palace of
the kings, but now for these many years has been deserted, for its
entrance is bricked up lest thieves should make it their home. None can
come into that tower, nor is it used for purposes of war, not standing
upon any wall, and there she might sit at peace and see the sun; yet I
fear to let her do so.”

“It must be risked,” answered Nehushta. “Take me to visit this place.”

So Ithiel led her to the cistern, and from the cistern up a flight of
steps to a little vaulted chamber, into which they entered through a
stone trap-door, made of the same substance as the paving of the
chamber, so that, when it was closed, none would guess that there was a
passage beneath. From this old store-room, for such it doubtless was,
ran more steps, ending, to all appearance, in a blank wall. Coming to
it, Ithiel thrust a piece of flat iron, a foot or more in length, into
a crack in this wall, lifted some stone latch within, and pushed,
whereon a block of masonry of something more than the height and width
of a man, and quite a yard in thickness, swung outwards. Nehushta
passed through the aperture, followed by Ithiel.

“See,” he said, loosing his hold of the stone, which without noise
instantly closed, so that behind them there appeared to be nothing but
a wall, “it is well hung, is it not? and to come hither without this
iron would be dangerous. Here is the crack where it must be set to lift
the latch within.”

“Whoever lived here guarded their food and water well,” answered
Nehushta.

Then Ithiel showed her the place. It was a massive tower of a square of
about forty feet, whereof the only doorway, as he told her, had been
bricked up many years before to keep the thieves and vagabonds from
sheltering there. In height it must have measured nearly a hundred
feet, and its roof had long ago rotted away. The staircase, which was
of stone, still remained, however, leading to four galleries, also of
stone. Perhaps once there were floors as well, but if so these had
vanished, only the stone galleries and their balustrades remaining.
Ithiel led Nehushta up the stair, which, though narrow, was safe and
easy. Resting at each story, at length they came to that gallery which
projected from its sides within ten feet of the top of the tower, and
saw Jerusalem and the country round spread like a map beneath. Then, as
it was sunset, they returned. At the foot of the stair Ithiel gave
Nehushta the piece of iron and showed her how to lift the secret latch
and pull upon the block of hewn stone that was a door, so that it
opened to swing to again behind them.

Next morning, before it was dawn in the world above, Miriam aroused
Nehushta. She had been promised that this day she should be taken up
the Old Tower, and so great was her longing for the scent of the free
air and the sight of the blue sky that she had scarcely closed her eyes
this night.

“Have patience, lady,” said Nehushta, “have patience. We cannot start
until the Essenes have finished their prayers to the sun, which, down
in this black hole, they worship more earnestly than ever.”

So Miriam waited, though she would eat nothing, till at length Ithiel
came and led them past the cistern up the stairs to the store or
treasure chamber, where the trap-door stood wide, since, except in case
of some danger, they had no need to shut it. Next, they reached the
door of solid stone which Ithiel showed her how to open, and entered
the base of the massive building. There, far above her, Miriam saw the
sky again, red from the lights of morning, and at the sight of it
clapped her hands and called aloud.

“Hush!” said Ithiel. “These walls are thick, yet it is not safe to
raise a voice of joy in Jerusalem, that home of a thousand miseries,
lest, perchance, some should hear it through a cleft in the masonry,
and cause search to be made for the singer. Now, if you will, follow
me.”

So they went up and up, till at last they reached the topmost gallery,
where the wall was pierced with loopholes and overhanging platforms,
whence stones and other missiles could be hurled upon an attacking
force. Miriam looked out eagerly, walking round the gallery from
aperture to aperture.

To the south lay the marble courts and glittering buildings of the
Temple, whence, although men fought daily in them, the smoke of
sacrifice still curled up to heaven. Behind these were the Upper and
the Lower City, crowded with thousands of houses, packed, every one of
them, with human beings who had fled hither for refuge, or,
notwithstanding the dangers of the time, to celebrate the Passover. To
the east was the rugged valley of Jehoshaphat, and beyond it the Mount
of Olives, green with trees soon to be laid low by the Romans. To the
north the new city of Bezetha, bordered by the third wall and the rocky
lands beyond. Not far away, also, but somewhat in front of them and to
the left, rose the mighty tower of Antonia, now one of the strongholds
of John of Gischala and the Zealots, while also to the west, across the
width of the city, were the towers of Hippicus, Phasæl and Mariamne,
backed by the splendid palace of Herod. Besides these were walls,
fortresses, gates and palaces without number, so intricate and many
that the eye could scarcely follow or count them, and, between, the
numberless narrow streets of Jerusalem. These and many other things
Ithiel pointed out to Miriam, who listened eagerly till he wearied of
the task. Then they looked downwards through the overhanging platforms
of stone to the large market-place beneath and to the front, and upon
the roofs of the houses, mostly of the humbler sort, that were built
behind almost up to the walls of the Old Tower, whereon many people
were gathered as though for safety, eating their morning meal, talking
anxiously together, and even praying.

Whilst they were thus engaged, Nehushta touched Miriam and pointed to
the road which ran from the Valley of Thorns on the northeast. She
looked, and saw a great cloud of dust that advanced swiftly, and
presently, through the dust, the sheen of spears and armour.

“The Romans!” said Nehushta quietly.

She was not the only one who had caught sight of them, for suddenly the
battlement of every wall and tower, the roof of every lofty house, the
upper courts of the Temple, and all high places became crowded with
thousands and tens of thousands of heads, each of them staring towards
that advancing dust. In silence they stared as though their multitudes
were stricken dumb, till presently, from far below out of the maze of
winding streets, floated the wail of a single voice.

“Woe, woe to Jerusalem!” said the voice. “Woe, woe to the City and the
Temple!”

They shuddered, and as it seemed to them, all the listening thousands
within reach of that mournful cry shuddered also.

“Aye!” repeated Ithiel, “woe to Jerusalem, for yonder comes her doom.”

Now on the more rocky ground the dust grew thinner, and through it they
could distinguish the divisions of the mighty army of destroyers. First
came thousands of Syrian allies and clouds of scouts and archers, who
searched the country far and wide. Next appeared the road-makers and
the camp-setters, the beasts of burden with the general’s baggage and
its great escort, followed by Titus himself, his bodyguard and
officers, by pikemen and by horsemen. Then were seen strange and
terrible-looking engines of war beyond count, and with them the
tribunes, and the captains of cohorts and their guards who preceded the
engines, and that “abomination of desolation,” the Roman Eagles,
surrounded by bands of trumpeters, who from time to time uttered their
loud, defiant note. After them marched the vast army in ranks six deep,
divided into legions and followed by their camp-bearers and squadrons
of horse. Lastly were seen the packs of baggage, and mercenaries by
thousands and tens of thousands. On the Hill of Saul the great host
halted and began to encamp. An hour later a band of horsemen five or
six hundred strong emerged out of this camp and marched along the
straight road to Jerusalem.

“It is Titus himself,” said Ithiel. “See, the Imperial Standard goes
before him.”

On they came till, from their lofty perch, Miriam, who was
keen-sighted, could see their separate armour and tell the colour of
their horses. Eagerly she searched them with her eyes, for well she
guessed that Marcus would be one of those who accompanied his general
upon this service. That plumed warrior might be he, or that with the
purple cloak, or that who galloped out from near by the Standard on an
errand. He was there; she was sure he was there, and yet they were as
far apart as when the great sea rolled between them.

Now, as they reconnoitred and were passing the Tower of Women, of a
sudden the gate opened, and from alleys and houses where they had lain
in ambush were poured out thousands of Jews. Right through the thin
line of horsemen they pierced, uttering savage cries, then doubled back
upon the severed ends. Many were cut down; Miriam could see them
falling from their horses. The Imperial Standard sank, then rose and
sank again to rise once more. Now dust hid the combat, and she thought
that all the Romans must be slain. But no, for presently they began to
appear beyond the dust, riding back by the way they had come, though
fewer than they were. They had charged through the multitude of Jews
and escaped. But who had escaped and who were left behind? Ah! that she
could not tell; and it was with a sick and anxious heart that Miriam
descended the steps of the tower into the darkness of the caves.




CHAPTER XV
WHAT PASSED IN THE TOWER


Nearly four months had gone by. Perhaps, during the whole history of
the world there never has been and never will be more cruel suffering
than was endured by the inhabitants of Jerusalem during that period, or
rather by the survivors of the nation of the Jews who were crowded
together within its walls. Forgetting their internecine quarrels in the
face of overwhelming danger, too late the factions united and fought
against the common foe with a ferocity that has been seldom equalled.
They left nothing undone which desperate men could do. Again and again
they sallied forth against the Romans, slaughtering thousands of them.
They captured their battering-rams and catapults. They undermined the
great wooden towers which Titus erected against their walls, and burnt
them. With varying success they made sally upon sally. Titus took the
third wall and the new city of Bezetha. He took the second wall and
pulled it down. Then he sent Josephus, the historian, to persuade the
Jews to surrender, but his countrymen cursed and stoned him, and the
war went on.

At length, as it seemed to be impossible to carry the place by assault,
Titus adopted a surer and more terrible plan. Enclosing the first
unconquered wall, the Temple, and the fortress by another wall of his
own making, he sat down and waited for starvation to do its work. Then
came the famine. At the beginning, before the maddened, devil-inspired
factions began to destroy each other and to prey upon the peaceful
people, Jerusalem was amply provisioned. But each party squandered the
stores that were within its reach, and, whenever they could do so,
burnt those of their rivals, so that the food which might have supplied
the whole city for months, vanished quickly in orgies of wanton waste
and destruction. Now all, or almost all, was gone, and by tens and
hundreds of thousands the people starved.

Those who are curious about such matters, those who desire to know how
much human beings can endure, and of what savagery they can be capable
when hunger drives them, may find these details set out in the pages of
Josephus, the renegade Jewish historian. It serves no good purpose and
will not help our story to repeat them; indeed for the most part they
are too terrible to be repeated. History does not record, and the mind
of man cannot invent a cruelty which was not practised by the famished
Jews upon other Jews suspected of the crime of having hidden food to
feed themselves or their families. Now the fearful prophecy was
fulfilled, and it came about that mothers devoured their own infants,
and children snatched the last morsel of bread from the lips of their
dying parents. If these things were done between those who were of one
blood, what dreadful torment was there that was not practised by
stranger upon stranger? The city went mad beneath the weight of its
abominable and obscene misery. Thousands perished every day, and every
night thousands more escaped, or attempted to escape, to the Romans,
who caught the poor wretches and crucified them beneath the walls, till
there was no more wood of which to make the crosses, and no more ground
whereon to stand them.

All these things and many others Miriam saw from her place of outlook
in the gallery of the deserted tower. She saw the people lying dead by
hundreds in the streets beneath. She saw the robbers hale them from
their houses and torture them to discover the hiding-place of the food
which they were supposed to have hidden, and when they failed, put them
to the sword. She saw the Valley of the Kidron and the lower slopes of
the Mount of Olives covered with captive Jews writhing on their
crosses, there to die as the Messiah whom they had rejected, died. She
saw the furious attacks, the yet more furious sallies and the dreadful
daily slaughter, till at length her heart grew so sick within her, that
although she still took refuge in the ruined tower to escape the gloom
beneath, Miriam would spend whole hours lying on her face, her fingers
thrust into her ears, that she might shut out the sights and sounds of
this unutterable woe.

Meanwhile, the Essenes, who still had stores of food, ventured forth
but rarely, lest the good condition of their bodies, although their
faces were white as death from dwelling in the darkness, should tempt
the starving hordes to seize and torture them in the hope of
discovering the hiding-places of their nutriment. Indeed, to several of
the brethren this happened; but in obedience to their oaths, as will be
seen in the instance of the past President Theophilus—who went out and
was no more heard of—they endured all and died without a murmur, having
betrayed nothing. Still, notwithstanding the danger, driven to it by
utter weariness of their confinement in the dark and by the desire of
obtaining news, from time to time one of them would creep forth at
night to return again before daybreak. From these men Miriam heard that
after the murder of the high priest Mathias and his sons, together with
sixteen of the Sanhedrim, on a charge of correspondence with the
Romans, her grandfather, Benoni, had been elected to that body, in
which he exercised much influence and caused many to be put to death
who were accused of treason or of favouring the Roman cause. Caleb also
was in the Temple and foremost in every fight. He was said to have
sworn an oath that he would slay the Prefect of Horse, Marcus, with
whom he had an ancient quarrel, or be slain himself. It was told,
indeed, that they had met once already and struck some blows at each
other, before they were separated by an accident of war.

The beginning of August came at length, and the wretched city, in
addition to its other miseries, panted in the heat of a scorching
summer sun and was poisoned by the stench from the dead bodies that
filled the streets and were hurled in thousands from the walls. Now the
Romans had set up their battering engines at the very gates of the
Temple, and slowly but surely were winning their way into its outer
courts.

On a certain night, about an hour before the dawn, Miriam woke
Nehushta, telling her that she was stifling there in those vaults and
must ascend the tower. Nehushta said that it was folly, whereon Miriam
answered that she would go alone. This she would not suffer her to do,
so together they passed up the stairs according to custom, and, having
gained the base of the tower through the swinging door of stone,
climbed the steps that ran in the thickness of the wall till they
reached the topmost gallery. Here they sat, fanned by the faint night
wind, and watched the fires of the Romans stretched far and wide around
the walls and even among the ruins of the houses almost beneath them,
since that part of the city was taken.

Presently the dawn broke, a splendid, fearful dawn. It was as though
the angel of the daybreak had dipped his wing into a sea of blood and
dashed it against the brow of Night, still crowned with her fading
stars. Of a sudden the heavens were filled with blots and threads of
flaming colour latticed against the pale background of the twilight
sky. Miriam watched it with a kind of rapture, letting its glory and
its peace sink into her troubled soul, while from below arose the sound
of awakening camps making ready for the daily battle. Soon a ray of
burning light, cast like a spear from the crest of the Mount of Olives
across the Valley of Jehoshaphat, struck full upon the gold-roofed
Temple and its courts. At its coming, as though at a signal, the
northern gates were thrown wide, and through them poured a flood of
gaunt and savage warriors. They came on in thousands, uttering fierce
war-cries. Some pickets of Romans tried to stay their rush; in a minute
they were overcome and destroyed. Now they were surging round the feet
of a great wooden tower filled with archers. Here the fight was
desperate, for the soldiers of Titus rushed up by companies to defend
their engine. But they could not drive back that onset, and presently
the tower was on fire, and in a last mad effort to save their lives its
defenders were casting themselves headlong from the lofty platform.
With shouts of triumph the Jews rushed through the breaches in the
second wall, and leaving what remained of the castle of Antonia on the
left, poured down into the maze of streets and ruined houses that lay
immediately behind the Old Tower whence Miriam watched.

In front of this building, which the Romans had never attempted to
enter, since for military purposes it was useless to them, lay the open
space, once, no doubt, part of its garden, but of late years used as a
cattle market and a place where young men exercised themselves in arms.
Bordering the waste on its further side were strong fortifications, the
camping ground of the twelfth and fifteenth legions. Across this open
space those who remained of the Romans fled back towards their outer
line, followed by swarms of furious Jews. They gained them, such as
were not overtaken, but the Jews who pursued were met with so fierce a
charge, delivered by the fresh troops behind the defences, that they
were in turn swept back and took refuge among the ruined houses.
Suddenly Miriam’s attention became concentrated upon the mounted
officer who led this charge, a gallant-looking man clad in splendid
armour, whose clear, ringing voice, as he uttered the words of command,
had caught her ear even through the tumult and the shouting. The Roman
onslaught having reached its limit, began to fall back again like the
water from an exhausted wave upon a slope of sand. At the moment the
Jews were in no condition to press the enemy’s retreat, so that the
mounted officer who withdrew last of all, had time to turn his horse,
and heedless of the arrows that sang about him, to study the ground now
strewn with the wounded and the dead. Presently he looked up at the
deserted tower as though wondering whether he could make use of it, and
Miriam saw his face. It was Marcus, grown older, more thoughtful also,
and altered somewhat by a short curling beard, but still Marcus and no
other.

“Look! look!” she said.

Nehushta nodded. “Yes, it is he; I thought so from the first. And now,
having seen him, lady, shall we be going?”

“Going?” said Miriam, “wherefore?”

“Because one army or the other may chance to think that this building
would be useful to them, and break open the walled-up door. Also they
might explore this staircase, and then——”

“And then,” answered Miriam quietly, “we should be taken. What of it?
If the Jews find us we are of their party; if the Romans—well, I do not
greatly fear the Romans.”

“You mean you do not fear one Roman. But who knows, but that he may
presently lie dead——”

“Oh! say it not,” answered Miriam, pressing her hand upon her heart.
“Nay, safe or unsafe, I will see this fight out. Look, yonder is
Caleb—yes, Caleb himself, shouting to the Jews. How fierce is his face,
like that of a hyena in a snare. Nay, now I will not go—go you and
leave me in peace to watch the end.”

“Since you are too heavy and strong for my old arms to carry down those
steep steps, so be it,” answered Nehushta calmly. “After all, we have
food with us, and our angels can guard us as well on the top of a tower
as in those dirty cisterns. Also this fray is worth the watching.”

As she spoke, the Romans having re-formed, led by the Prefect Marcus
and other officers, advanced from their entrenchment, to be met
half-way by the Jews, now reinforced from the Temple, among whom was
Caleb. There, in the open space, they fought hand to hand, for neither
force would yield an inch. Miriam, watching through the stone bars from
above, had eyes for only two of all that multitude of men—Marcus, whom
she loved, and Caleb, whom she feared. Marcus was attacked by a Jew,
who stabbed his horse, to be instantly stabbed himself by a Roman who
came to the rescue of his commander. After this he fought on foot.
Caleb killed first one soldier than another. Watching him, Miriam grew
aware that he was cutting his way towards some point, and that the
point was Marcus. This Marcus seemed to know; at least, he also strove
to cut his way towards Caleb. Nearer and nearer they came, till at
length they met and began to rain blows upon each other; but not for
long, for just then a charge of some Roman horsemen separated them.
After this both parties retired to their lines, taking their wounded
with them.

Thus, with pauses, sometimes of two or three hours, the fight went on
from morning to noon, and from noon to sunset. During the latter part
of the time the Romans made no more attacks, but were contented with
defending themselves while they awaited reinforcements from without the
city, or perhaps the results of some counter-attack in another part.

Thus the advantage rested, or seemed to rest, with the Jews, who held
all the ruined houses and swept the open space with their arrows. Now
it was that Nehushta’s fears were justified, for having a little
leisure the Jews took a beam of wood and battered in the walled-up
doorway of the tower.

“Look!” said Nehushta, pointing down.

“Oh, Nou!” Miriam answered, “I was wrong. I have run you into danger.
But indeed I could not go. What shall we do now?”

“Sit quiet until they come to take us,” said Nehushta grimly, “and
then, if they give us time, explain as best we may.”

As it chanced, however, the Jews did not come, since they feared that
if they mounted the stair some sudden rush of Romans might trap such of
them as were within before they had time to descend again. Only they
made use of the base of the tower to shelter those of their wounded
whose hurts were so desperate that they dared not move them.

Now the fighting having ceased for a while, the soldiers of both sides
amused themselves with shouting taunts and insults at each other, or
challenges to single combat. Presently Caleb stepped forward from the
shelter of a wall and called out that if the Prefect Marcus would meet
him alone in the open space he had something to say which he would be
glad to hear. Thereupon Marcus, stepping out from his defences, where
several of his officers seemed to be striving to detain him, answered:

“I will come,” and walked to the centre of the market, where he was met
by Caleb.

Here the two of them spoke together alone, but of what they said Miriam
and Nehushta, watching them from above, could catch no word.

“Oh! will they fight?” said Miriam.

“It seems likely, since each of them has sworn to slay the other,”
answered Nehushta.

While she spoke Marcus, shaking his head as though to decline some
proposal, and pointing to the men of his command, who stood up watching
him, turned to walk back to his own lines, followed by Caleb, who
shouted out that he was a coward and did not dare to stand alone before
him. At this insult Marcus winced, then went on again, doubtless
because he thought it his duty to rejoin his company, whereon Caleb,
drawing his sword, struck him with the flat of it across the back. Now
the Jews laughed, while the Romans uttered a shout of rage at the
intolerable affront offered to their commander. As for Marcus, he
wheeled round, sword in hand, and flew straight at Caleb’s throat.

But it was for this that the Jew had been waiting, since he knew that
no Roman, and least of all Marcus, would submit to the indignity of
such a blow. As his adversary came on, made almost blind with fury, he
leapt to one side lightly as a lion leaps, and with all the force of
his long sinewy arm brought down his heavy sword upon the head of
Marcus. The helm was good, or the skull beneath must have been split in
two by that blow, which, as it was, shore through it and bit deeply
into the bone. Beneath the shock Marcus staggered, threw his arms wide,
and let fall his sword. With a shout Caleb sprang at him to make an end
of him, but before he could strike the Roman seemed to recover himself,
and, knowing that his weapon was gone, did the only thing he could,
rushed straight at his foe. Caleb’s sword fell on his shoulder, but the
tempered mail withstood it, and next instant Marcus had gripped him in
his arms. Down they came together to the earth, rolling over each
other, the Jew trying to stab the Roman, the Roman to choke the Jew
with his bare hand. Then from the Roman lines rose a cry of “Rescue!”
and from the Jews a cry of “Take him.”

Out poured the combatants from either side of the market-place by
hundreds and by thousands, and there in its centre, round the
struggling forms of Caleb and of Marcus, began the fiercest fight of
all that day. Where men stood, there they fell, for none would give
back, since the Romans, outnumbered though they were, preferred to die
rather than leave a wounded and beloved captain a prisoner in the hands
of cruel enemies, while the Jews knew too well the value of such a
prize to let it escape them easily. So great was the slaughter that
presently Marcus and Caleb were hidden beneath the bodies of the
fallen. More and more Jews rushed into the fray, but still the Romans
pushed onwards with steady valour, fighting shoulder to shoulder and
shield to shield.

Then of a sudden, with a savage yell a fresh body of Jews, three or
four hundred strong, appeared at the west end of the market-place, and
charged upon the Romans, taking them in flank. The officer in command
saw his danger, and knowing that it was better that his captain should
die than that the whole company should be destroyed and the arms of
Cæsar suffer a grave defeat, gave orders for a retirement. Steadily, as
though they were on parade, and dragging with them those of their
wounded comrades who could not walk, the legionaries fell back,
heedless of the storm of spears and arrows, reaching their own lines
before the outflanking body of Jews could get among them. Then seeing
that there was nothing more to be gained, since to attempt to storm the
Roman works was hopeless, the victorious Jews also retreated, this time
not to the houses behind the tower, but only to the old market wall
thirty or forty paces in front of it, which they proceeded to hold and
strengthen in the fading light. Seeing that they were lost, such of the
wounded Romans as remained upon the field committed suicide, preferring
to fall upon their own spears than into the hands of the Jews to be
tortured and crucified. Also for this deed they had another reason,
since it was the decree of Titus that any soldier who was taken living
should be publicly disgraced by name and expelled from the ranks of the
legion, and, if recaptured, in addition suffer death or banishment.

Gladly would Marcus have followed their example and thereby—though he
knew it not—save himself much misery and shame in the future, but he
had neither time nor weapon; moreover, so weak was he with struggling
and the loss of blood, that even as he and Caleb were dragged by savage
hands from among the fallen, he fainted. At first they thought that he
was dead, but one of the Jews, who chanced to be a physician by trade,
declared that this was not so, and that if he were left quiet for a
while, he would come to himself again. Therefore, as they desired to
preserve this Prefect alive, either to be held as an hostage or to be
executed in sight of the army of Titus, they brought him into the Old
Tower, clearing it of their own wounded, except such of them as had
already breathed their last. Here they set a guard over him, though of
this there seemed to be little need, and went under the command of the
victorious Caleb to assist in strengthening the market-wall.

All of these things Miriam watched from above in such an agony of fear
and doubt, that at times she thought that she would die. She saw her
lover and Caleb fall locked in each other’s arms; she saw the hideous
fray that raged around them. She saw them dragged from the heap of
slain, and at the end of it all, by the last light of day, saw Marcus,
living or dead, she knew not which, borne into the tower, and there
laid upon the ground.

“Take comfort,” whispered Nehushta, pitying her dreadful grief. “The
lord Marcus lives. If he were dead they would have stripped him and
left his body with the others. He lives, and they purpose to hold him
captive, else they would have suffered Caleb to put his sword through
him, as you noted he wished to do so soon as he found his feet.”

“Captive,” answered Miriam. “That means that he will be crucified like
the others whom we saw yesterday upon the Temple wall.”

Nehushta shrugged her shoulders.

“It may be so,” she said, “unless he finds means to destroy himself
or—is saved.”

“Saved! How can he be saved?” Then in her woe the poor girl fell upon
her knees clasping her hands and murmuring: “Oh! Jesus Christ whom I
serve, teach me how to save Marcus. Oh! Jesus, I love him, although he
is not a Christian; love him also because I love him, and teach me how
to save him. Or if one must die, take my life for his, oh! take my life
for his.”

“Cease,” said Nehushta, “for I think I hear an answer to your prayer.
Look now, he is laid just where the stair starts and not six feet from
the stone door that leads down into the cistern. Except for some dead
men the tower is empty; also the two sentries stand outside the breach
in the brickwork with which it was walled up, because there they find
more light, and their prisoner is unarmed and helpless, and cannot
attempt escape. Now, if the Roman lives and can stand, why should we
not open that door and thrust him through it?”

“But the Jews might see us and discover the secret of the hiding-place
of the Essenes, whom they would kill because they have hidden food.”

“Once we were the other side of the door, they could never come at
them, even if they have time to try,” answered Nehushta. “Before ever
they could burst the door the stone trap beneath can be closed and the
roof of the stair that leads to it let down by knocking away the props
and flooded in such a fashion that a week of labour would not clear it
out again. Oh! have no fear, the Essenes know and have guarded against
this danger.”

Miriam threw her arms about the neck of Nehushta and kissed her.

“We will try, Nou, we will try,” she whispered, “and if we fail, why
then we can die with him.”

“To you that prospect may be pleasing, but I have no desire to die with
the lord Marcus,” answered Nehushta drily. “Indeed, although I like him
well, were it not for your sake I should leave him to his chance. Nay,
do not answer or give way to too much hope. Remember, perhaps he is
dead, as he seems to be.”

“Yes, yes,” said Miriam wildly, “we must find out. Shall we go now?”

“Aye, while there is still a little light, for these steps are
breakneck in the dark. No, do you follow me.”

So on they glided down the ancient, darksome stairway, where owls
hooted and bats flittered in their faces. Now they were at the last
flight, which descended to a little recess set at right angles to the
steps and flush with the floor of the basement, for once the door of
the stairway had opened here. Thus a person standing on the last stair
could not be seen by any in the tower. They reached the step and
halted. Then very stealthily Nehushta went on to her hands and knees
and thrust her head forward so that she could look into the base of the
tower. It was dark as the grave, only a faint gleam of starlight
reflected from his armour showed where Marcus lay, so close that she
could touch him with her hand. Also almost opposite to her the gloom
was relieved by a patch of faint grey light. Here it was that the wall
had been broken in, for Nehushta could see the shadows of the sentries
crossing and recrossing before the ragged opening.

She leant yet lower towards Marcus and listened. He was not dead, for
he breathed. More, she heard him stir his hand and thought that she
could see it move upwards towards his wounded head. Then she drew back.

“Lady,” she whispered, “he lives, and I think he is awake. Now you must
do the rest as your wit may teach you how, for if I speak to him he
will be frightened, but your voice he may remember if he has his
senses.”

At these words all her doubts and fears seemed to vanish from Miriam’s
heart, her hand grew steady and her brain clear, for Nature told her
that if she wished to save her lover she would need both clear brain
and steady hand. The timid, love-racked girl was transformed into a
woman of iron will and purpose. In her turn she kneeled and crept a
little forward from the stair, so that her face hung over the face of
Marcus. Then she spoke in a soft whisper.

“Marcus, awake and listen, Marcus; but I pray of you do not stir or
make a noise. I am Miriam, whom once you knew.”

At this name the dim form beneath her seemed to quiver, and the lips
muttered, “Now I know that I am dead. Well, it is better than I hoped
for. Speak on, sweet shade of Miriam.”

“Nay, Marcus, you are not dead, you are only wounded and I am not a
spirit, I am a woman, that woman whom once you knew down by the banks
of Jordan. I have come to save you, I and Nehushta. If you will obey
what I tell you, and if you have the strength to stand, we can guide
you into a secret place where the Essenes are hidden, who for my sake
will take care of you until you are able to return to the Romans. If
you do not escape I fear that the Jews will crucify you.”

“By Bacchus, so do I,” said the whisper beneath, “and that will be
worse than being beaten by Caleb. But this is a dream, I know it is a
dream. If it were Miriam I should see her, or be able to touch her. It
is but a dream of Miriam. Let me dream on,” and he turned his head.

Miriam thought for a moment. Time was short and it was necessary to
make him understand. Well, it was not difficult. Slowly she bent a
little lower and pressed her lips upon his.

“Marcus,” she went on, “I kiss you now to show you that I am no dream
and how needful it is that you should be awakened. Had I light I could
prove to you that I am Miriam by your ring which is upon my fingers and
your pearls which are about my neck.”

“Cease,” he answered, “most beloved, I was weak and wandering, now I
know that this is not a dream, and I thank Caleb who has brought us
together again, against his wish, I think. Say, what must I do?”

“Can you stand?” asked Miriam.

“Perhaps. I am not sure. I will try.”

“Nay, wait. Nehushta, come hither; you are stronger than I. Now, while
I unlatch the secret door, do you lift him up. Be swift, I hear the
guard stirring without.”

Nehushta glided forward and knelt by the wounded man, placing her arms
beneath him.

“Ready,” she said. “Here is the iron.”

Miriam took it, and stepping to the wall, felt with her fingers for the
crack, which in that darkness it took time to find. At length she had
it, and inserting the thin hooked iron, lifted the hidden latch and
pulled. The stone door was very heavy and she needed all her strength
to move it. At last it began to swing.

“Now,” she said to Nehushta, who straightened herself and dragged the
wounded Marcus to his feet.

“Quick, quick!” said Miriam, “the guards enter.”

Supported by Nehushta, Marcus took three tottering steps and reached
the open door. Here, on its very threshold indeed, his strength failed
him, for he was wounded in the knee as well as in the head. Groaning,
“I cannot,” he fell to the ground, dragging the old Libyan with him,
his breastplate clattering loud against the stone threshold. The sentry
without heard the sound and called to a companion to give him the
lantern. In an instant Nehushta was up again, and seizing Marcus by his
right arm, began to drag him through the opening, while Miriam, setting
her back against the swinging stone to keep it from closing, pushed
against his feet.

The lantern appeared round the angle of the broken masonry.

“For your life’s sake!” said Miriam, and Nehushta dragged her hardest
at the heavy, helpless body of the fallen man. He moved slowly. It was
too late; if that light fell on him all was lost. In an instant Miriam
took her resolve. With an effort she swung the door wide, then as
Nehushta dragged again she sprang forward, keeping in the shadow of the
wall. The Jew who held the lantern, alarmed by the sounds within,
entered hastily and, catching his foot against the body of a dead man
who lay there, stumbled so that he fell upon his knee. In her hand
Miriam held the key, and as the guard regained his feet, but not before
its light fell upon her, she struck with it at the lamp, breaking and
extinguishing it.

Then she turned to fly, for, as she knew well, the stone would now be
swinging on its pivot.

Alas! her chance had gone, for the man, stretching out his arm, caught
her about the middle and held her fast, shouting loudly for help.
Miriam struggled, she battered him with the iron and dragged at him
with her left hand, but in vain, for in that grip she was helpless as a
child who fights against its nurse. While she fought thus she heard the
dull thud of the closing stone, and even in her despair rejoiced,
knowing that until Marcus was beyond its threshold it could not be
shut. Ceasing from her useless struggle she gathered the forces of her
mind. Marcus was safe; the door was shut and could not be opened from
the further side until another iron was procured; the guard had seen
nothing. But her escape was impossible. Her part was played, only one
thing remained for her to do—keep silence and his secret.

Men bearing lights were rushing into the tower. Her right hand, which
held the iron, was free, and lest it should tell a tale she cast the
instrument from her towards that side of the deserted place which she
knew was buried deep in fallen stones, fragments of rotted timber and
dirt from the nests of birds. Then she stood still. Now they were upon
her, Caleb at the head of them.

“What is it?” he cried.

“I know not,” answered the guard. “I heard a sound as of clanking
armour and ran in, when some one struck the lantern from my hand, a
strong rascal with whom I have struggled sorely, notwithstanding the
blows that he rained upon me with his sword. See, I hold him fast.”

They held up their lights and saw a beautiful, dishevelled maid, small
and frail of stature, whereon they laughed out loud.

“A strong thief, truly,” said one. “Why, it is a girl! Do you summon
the watch every time a girl catches hold of you?”

Before the words died upon the speaker’s lips, another man called out,
“The Roman! The Prefect has gone! Where is the prisoner?” and with a
roar of wrath they began to search the place, as a cat searches for the
mouse that escapes her. Only Caleb stood still and stared at the girl.

“Miriam!” he said.

“Yes, Caleb,” she answered quietly. “This is a strange meeting, is it
not? Why do you break in thus upon my hiding-place?”

“Woman,” he shouted, mad with anger, “where have you hidden the Prefect
Marcus?”

“Marcus?” she answered; “is he here? I did not know it. Well, I saw a
man run from the tower, perhaps that was he. Be swift and you may catch
him.”

“No man left the tower,” answered the other sentry. “Seize that woman,
she has hidden the Roman in some secret place. Seize her and search.”

So they caught Miriam, bound her and began running round and round the
wall. “Here is a staircase,” called a man, “doubtless he has gone up
it. Come, friends.”

Then taking lights with them, they mounted the stairs to the very top,
but found no one. Even as they came down again a trumpet blew and from
without rose the sound of a mighty shouting.

“What happens now?” said one.

As he spoke an officer appeared in the opening of the tower.

“Begone,” he cried. “Back to the Temple, taking your prisoner with you.
Titus himself is upon us at the head of two fresh legions, mad at the
loss of his Prefect and so many of his soldiers. Why! where is the
wounded Roman, Marcus?”

“He has vanished,” answered Caleb sullenly. “Vanished”—here he glanced
at Miriam with jealous and vindictive hate—“and in his place has left
to us this woman, the grand-daughter of Benoni, Miriam, who strangely
enough was once his love.”

“Is it so?” said the officer. “Girl, tell us what you have done with
the Roman, or die. Come, we have no time to lose.”

“I have done nothing. I saw a man walk past the sentries, that is all.”

“She lies,” said the officer contemptuously. “Here, kill this
traitress.”

A man advanced lifting his sword, and Miriam, thinking that all was
over, hid her eyes while she waited for the blow. Before it fell,
however, Caleb whispered something to the officer which caused him to
change his mind.

“So be it,” he said. “Hold your hand and take this woman with you to
the Temple, there to be tried by her grandfather, Benoni, and the other
judges of the Sanhedrim. They have means to cause the most obstinate to
speak, whereas death seals the lips forever. Swift, now, swift, for
already they are fighting on the market-place.”

So they seized Miriam and dragged her away from the Old Tower, which an
hour later was taken possession of by the Romans, who destroyed it with
the other buildings.




CHAPTER XVI
THE SANHEDRIM


The Jewish soldiers haled Miriam roughly through dark and tortuous
streets, bordered by burnt-out houses, and up steep stone slopes deep
with the débris of the siege. Indeed, they had need to hasten, for, lit
with the lamp of flaming dwellings, behind them flowed the tide of war.
The Romans, driven back from this part of the city by that day’s
furious sally, under cover of the night were re-occupying in
overwhelming strength the ground that they had lost, forcing the Jews
before them and striving to cut them off from their stronghold in the
Temple and that part of the Upper City which they still held.

The party of Jews who had Miriam in their charge were returning to the
Temple enclosure, which they could not reach from the north or east
because the outer courts and cloisters of the Holy House were already
in possession of the Romans. So it happened that they were obliged to
make their way round by the Upper City, a long and tedious journey.
Once during that night they were driven to cover until a great company
of Romans had marched past. Caleb wished to attack them, but the other
captains said that they were too few and weary, so they lay hid for
nearly three hours, then went on again. After this there were other
delays at gates still in the hands of their own people, which one by
one were unbolted to them. Thus it was not far from daylight when at
length they passed over a narrow bridge that spanned some ravine and
through massive doors into a vast dim place which, as Miriam gathered
from the talk of her captors, was the inner enclosure of the Temple.
Here, at the command of that captain who had ordered her to be slain,
she was thrust into a small cell in one of the cloisters. Then the men
in charge of her locked the door and went away.

Sinking exhausted to the floor, Miriam tried to sleep, but could not,
for her brain seemed to be on fire. Whenever she shut her eyes there
sprang up before them visions of some dreadful scene which she had
witnessed, while in her ears echoed now the shouts of the victors, now
the pitiful cry of the dying, and now again the voice of the wounded
Marcus calling her “Most Beloved.” Was this indeed so, she wondered?
Was it possible that he had not forgotten her during those years of
separation when there must have been so many lovely ladies striving to
win him, the rich, high-placed Roman lord, to be their lover or their
husband? She did not know, she could not tell: perhaps, in such a
plight, he would have called any woman who came to save him his Most
Beloved, yes, even old Nehushta, and even then and there she smiled a
little at the thought. Yet his voice rang true, and he had sent her the
ring, the pearls and the letter, that letter which, although she knew
every word of it, she still carried hidden in the bosom of her robe.
Oh! she believed that he did love her, and, believing, rejoiced with
all her heart that it had pleased God to allow her to save his life,
even at the cost of her own. She had forgotten. There was his wound—he
might die of it. Nay, surely he would not die. For her sake, the
Essenes who knew him would treat him well, and they were skilful
healers; also, what better nurse than Nehushta could be found? Ah! poor
Nou, how she would grieve over her. What sorrow must have taken hold of
her when she heard the rock door shut and found that her nursling was
cut off and captured by the Jews.

Happy, indeed, was it for Miriam that she could not witness what had
chanced at the further side of that block of stone; that she could not
see Nehushta beating at it with her hands and striving to thrust her
thin fingers to the latch which she had no instrument to lift, until
the bones were stripped of skin and flesh. That she could not hear
Marcus, come to himself again, but unable to rise from off his knees,
cursing and raving with agony at her loss, and because she, the tender
lady whom he loved, for his sake had fallen into the hands of the
relentless Jews. Yes, that she could not hear him cursing and raving in
his utter helplessness, till at length the brain gave in his shattered
head, and he fell into a fevered madness, that for many weeks was
unpierced by any light of reason or of memory. All this, at least, was
spared to her.

Well, the deed was done and she must pay the price, for without a doubt
they would kill her, as they had a right to do, who had saved a Roman
general from their clutches. Or if they did not, Caleb would, Caleb
whose bitter jealousy, as her instinct told her, had turned his love to
hate. Never would he let her live to fall, perchance, as his share of
the Temple spoil, into the hands of the Roman rival who had escaped
him.

It was not too great a price. Because of the birth doom laid upon her,
even if he sought it, and fortune brought them back together again, she
could never be a wife to Marcus. And for the rest she was weary, sick
with the sight and sound of slaughter and with the misery that in these
latter days, as her Lord had prophesied, was come upon the city that
rejected him and the people who had slain Him, their Messiah. Miriam
wished to die, to pass to that home of perfect and eternal peace in
which she believed; where, mayhap, it might be given to her in reward
of her sufferings, to watch from afar over the soul of Marcus, and to
make ready an abode for it to dwell in through all the ages of
infinity. The thought pleased her, and lifting his ring, she pressed it
to her lips which that very night had been pressed upon his lips, then
drew it off and hid it in her hair. She wished to keep that ring until
the end, if so she might. As for the pearls, she could not hide them,
and though she loved them as his gift—well, they must go to the hand of
the spoiler, and to the necks of other women, who would never know
their tale.

This done Miriam rose to her knees and began to pray with the vivid,
simple faith that was given to the first children of the Church. She
prayed for Marcus, that he might recover and not forget her, and that
the light of truth might shine upon him; for Nehushta, that her sorrow
might be soothed; for herself, that her end might be merciful and her
awakening happy; for Caleb, that his heart might be turned; for the
dead and dying, that their sins might be forgiven; for the little
children, that the Lord of Pity would have pity on their sufferings;
for the people of the Jews, that He would lift the rod of His wrath
from off them; yes, and even for the Romans, though for these, poor
maid, she knew not what petition to put up.

Her prayer finished, once more Miriam strove to sleep and dozed a
little, to be aroused by a curious sound of feeble sighing, which
seemed to come from the further side of the cell. By now the dawn was
streaming through the stone lattice work above the doorway, and in its
faint light Miriam saw the outlines of a figure with snowy hair and
beard, wrapped in a filthy robe that had once been white. At first she
thought that this figure must be a corpse thrust here out of the way of
the living, it was so stirless. But corpses do not sigh as this man
seemed to do. Who could he be, she wondered? A prisoner like herself,
left to die, as, perhaps, she would be left to die? The light grew a
little. Surely there was something familiar about the shape of that
white head. She crept nearer, thinking that she might be able to help
this old man who was so sick and suffering. Now she could see his face
and the hand that lay upon his breast. They were those of a living
skeleton, for the bones stood out, and over them the yellow skin was
drawn like shrivelled parchment; only the deep sunk eyes still shone
round and bright. Oh! she knew the face. It was that of Theophilus the
Essene, a past president of the order indeed, who had been her friend
from earliest childhood and the master who taught her languages in
those far-off happy years which she spent in the village by the Dead
Sea. This Theophilus she had found dwelling with the Essenes in their
cavern home, and none of them had welcomed her more warmly. Some ten
days ago, against the advice of Ithiel and others, he had insisted on
creeping out to take the air and gather news in the city. Then he was a
stout and hale old man, although pale-faced from dwelling in the
darkness. From that journey he had not returned. Some said that he had
fled to the country, others that he had gone over to the Romans, and
yet others that he had been slain by some of Simon’s men. Now she found
him thus!

Miriam came and bent over him.

“Master,” she said, “what ails you? How came you here?”

He turned his hollow, vacant eyes upon her face.

“Who is it that speaks to me thus gently?” he asked in a feeble voice.

“I, your ward, Miriam.”

“Miriam! Miriam! What does Miriam in this torture-den?”

“Master, I am a prisoner. But speak of yourself.”

“There is little to say, Miriam. They caught me, those devils, and
seeing that I was still well-fed and strong, although sunk in years,
demanded to know whence I had my food in this city of starvation. To
tell them would have been to give up our secret and to bring doom upon
the brethren, and upon you, our guest and lady. I refused to answer,
so, having tortured me without avail, they cast me in here to starve,
thinking that hunger would make me speak. But I have not spoken. How
could I, who have taken the oath of the Essenes, and been their ruler?
Now at length I die.”

“Oh! say not so,” said Miriam, wringing her hands.

“I do say it and I am thankful. Have you any food?”

“Yes, a piece of dried meat and barley bread, which chanced to be in my
robe when I was captured. Take them and eat.”

“Nay, Miriam, that desire has gone from me, nor do I wish to live,
whose days are done. But save the food, for doubtless they will starve
you also. And, look, there is water in that jar, they gave it me to
make me live the longer. Drink, drink while you can, who to-morrow may
be thirsty.”

For a time there was silence, while the tears that gathered in Miriam’s
eyes fell upon the old man’s face.

“Weep not for me,” he said presently, “who go to my rest. How came you
here?”

She told him as briefly as she might.

“You are a brave woman,” he said when she had finished, “and that Roman
owes you much. Now I, Theophilus, who am about to die, call down the
blessing of God upon you, and upon him also for your sake, for your
sake. The shield of God be over you in the slaughter and the sorrow.”

Then he shut his eyes and either could not or would not speak again.

Miriam drank of the pitcher of water, for her thirst was great.
Crouched at the side of the old Essene, she watched him till at length
the door opened, and two gaunt, savage-looking men entered, who went to
where Theophilus lay and kicked him brutally.

“What would you now?” he said, opening his eyes.

“Wake up, old man,” cried one of them. “See, here is flesh,” and he
thrust a lump of some filthy carrion to his lips. “Smell it, taste it,”
he went on, “ah! is it not good? Well, tell us where is that store of
food which made you so fat who now are so thin, and you shall have it
all, yes, all, all.”

Theophilus shook his head.

“Bethink you,” cried the man, “if you do not eat, by sunrise to-morrow
you will be dead. Speak then and eat, obstinate dog, it is your last
chance.”

“I eat not and I tell not,” answered the aged martyr in a voice like a
hollow groan. “By to-morrow’s sunrise I shall be dead, and soon you and
all this people will be dead, and God will have judged each of us
according to his works. Repent you, for the hour is at hand.”

Then they cursed him and smote him because of his words of ill-omen,
and so went away, taking no notice of Miriam in the corner. When they
had gone she came forward and looked. His jaw had fallen. Theophilus
the Essene was at peace.

Another hour went by. Once more the door was opened and there appeared
that captain who had ordered her to be killed. With him were two Jews.

“Come, woman,” he said, “to take your trial.”

“Who is to try me?” Miriam asked.

“The Sanhedrim, or as much as is left of it,” he answered. “Stir now,
we have no time for talking.”

So Miriam rose and accompanied them across the corner of the vast
court, in the centre of which the Temple rose in all its glittering
majesty. As she walked she noticed that the pavement was dotted with
corpses, and that from the cloisters without went up flames and smoke.
They seemed to be fighting there, for the air was full of the sound of
shouting, above which echoed the dull, continuous thud of battering
rams striking against the massive walls.

They took her into a great chamber supported by pillars of white
marble, where many starving folk, some of them women who carried or led
hollow-cheeked children, sat silent on the floor, or wandered to and
fro, their eyes fixed upon the ground as though in aimless search for
they knew not what. On a daïs at the end of the chamber twelve or
fourteen men sat in carved chairs; other chairs stretched to the right
and left of them, but these were empty. The men were clad in
magnificent robes, which seemed to hang ill upon their gaunt forms,
and, like those of the people in the hall, their eyes looked scared and
their faces were white and shrunken. These were all who were left of
the Sanhedrim of the Jews.

As Miriam entered one of their number was delivering judgment upon a
wretched starving man. Miriam looked at the judge. It was her
grandfather, Benoni, but oh! how changed. He who had been tall and
upright was now drawn almost double, his teeth showed yellow between
his lips, his long white beard was ragged and had come out in patches,
his hand shook, his gorgeous head-dress was awry. Nothing was the same
about him except his eyes, which still shone bright, but with a fiercer
fire than of old. They looked like the eyes of a famished wolf.

“Man, have you aught to say?” he was asking of the prisoner.

“Only this,” the prisoner answered. “I had hidden some food, my own
food, which I bought with all that remained of my fortune. Your
hyæna-men caught my wife, and tormented her until she showed it them.
They fell upon it, and, with their comrades, ate it nearly all. My wife
died of starvation and her wounds, my children died of starvation, all
except one, a child of six, whom I fed with what remained. Then she
began to die also, and I bargained with the Roman, giving him jewels
and promising to show him the weak place in the wall if he would convey
the child to his camp and feed her. I showed him the place, and he fed
her in my presence, and took her away, whither I know not. But, as you
know, I was caught, and the wall was built up, so that no harm came of
my treason. I would do it again to save the life of my child, twenty
times over, if needful. You murdered my wife and my other children;
murder me also if you will. I care nothing.”

“Wretch,” said Benoni, “what are your miserable wife and children
compared to the safety of this holy place, which we defend against the
enemies of Jehovah? Lead him away, and let him be slain upon the wall,
in the sight of his friends, the Romans.”

“I go,” said the victim, rising and stretching out his hands to the
guards, “but may you also all be slain in the sight of the Romans, you
mad murderers, who, in your lust for power, have brought doom and agony
upon the people of the Jews.”

Then they dragged him out, and a voice called—“Bring in the next
traitor.”

Now Miriam was brought forward. Benoni looked up and knew her.

“Miriam?” he gasped, rising, to fall back again in his seat, “Miriam,
you here?”

“It seems so, grandfather,” she answered quietly.

“There is some mistake,” said Benoni. “This girl can have harmed none.
Let her be dismissed.”

The other judges looked up.

“Best hear the charge against her first?” said one suspiciously, while
another added, “Is not this the woman who dwelt with you at Tyre, and
who is said to be a Christian?”

“We do not sit to try questions of faith, at least not now,” answered
Benoni evasively.

“Woman, is it true that you are a Christian?” queried one of the
judges.

“Sir, I am,” replied Miriam, and at her words the faces of the
Sanhedrim grew hard as stones, while someone watching in the crowd
hurled a fragment of marble at her.

“Let it be for this time,” said the judge, “as the Rabbi Benoni says,
we are trying questions of treason, not of faith. Who accuses this
woman, and of what?”

A man stepped forward, that captain who had wished to put Miriam to
death, and she saw that behind him were Caleb, who looked ill at ease,
and the Jew who had guarded Marcus.

“I accuse her,” he said, “of having released the Roman Prefect, Marcus,
whom Caleb here wounded and took prisoner in the fighting yesterday,
and brought into the Old Tower, where he was laid till we knew whether
he would live or die.”

“The Roman Prefect, Marcus?” said one. “Why, he is the friend of Titus,
and would have been worth more to us than a hundred common men. Also,
throughout this war, none has done us greater mischief. Woman, if,
indeed, you let him go, no death can repay your wickedness. Did you let
him go?”

“That is for you to discover,” answered Miriam, for now that Marcus was
safe she would tell no more lies.

“This renegade is insolent, like all her accursed sect,” said the
judge, spitting on the ground. “Captain, tell your story, and be
brief.”

He obeyed. After him that soldier was examined from whose hand Miriam
had struck the lantern. Then Caleb was called and asked what he knew of
the matter.

“Nothing,” he answered, “except that I took the Roman and saw him laid
in the tower, for he was senseless. When I returned the Roman had gone,
and this lady Miriam was there, who said that he had escaped by the
doorway. I did not see them together, and know no more.”

“That is a lie,” said one of the judges roughly. “You told the captain
that Marcus had been her lover. Why did you say this?”

“Because years ago by Jordan she, who is a sculptor, graved a likeness
of him in stone,” answered Caleb.

“Are artists always the lovers of those whom they picture, Caleb?”
asked Benoni, speaking for the first time.

Caleb made no answer, but one of the Sanhedrim, a sharp-faced man,
named Simeon, the friend of Simon, the son of Gioras, the Zealot, who
sat next to him, cried, “Cease this foolishness; the daughter of Satan
is beautiful; doubtless Caleb desires her for himself; but what has
that to do with us?” though he added vindictively, “it should be
remembered against him that he is striving to hide the truth.”

“There is no evidence against this woman, let her be set free,”
exclaimed Benoni.

“So we might expect her grandfather to think,” said Simeon, with
sarcasm. “Little wonder that we are smitten with the Sword of God when
Rabbis shelter Christians because they chance to be of their house, and
when warriors bear false witness concerning them because they chance to
be fair. For my part I say that she is guilty, and has hidden the man
away in some secret place. Otherwise why did she dash the light from
the soldier’s hand?”

“Mayhap to hide herself lest she should be attacked,” answered another,
“though how she came in the tower, I cannot guess.”

“I lived there,” said Miriam. “It was bricked up until yesterday and
safe from robbers.”

“So!” commented that judge, “you lived alone in a deserted tower like a
bat or an owl, and without food or water. Then these must have been
brought to you from without the walls, perhaps by some secret passage
that was known to none, down which you loosed the Prefect, but had no
time to follow him. Woman, you are a Roman spy, as a Christian well
might be. I say that she is worthy of death.”

Then Benoni rose and rent his robes.

“Does not enough blood run through these holy courts?” he asked, “that
you must seek that of the innocent also? What is your oath? To do
justice and to convict only upon clear, unshaken testimony. Where is
this testimony? What is there to show that the girl Miriam had any
dealings with this Marcus, whom she had not seen for years? In the Holy
Name I protest against this iniquity.”

“It is natural that you should protest,” said one of his brethren.

Then they fell into discussion, for the question perplexed them sorely,
who, although they were savage, still wished to be honest.

Suddenly Simeon looked up, for a thought struck him.

“Search her,” he said, “she is in good case, she may have food, or the
secret of food, about her, or,” he added—“other things.”

Now two hungry-looking officers of the court seized Miriam and rent her
robe open at the breast with their rough hands, since they would not be
at the pains of loosening it.

“See,” cried one of them, “here are pearls, fit wear for so fine a
lady. Shall we take them?”

“Fool, let the trinkets be,” answered Simeon angrily. “Are we common
thieves?”

“Here is something else,” said the officer, drawing the roll of
Marcus’s cherished letter from her breast.

“Not that, not that,” the poor girl gasped.

“Give it here,” said Simeon, stretching out his lean hand.

Then he undid the silk case and, opening the letter, read its first
lines aloud. “‘To the lady Miriam, from Marcus the Roman, by the hand
of the Captain Gallus.’ What do you say to that, Benoni and brethren?
Why, there are pages of it, but here is the end: ‘Farewell, your ever
faithful friend and lover, Marcus.’ So, let those read it who have the
time; for my part I am satisfied. This woman is a traitress; I give my
vote for death.”

“It was written from Rome two years ago,” pleaded Miriam; but no one
seemed to heed her, for all were talking at once.

“I demand that the whole letter be read,” shouted Benoni.

“We have no time, we have no time,” answered Simeon. “Other prisoners
await their trial, the Romans are battering our gates. Can we waste
more precious minutes over this Nazarene spy? Away with her.”

“Away with her,” said Simon the son of Gioras, and the others nodded
their heads in assent.

Then they gathered together discussing the manner of her end, while
Benoni stormed at them in vain. Not quite in vain, however, for they
yielded something to his pleading.

“So be it,” said their spokesman, Simon the Zealot. “This is our
sentence on the traitress—that she suffer the common fate of traitors
and be taken to the upper gate, called the Gate Nicanor, that divides
the Court of Israel from the Court of Women, and bound with the chain
to the central column that is over the gate, where she may be seen both
of her friends the Romans and of the people of Israel whom she has
striven to betray, there to perish of hunger and of thirst, or in such
fashion as God may appoint, for so shall we be clean of a woman’s
blood. Yet, because of the prayer of Benoni, our brother, of whose race
she is, we decree that this sentence shall not be carried out before
the set of sun, and that if in the meanwhile the traitress elects to
give information that shall lead to the recapture of the Roman prefect,
Marcus, she shall be set at liberty without the gates of the Temple.
The case is finished. Guards, take her to the prison whence she came.”

So they seized Miriam and led her thence through the crowd of
onlookers, who paused from their wanderings and weary searching of the
ground to spit at or curse her, and thrust her back into her cell and
to the company of the cold corpse of Theophilus the Essene.

Here Miriam sat down, and partly to pass the time, partly because she
needed it, ate the bread and dried flesh which she had left hidden in
the cell. After this sleep came to her, who was tired out and the worst
being at hand, had nothing more to fear. For four or five hours she
rested sweetly, dreaming that she was a child again, gathering flowers
on the banks of Jordan in the spring season, till, at length, a sound
caused her to awake. She looked up to see Benoni standing before her.

“What is it, grandfather?” she asked.

“Oh! my daughter,” groaned the wretched old man, “I am come here at
some risk, for because of you and for other reasons they suspect me,
those wolf-hearted men, to bid you farewell and to ask your pardon.”

“Why should you ask my pardon, grandfather? Seeing things as they see
them, the sentence is just enough. I am a Christian, and—if you would
know it—I did, as I hope, save the life of Marcus, for which deed my
own is forfeit.”

“How?” he asked.

“That, grandfather, I will not tell you.”

“Tell me, and save yourself. There is little chance that they will take
him, since the Jews have been driven from the Old Tower.”

“The Jews might re-capture the tower, and I will not tell you. Also,
the lives of others are at stake, of my friends who have sheltered me,
and who, as I trust, will now shelter him.”

“Then you must die, and by this death of shame, for I am powerless to
save you. Yes, you must die tied to a pinnacle of the gateway, a
mockery to friend and foe. Why, if it had not been that I still have
some authority among them, and that you are of my blood, girl though
you be, they would have crucified you upon the wall, serving you as the
Romans serve our people.”

“If it pleases God that I should die, I shall die. What is one life
among so many tens of thousands? Let us talk of other things while we
have time.”

“What is there to talk of, Miriam, save misery, misery, misery?” and
again he groaned. “You were right, and I have been wrong. That Messiah
of yours whom I rejected, yes, and still reject, had at least the gift
of prophecy, for the words that you read me yonder in Tyre will be
fulfilled upon this people and city, aye, to the last letter. The
Romans hold even the outer courts of the Temple; there is no food left.
In the upper town the inhabitants devour each other and die, and die
till none can bury the dead. In a day or two, or ten—what does it
matter?—we who are left must perish also by hunger and the sword. The
nation of the Jews is trodden out, the smoke of their sacrifices goes
up no more, and the Holy House that they have builded will be pulled
stone from stone, or serve as a temple for the worship of heathen
gods.”

“Will Titus show no mercy? Can you not surrender?” asked Miriam.

“Surrender? To be sold as slaves or dragged a spectacle at the wheels
of Cæsar’s triumphal car, through the shouting streets of Rome? No,
girl, best to fight it out. We will seek mercy of Jehovah and not of
Titus. Oh! I would that it were done with, for my heart is broken, and
this judgment is fallen on me—that I, who, of my own will, brought my
daughter to her death, must bring her daughter to death against my
will. If I had hearkened to you, you would have been in Pella, or in
Egypt. I lost you, and, thinking you dead, what I have suffered no man
can know. Now I find you, and because of the office that was thrust
upon me, I, even I, from whom your life has sprung, must bring you to
your doom.”

“Grandfather,” Miriam broke in, wringing her hands, for the grief of
this old man was awful to witness, “cease, I beseech you, cease.
Perhaps, after all, I shall not die.”

He looked up eagerly. “Have you hope of escape?” he asked. “Perchance
Caleb——”

“Nay, I know naught of Caleb, except that there is still good in his
heart, since at the last he tried to save me—for which I thank him.
Still, I had sooner perish here alone, who do not fear death in my
spirit, whatever my flesh may fear, than escape hence in his company.”

“What then, Miriam? Why should you think——?” and he paused.

“I do not think, I only trust in God and—hope. One of our faith, now
long departed, who foretold that I should be born, foretold also that I
should live out my life. It may be so—for that woman was holy, and a
prophetess.”

As she spoke there came a rolling sound like that of distant thunder,
and a voice without called:

“Rabbi Benoni, the wall is down. Tarry not, Rabbi Benoni, for they seek
you.”

“Alas! I must begone,” he said, “for some new horror is fallen upon us,
and they summon me to the council. Farewell, most beloved Miriam, may
my God and your God protect you, for I cannot. Farewell, and if, by any
chance, you live, forgive me, and try to forget the evil that, in my
blindness and my pride, I have brought upon yours and you, but oh! most
of all upon myself.”

Then he embraced her passionately and was gone, leaving Miriam weeping.




CHAPTER XVII
THE GATE OF NICANOR


Another two hours went by, and the lengthening shadows cast through the
stonework of the lattice told Miriam that the day was drawing to its
end. Suddenly the bolts were shot and the door opened.

“The time is at hand,” she said to herself, and at the thought her
heart beat fast and her knees trembled, while a mist came before her
eyes, so that she could not see. When it passed she looked up, and
there before her, very handsome and stately, though worn with war and
hunger, stood Caleb, sword in hand and clad in a breast plate dinted
with many blows. At the sight, Miriam’s courage came back to her; at
least before him she would show no fear.

“Are you sent to carry out my sentence?” she asked.

He bowed his head. “Yes, a while hence, when the sun sinks,” he
answered bitterly. “That judge, Simeon, who ordered you to be searched,
is a man with a savage heart. He thought that I tried to save you from
the wrath of the Sanhedrim; he thought that I——”

“Let be what he thought,” interrupted Miriam, “and, friend Caleb, do
your office. When we were children together often you tied my hands and
feet with flowers, do you remember? Well, tie them now with cords, and
make an end.”

“You are cruel,” he said, wincing.

“Indeed! some might have thought that you are cruel. If, for instance,
they had heard your words in that tower last night when you gave up my
name to the Jews and linked it with another’s.”

“Oh! Miriam,” he broke in in a pleading voice, “if I did this—and in
truth I scarcely know what I did—it was because love and jealousy
maddened me.”

“Love? The love of the lion for the lamb! Jealousy? Why were you
jealous? Because, having striven to murder Marcus—oh! I saw the fight
and it was little better, for you smote him unawares, being fully
prepared when he was not—you feared lest I might have saved him from
your fangs. Well, thanks be to God! I did save him, as I hope. And now,
officer of the most merciful and learned Sanhedrim, do your duty.”

“At least, Miriam,” Caleb went on, humbly, for her bitter words, unjust
as they were in part, seemed to crush him, “at least, I strove my best
for you to-day—after I found time to think.”

“Yes,” she answered, “to think that other lions would get the lamb
which you chance to desire for yourself.”

“More,” he continued, taking no note. “I have made a plan.”

“A plan to do what?”

“To escape. If I give the signal on your way to the gate where I must
lead you, you will be rescued by certain friends of mine who will hide
you in a place of safety, while I, the officer, shall seem to be cut
down. Afterwards I can join you and under cover of the night, by a way
of which I know, we will fly together.”

“Fly? Where to?”

“To the Romans, who will spare you because of what you did
yesterday—and me also.”

“Because of what _you_ did yesterday?”

“No—because you will say that I am your husband. It will not be true,
but what of that?”

“What of it, indeed?” asked Miriam, “since it can always become true.
But how is it that you, being one of the first of the Jewish warriors,
are prepared to fly and ask the mercy of your foes? Is it because——”

“Spare to insult me, Miriam. You know well why it is. You know well
that I am no traitor, and that I do not fly for fear.”

“Yes,” she answered, in a changed tone, for his manly words touched
her, “I know that.”

“It is for you that I fly, for your sake I will eat this dirt and crown
myself with shame. I fly that for the second time I may save you.”

“And in return you demand—what?”

“Yourself.”

“That I will not give, Caleb. I reject your offer.”

“I feared it,” he answered huskily, “who am accustomed to such denials.
Then I demand this, for know that if once you pass your word I may
trust it: that you will not marry the Roman Marcus.”

“I cannot marry the Roman Marcus any more than I can marry you, because
neither of you are Christians, and as you know well it is laid upon me
as a birth duty that I may take no man to husband who is not a
Christian.”

“For your sake, Miriam,” he answered slowly, “I am prepared to be
baptised into your faith. Let this show you how much I love you.”

“It does not show that you love the faith, Caleb, nor if you did love
it could I love you. Jew or Christian, I cannot be your wife.”

He turned his face to the wall and for a while was silent. Then he
spoke again.

“Miriam, so be it. I will still save you. Go, and marry Marcus, if you
can, only, if I live, I will kill him if I can, but that you need
scarcely fear, for I do not think that I shall live.”

She shook her head. “I will not go, who am weary of flights and
hidings. Let God deal with me and Marcus and you as He pleases. Yet I
thank you, and am sorry for the unkind words I spoke. Oh! Caleb, cannot
you put me out of your mind? Are there not many fairer women who would
be glad to love you? Why do you waste your life upon me? Take your path
and suffer me to take mine. Yet all this talk is foolishness, for both
are likely to be short.”

“Yours, and that of Marcus the Roman, and my own are all one path,
Miriam, and I seek no other. As a lad, I swore that I would never take
you, except by your own wish, and to that oath I hold. Also, I swore
that if I could I would kill my rival, and to that oath I hold. If he
kills me, you may wed him. If I kill him, you need not wed me unless
you so desire. But this fight is to the death, yes, whether you live or
die, it is still to the death as between me and him. Do you
understand?”

“Your words are very plain, Caleb, but this is a strange hour to choose
to speak them, seeing that, for aught I know, Marcus is already dead,
and that within some short time I shall be dead, and that death
threatens you and all within this Temple.”

“Yet we live, Miriam, and I believe that for none of the three of us is
the end at hand. Well, you will not fly, either with me or without me?”

“No, I will not fly.”

“Then the time is here, and, having no choice, I must do my duty,
leaving the rest to fate. If, perchance, I can rescue you afterwards, I
will, but do not hope for such a thing.”

“Caleb, I neither hope nor fear. Henceforth I struggle no more. I am in
other hands than yours, or those of the Jews, and as They fashion the
clay so shall it be shaped. Now, will you bind me?”

“I have no such command. Come forth if it pleases you, the officers
wait without. Had you wished to be rescued, I should have taken the
path on which my friends await us. Now we must go another.”

“So be it,” said Miriam, “but first give me that jar of water, for my
throat is parched.”

He lifted it to her lips and she drank deeply. Then they went. Outside
the cloister four men were waiting, two of them those doorkeepers who
had searched her in the morning, the others soldiers.

“You have been a long while with the pretty maid, master,” said one of
them to Caleb. “Have you been receiving confession of her sins?”

“I have been trying to receive confession of the hiding-place of the
Roman, but the witch is obstinate,” he answered, glaring angrily at
Miriam.

“She will soon change her tune on the gateway, master, where the nights
are cold and the day is hot for those who have neither cloaks for their
backs nor water for their stomachs. Come on, Blue Eyes, but first give
me that necklet of pearls, which may serve to buy a bit of bread or a
drink of wine,” and he thrust his filthy hand into her breast.

Next instant a sword flashed in the red light of the evening to fall
full on the ruffian’s skull, and down he went dead or dying.

“Brute,” said Caleb with an angry snarl, “go to seek bread and wine in
Gehenna. The maid is doomed to death, not to be plundered by such as
you. Come forward.”

The companions of the fallen man stared at him. Then one laughed, for
death was too common a sight to excite pity or surprise, and said:

“He was ever a greedy fellow. Let us hope that he has gone where there
is more to eat.”

Then, preceded by Caleb, they marched through the long cloisters,
passed an inner door, turned down more cloisters on the right, and,
following the base of the great wall, came to its beautiful centre
gate, Nicanor, that was adorned with gold and silver, and stood between
the Court of Women and the Court of Israel. Over this gateway was a
square building, fifty feet or more in height, containing store
chambers and places where the priests kept their instruments of music.
On its roof, which was flat, were three columns of marble, terminated
by gilded spikes. By the gate one of the Sanhedrim was waiting for
them, that same relentless judge, Simeon, who had ordered Miriam to be
searched.

“Has the woman confessed where she hid the Roman?” he asked of Caleb.

“No,” he answered, “she says that she knows nothing of any Roman.”

“Is it so, woman?”

“It is so, Rabbi.”

“Bring her up,” he went on sternly, and they passed through some stone
chambers to a place where there was a staircase with a door of
cedar-wood. The judge unlocked it, locking it again behind them, and
they climbed the stairs till they came to another little door of stone,
which, being opened, Miriam found herself on the roof of the gateway.
They led her to the centre pillar, to which was fastened an iron chain
about ten feet in length. Here Simeon commanded that her hands should
be bound behind her, which was done. Then he brought out of his robe a
scroll written in large letters, and tied it on to her breast. This was
the writing on the scroll:

_“Miriam, Nazarene and Traitress, is doomed here to die as God shall
appoint, before the face of her friends, the Romans.”_

Then followed several signatures of members of the Sanhedrim, including
that of her grandfather, Benoni, who had thus been forced to show the
triumph of patriotism over kinship.

This done the end of the chain was made fast round her middle and
riveted with a hammer in such fashion that she could not possibly
escape its grip. Then all being finished the men prepared to leave.
First, however, Simeon addressed her:

“Stay here, accursed traitress, till your bones fall piecemeal from
that chain,” he said, “stay, through storm and shine, through light and
darkness, while Roman and Jew alike make merry of your sufferings,
which, if my voice had been listened to, would have been shorter, but
more cruel. Daughter of Satan, go back to Satan and let the Son of the
carpenter save you if he can.”

“Spare to revile the maid,” broke in Caleb furiously, “for curses are
spears that fall on the heads of those that throw them.”

“Had I my will,” answered the Rabbi, “a spear should fall upon your
head, insolent, who dare to rebuke your elders. Begone before me, and
be sure of this, that if you strive to return here it shall be for the
last time. More is known about you, Caleb, than you think, and perhaps
you also would make friends among the Romans.”

Caleb made no answer, for he knew the venom and power of this Zealot
Simeon, who was the chosen friend and instrument of the savage John of
Gischala. Only he looked at Miriam with sad eyes, and, muttering “You
would have it so, I can do no more. Farewell,” left her to her fate.

So there in the red light of the sunset, with her hands bound, a
placard setting out her shame upon her breast, and chained like a wild
beast to the column of marble, Miriam was left alone. Walking as near
to the little battlement as the length of her chain would allow, she
looked down into the Court of Israel, where many of the Zealots had
gathered to catch sight of her. So soon as they saw her they yelled and
hooted and cast a shower of stones, one of which struck her on the
shoulder. With a little cry of pain she ran back as far as she could
reach on the further side of the pillar. Hence she could see the great
Court of Women, whence the Gate Nicanor was approached by fifteen steps
forming the half of a circle and fashioned of white marble. This court
now was nothing but a camp, for the outer Court of the Gentiles having
been taken by the Romans, their battering rams were working at its
walls.

Then the night fell, but brought no peace with it, for the rams smote
continually, and since they were not strong enough to break through the
huge stones of the mighty wall, the Romans renewed their attempt to
take them by storm in the hours of darkness. But, indeed, it was no
darkness, for the Jews lit fires upon the top of the wall, and by their
light drove off the attacking Romans. Again and again, from her lofty
perch, Miriam could see the scaling ladders appear above the crest of
the wall. Then up them would come long lines of men, each holding a
shield above his head. As the foremost of these scrambled on to the
wall, the waiting Jews rushed at them and cut them down with savage
shouts, while other Jews seizing the rungs of the ladder, thrust it
from the coping to fall with its living load back into the ditch
beneath. Once there were great cries of joy, for two standard-bearers
had come up the ladders carrying their ensigns with them. The men were
overpowered and the ensigns captured to be waved derisively at the
Romans beneath, who answered the insult with sullen roars of rage.

So things went on till at length the legionaries, wearying of this
desperate fighting, took another counsel. Hitherto Titus had desired to
preserve all the Temple, even to the outer courts and cloisters, but
now he commanded that the gates, built of great beams of cedar and
overlaid with silver plates, should be fired. Through a storm of spears
and arrows soldiers rushed up to them and thrust lighted brands into
every joint and hinge. They caught, and presently the silver plates ran
down their blazing surface in molten streams of metal. Nor was this
all, for from the gates the fire spread to the cloisters on either
side, nor did the outworn Jews attempt to stay its ravages. They drew
back sullenly, and seated in groups upon the paving of the Court of
Women, watching the circle of devouring flame creep slowly on. At
length the sun rose. Now the Romans were labouring to extinguish the
fire at the gateway, and to make a road over the ruins by which they
might advance. When it was done at last, with shouts of triumph the
legionaries, commanded by Titus himself and accompanied by a body of
horsemen, advanced into the Court of Women. Back before them fled the
Jews, pouring up the steps of the Gate Nicanor, on the roof of which
Miriam was chained to her pinnacle. But of her they took no note, none
had time to think, or even to look at a single girl bound there on high
in punishment for some offence, of which the most of them knew nothing.
Only they manned the walls to right and left, and held the gateway, but
to the roof where Miriam was they did not climb, because its parapet
was too low to shelter them from the arrows of their assailants.

The Romans saw her, however, for she perceived that some of his
officers were pointing her out to a man on horseback, clad in splendid
armour, over which fell a purple cloak, whom she took to be Titus
himself. Also one of the soldiers shot an arrow at her which struck
upon the spiked column above her head and, rebounding, fell at her
feet. Titus noted this, for she saw the man brought before him, and by
his gestures gathered that the general was speaking to him angrily.
After this no more arrows were shot at her, and she understood that
their curiosity being stirred by the sight of a woman chained upon a
gateway, they did not wish to do her mischief.

Now the August sun shone out from a cloudless sky till the hot air
danced above the roofs of the Temple and the pavings of the courts, and
the thousands shut within their walls were glad to crowd into the
shadow to shelter from its fiery beams. But Miriam could not escape
them thus. In the morning and again in the afternoon she was able
indeed, by creeping round it, to take refuge in the narrow line of
shade thrown by the marble column to which she was made fast. At
mid-day, however, it flung no shadow, so for all those dreadful hours
she must pant in the burning heat without a drop of water to allay her
thirst. Still she bore it till at length came evening and its cool.

That day the Romans made no attack, nor did the Jews attempt a sally.
Only some of the lighter of the engines were brought into the Court of
Women, whence they hurled their great stones and heavy darts into the
Court of Israel beyond. Miriam watched these missiles as they rushed by
her, once or twice so close that the wind they made stirred her hair.
The sight fascinated her and took her mind from her own sufferings. She
could see the soldiers working at the levers and pulleys till the
strings of the catapult or the boards of the balista were drawn to
their places. Then the darts or the stones were set in the groove
prepared to receive it, a cord was pulled and the missile sped upon its
way, making an angry humming noise as it clove the air. At first it
looked small; then approaching it grew large, to become small again to
her following sight as its journey was accomplished. Sometimes, the
stones, which did more damage than the darts, fell upon the paving and
bounded along it, marking their course by fragments of shattered marble
and a cloud of dust. At others, directed by an evil fate, they crashed
into groups of Jews, destroying all they touched. Wandering to and fro
among these people was that crazed man Jesus, the son of Annas, who had
met them with his wild prophetic cry as they entered into Jerusalem,
and whose ill-omened voice Miriam had heard again before Marcus was
taken at the fight in the Old Tower. To and fro he went, none hindering
him, though many thrust their fingers in their ears and looked aside as
he passed, wailing forth: “Woe, woe to Jerusalem! Woe to the city and
the Temple!” Of a sudden, as Miriam watched, he was still for a moment,
then throwing up his arms, cried in a piercing voice, “Woe, woe to
myself!” Before the echo of his words had died against the Temple
walls, a great stone cast from the Court of Women rushed upon him
through the air and felled him to the earth. On it went with vast
bounds, but Jesus, the son of Annas, lay still. Now, in the hour of the
accomplishment of his prophecy, his pilgrimage was ended.

All the day the cloisters that surrounded the Court of Women burned
fiercely, but the Jews, whose heart was out of them, did not sally
forth, and the Romans made no attack upon the inner Court of Israel. At
length the last rays of the setting sun struck upon the slopes of the
Mount of Olives, the white tents of the Roman camps, and the hundreds
of crosses, each bearing its ghastly burden, that filled the Valley of
Jehoshaphat and climbed up the mountain sides wherever space could be
found for them to stand. Then over the tortured, famished city down
fell the welcome night. To none was it more welcome than to Miriam, for
with it came a copious dew which seemed to condense upon the gilded
spike of her marble pillar, whence it trickled so continually, that by
licking a little channel in the marble, she was enabled, before it
ceased, to allay the worst pangs of her thirst. This dew gathered upon
her hair, bared neck and garments, so that through them also she seemed
to take in moisture and renew her life. After this she slept a while,
expecting always to be awakened by some fresh conflict. But on that
night none took place, the fight was for the morrow. Meanwhile there
was peace.

Miriam dreamed in her uneasy sleep, and in this dream many visions came
to her. She saw this sacred hill of Moriah, whereon the Temple stood,
as it had been in the beginning, a rugged spot clothed with ungrafted
carob trees and olives, and inhabited, not of men, but by wild boars
and the hyænas that preyed upon their young. Almost in its centre lay a
huge black stone. To this stone came a man clad in the garb of the
Arabs of the desert, and with him a little lad whom he bound upon the
stone as though to offer him in sacrifice. Then, as he was about to
plunge a knife into his heart, a glory shone round the place, and a
voice cried to him to hold his hand. That was a vision of the offering
of Isaac. It passed, and there came another vision.

Again she saw the sacred height of Moriah, and lo! a Temple stood upon
it, a splendid building, but not that which she knew, and in front of
this Temple the same black rock. On the rock, where once the lad had
been bound, was an altar, and before the altar a glorious man clad in
priestly robes, who offered sacrifice of lambs and oxen and in a
sonorous voice gave praise to Jehovah in the presence of a countless
host of people. This she knew was the vision of Solomon the King.

It passed, and lo! by this same black rock stood another man, pale and
eager-faced, with piercing eyes, who reproached the worshippers in the
Temple because of the wickedness of their hearts, and drove them from
before him with a scourge of cords. This she knew was a vision of
Jesus, the Son of Mary, that Messiah Whom she worshipped, for as He
drove out the people He prophesied the desolation that should fall upon
them, and as they fled they mocked Him.

The picture passed, and again she saw the black rock, but now it lay
beneath a gilded dome and light fell upon it through painted windows.
About it moved many priests whose worship was strange to her, and so
they seemed to move for ages. At length the doors of that dome were
burst open, and upon the priests rushed fair-faced, stately-looking
men, clad in white mail and bearing upon their shields and breastplates
the symbol of the Cross. They slaughtered the votaries of the strange
worship, and once more the rock was red with blood. Now they were gone
in turn and other priests moved beneath the dome, but the Cross had
vanished thence, and its pinnacles were crowned with crescents.

That vision passed, and there came another of dim, undistinguishable
hordes that tore down the crescents and slaughtered the ministers of
the strange faith, and gave the domed temple to the flames.

That vision passed, and once more the summit of Mount Moriah was as it
had been in the beginning: the wild olive and the wild fig flourished
among its desolate terraces, the wild boar roamed beneath their shade,
and there were none to hunt him. Only the sunlight and the moonlight
still beat upon the ancient Rock of Sacrifice.

That vision passed, and lo! around the rock, filling the Valley of
Jehoshaphat and the valleys beyond, and the Mount of Olives and the
mountains above, yes, and the empty air between earth and sky, further
than the eye could reach, stood, rank upon rank, all the countless
million millions of mankind, all the millions that had been and were
yet to be, gazing, every one of them, anxiously and in utter silence
upon the scarred and naked Rock of Sacrifice. Now upon the rock there
grew a glory so bright that at the sight of it all the millions of
millions abased their eyes. And from the glory pealed forth a voice of
a trumpet, that seemed to say:

“This is the end and the beginning, all things are accomplished in
their order, now is the day of Decision.”

Then, in her dream, the sun turned red as blood and the stars seemed to
fall and winds shook the world, and darkness covered it, and in the
winds and the darkness were voices, and standing upon the rock, its
arms stretched east and west, a cross of fire, and filling the heavens
above the cross, company upon company of angels. This last vision of
judgment passed also and Miriam awoke again from her haunted,
horror-begotten sleep, to see the watch-fires of the Romans burning in
the Court of Women before her, and from the Court of Israel behind her,
where they were herded like cattle in the slaughterer’s yard, to hear
the groans of the starving Jews who to-morrow were destined to the
sword.




CHAPTER XVIII
THE DEATH-STRUGGLE OF ISRAEL


Now the light began to grow, but that morning no sun rose upon the
sight of the thousands who waited for its coming. The whole heaven was
dark with a gray mist that seemed to drift up in billows from the sea,
bringing with it a salt dampness. For this mist Miriam was thankful,
since had the sun shone hotly she knew not how she would have lived
through another day. Already she grew very weak, who had suffered so
much and eaten so little, and whose only drink had been the dew, but
she felt that while the mist hid the sun her life would bide with her.

To others also this mist was welcome. Under cover of it Caleb
approached the gateway, and although he could not ascend it, as the
doors were locked and guarded, he cast on to its roof so cleverly, that
it fell almost at Miriam’s feet, a linen bag in which was a leathern
bottle containing wine and water, and with it a mouldy crust of bread,
doubtless all that he could find, or buy, or steal. Kneeling down,
Miriam loosed the string of the bag with her teeth and devoured the
crust of bread, again returning thanks that Caleb had been moved to
this thought. But from the bottle she could not drink, for her hands
being bound behind her, she was able neither to lift it nor to untie
the thong that made fast its neck. Therefore, as, notwithstanding the
dew which she had lapped, she needed drink sorely and longed also for
the use of her hands to protect herself from the tormenting attacks of
stinging gnats and carrion flies, she set herself to try to free them.

Now the gilt spike that crowned her pillar was made fast with
angle-irons let into the marble and the edge of one of these irons
projected somewhat and was rough. Looking at it the thought came into
Miriam’s mind that it might serve to rub through the cord with which
her hands were bound. So standing with her back to the pillar she began
her task, to find that it must be done little by little, since the
awkward movement wearied her, moreover, her swollen arms chafing
against the marble of the column became intolerably sore. Yet, although
the pain made her weep, from time to time she persevered. But night
fell before the frayed cord parted.

In the mist also the Romans came near to the gate, notwithstanding the
risk, for they were very curious about her, and called to her asking
why she was bound there. She replied in the Latin language, which was
understood by very few of the Jews, that it was because she had rescued
a Roman from death. Before they could speak again those who questioned
her were driven back by a shower of arrows discharged from the wall,
but in the distance she thought that she saw one of them make report to
an officer, who on receipt of it seemed to give some orders.

Meanwhile, also under cover of the mist, the Jews were preparing
themselves for battle. To the number of over four thousand men they
gathered silently in the Court of Israel. Then of a sudden the gates
were thrown open, and among them that of Nicanor. The trumpets blew a
signal and out they poured into the Court of Women, driving in the
Roman guards and outposts as sticks and straws are driven by a sudden
flood. But the legionaries beyond were warned, and locking their
shields together stood firm, so that the Jews fell back from their iron
line as such a flood falls from an opposing rock. Yet they would not
retreat, but fought furiously, killing many of the Romans, until at
length Titus charged on them at the head of a squadron of horse and
drove them back headlong through the gates. Then the Romans came on and
put those whom they had captured to the sword, but as yet they did not
attempt the storming of the gates. Only officers advanced as near to
the wall as they dared and called to the Jews to surrender, saying that
Titus desired to preserve their Temple and to spare their lives. But
the Jews answered them with insults, taunts, and mockery, and Miriam,
listening, wondered what spirit had entered into these people and made
them mad, so that they chose death and destruction rather than peace
and mercy. Then she remembered her strange visions of the night, and in
them seemed to find an answer.

Having repulsed this desperate sally the Roman officers set thousands
of men to work to attempt to extinguish the flaming cloisters, since,
notwithstanding the answer of the Jews, Titus still desired to save the
Temple. As for its defenders, beyond guarding the walls of the Court of
Israel, they did no more. Gathering in such places as were most
protected from the darts and stones thrown by the engines, they
crouched upon the ground, some in sullen silence, some beating their
breasts and rending their robes, while the women and children wailed in
their misery and hunger, throwing dust upon their heads. The Gate of
Nicanor, however, was still held by a strong guard, who suffered none
to approach it, nor did any attempt to ascend to its roof. That Caleb
still lived Miriam knew, for she had seen him, covered with dust and
blood, driven back by the charge of Roman horse up the steps of the
gateway. This, indeed, he was one of the last to pass before it was
closed and barred to keep out the pursuing Romans. After that she saw
no more of him for many a month.

So that day also, the last of the long siege, wore away. At nightfall
the thick mist cleared, and for the last time the rich rays of sunset
shone upon the gleaming roof and burning pinnacles of the Temple and
were reflected from the dazzling whiteness of its walls. Never had it
looked more beautiful than it did in that twilight as it towered, still
perfect, above the black ruins of the desolated city. The clamour and
shouting had died away, even the mourners had ceased their pitiful
cries; except the guards, the Romans had withdrawn and were eating
their evening meal, while those who worked the terrible engines ceased
from their destroying toil. Peace, an ominous peace, brooded on the
place, and everywhere, save for the flames that crackled among the
cedar-wood beams in the roofs of the cloisters, was deep silence, such
as in tropic lands precedes the bursting of a cyclone. To Miriam who
watched, it seemed as though in the midst of this unnatural quiet
Jehovah was withdrawing Himself from the house where His Spirit dwelt
and from the people who worshipped Him with their lips, but rejected
Him in their hearts. Her tormented nerves shuddered with a fear that
was not of the body, as she stared upwards at the immense arch of the
azure evening sky, half expecting that her mortal eyes would catch some
vision of the departing wings of the Angel of the Lord. But there she
could see nothing except the shapes of hundreds of high-poised eagles.
“Where the carcase is there shall the eagles be gathered together,” she
muttered to herself, and remembering that these foul birds were come to
feast upon the bones of the whole people of the Jews and upon her own,
she shut her eyes and groaned.

Then the light died on the Temple towers and faded from the pale slopes
of the mountains, and in place of the wheeling carrion birds bright
stars shone out one by one upon the black mantle of the night.

Once again, setting her teeth because of the agony that the touch of
the marble gave to her raw and swollen flesh, Miriam began to fret the
cords which bound her wrists against the rough edge of the angle-iron.
She was sure that it was nearly worn through, but oh! how could she
endure the agony until it parted? Still she did endure, for at her feet
lay the bottle, and burning thirst drove her to the deed. Suddenly her
reward came, and she felt that her arms were free; yes, numbed, swollen
and bleeding, they fell against her sides, wrenching the stiffened
muscles of her shoulders back to their place in such a fashion that she
well-nigh fainted with the pain. Still they were free, and presently
she was able to lift them, and with the help of her teeth to loose the
ends of the cord, so that the blood could run once more through her
blackened wrists and hands. Again she waited till some feeling had come
back into her fingers, which were numb and like to mortify. Then she
knelt down, and drawing the leather bottle to her, held it between her
palms, while, with her teeth, she undid its thong. The task was hard,
for it was well tied, but at length the knots gave, and Miriam drank.
So fearful was her thirst that she could have emptied the bottle at a
draught, but this she, who had lived in the desert, was too wise to do,
for she knew that it might kill her. Also when that was gone there was
no more. So she drank half of it in slow sips, then tied the string as
well as she was able and set it down again.

Now the wine, although it was mixed with water, took hold of her who
for so long had eaten nothing save a mouldy crust, so that strange
sounds drummed in her ears, and sinking down against the column she
became senseless for a while. She awoke again, feeling somewhat
refreshed and, though her head seemed as though it did not belong to
her, well able to think. Her arms also were better and her fingers had
recovered their feeling. If only she could loose that galling chain,
she thought to herself, she might escape, for now death, however strong
her faith, was very near and unlovely; also she suffered in many ways.
To die and pass quick to Heaven—that would be well, but to perish by
inches of starvation, heat, cold, and cramped limbs, with pains within
and without and a swimming sickness of the head, ah! it was hard to
bear. She knew that even were she free she could not hope to descend
the gateway by its staircase, since the doors were locked and barred,
and if she passed them it would be but to find herself among the Jews
in the vaulted chambers beneath. But, so she thought, perhaps she could
drop from the roof, which was not so very high, on to the paving in
front of the first stair, and then, if she was unhurt, run or crawl to
the Romans, who might give her shelter.

So Miriam tried to undo the chain, only to find that as well might she
hope to pull down the Gate Nicanor with her helpless hands. At this
discovery she wept, for now she grew weak. Well for Miriam was it that
she could not have her wish, for certainly had she attempted to drop
down from the gateway to the marble paving, or even on to the
battlements of the walls which ran up to it on either side, her bones
would have been shattered like the shell of an egg and she must have
perished miserably.

While she grieved thus, Miriam heard a stir in the Court of Israel, and
by the dim starlight saw that men were gathering, to do what she knew
not. Presently, as she wondered, the great gates were opened very
softly and out poured the Jews upon their last sally. Miriam was
witnessing the death-struggle of the nation of Israel. At the foot of
the marble steps they divided, one-half of them rushing towards the
cloister on the right, and the other to that upon the left. Their
object, as it seemed to her, was to slay those Roman soldiers, who, by
the command of Titus, were still engaged in fighting the flames that
devoured these beautiful buildings, and then to surprise the camp
beyond. The scheme was such as a madman might have made, seeing that
the Romans, warned by the sortie of the morning, had thrown up a wall
across the lower part of the Court of Women, and beyond that were
protected by every safeguard known to the science of ancient war. Also
the moment that the first Jew set his foot upon the staircase, watching
sentries cried out in warning and trumpets gave their call to arms.

Still, they reached the cloisters and killed a few Romans who had not
time to get away. Following those who fled, they came to the wall and
began to try to force it, when suddenly on its crest and to the rear
appeared thousands of those men whom they had hoped to destroy, every
one of them wakeful, armed and marshalled. The Jews hesitated, and,
like a living stream of steel, the Roman ranks poured over the wall.
Then, of a sudden, terror seized those unhappy men, and, with a
melancholy cry of utter despair, they turned to flee back to the Court
of Israel. But this time the Romans were not content with driving them
away, they came on with them; some of them even reached the gate before
them. Up the marble steps poured friend and foe together; together they
passed the open gate, in their mad rush sweeping away those who had
stayed to guard it, and burst into the Court of Israel. Then leaving
some to hold the gate and reinforced continually by fresh companies
from the camps within and without the Temple courts, the Romans ran on
towards the doors of the Holy House, cutting down the fugitives as they
went. Now none attempted to stand; there was no fight made; even the
bravest of the Jewish warriors, feeling that their hour was come and
that Jehovah had deserted His people, flung down their weapons and
fled, some to escape to the Upper City, more to perish on the Roman
spears.

A few attempted to take refuge in the Holy House itself, and after
these followed some Romans bearing torches in their hands. Miriam,
watching terrified from the roof of the Gate Nicanor, saw them go, the
torches floating on the dusky air like points of wind-tossed fire. Then
suddenly from a certain window on the north side of the Temple sprang
out a flame so bright that from where she stood upon the gate, Miriam
could see every detail of the golden tracery. A soldier mounted on the
shoulders of another and not knowing in his madness that he was a
destroying angel, had cast a torch into and fired the window. Up ran
the bright, devouring flame spreading outwards like a fan, so that
within some few minutes all that side of the Temple was but a roaring
furnace. Meanwhile the Romans were pressing through the Gate Nicanor in
an unending stream, till presently there was a cry of “Make way! Make
way!”

Miriam looked down to see a man, bare-headed and with close-cropped
hair, white-robed also and unarmoured, as though he had risen from his
couch, riding on a great war-horse, an ivory wand in his hand and
preceded by an officer who bore the standard of the Roman Eagles. It
was Titus itself, who as he came shouted to the centurions to beat back
the legionaries and extinguish the fire. But who now could beat them
back? As well might he have attempted to restrain the hosts of Gehenna
burst to the upper earth. They were mad with the lust of blood and the
lust of plunder, and even to the voice of their dread lord they paid no
heed.

New flames sprang up in other parts of the vast Temple. It was doomed.
The golden doors were burst open and, attended by his officers, Titus
passed through them to view for the first and last time the home of
Jehovah, God of the Jews. From chamber to chamber he passed, yes, even
into the Holy of Holies itself, whence by his command were brought out
the golden candlesticks and the golden table of shewbread, nor, since
God had deserted His habitation, did any harm come to him for that
deed.

Now the Temple which for one thousand one hundred and thirty years had
stood upon the sacred summit of Mount Moriah, went upwards in a sheet
of flame, itself the greatest of the sacrifices that had ever been
offered there; while soldiers stripped it of its gold and ornaments,
tossing the sacred vessels to each other and tearing down the silken
curtains of the shrine. Nor were victims lacking to that sacrifice, for
in their blind fury the Romans fell upon the people who were crowded in
the Court of Israel, and slew them to the number of more than ten
thousand, warrior and priest, citizen and woman and child together,
till the court swam with blood and the Rock of Offering was black with
the dead who had taken refuge there. Yet these did not perish quite
unavenged, for many of the Romans, their arms filled with priceless
spoils of gold and silver, the treasures of immemorial time, sank down
overcome by the heat, and where they fell they died.

From the Court of Israel went up one mighty wail of those who sank
beneath the sword. From the thousands of the Romans went up a savage
shout of triumph, the shout of those who put them to the sword. From
the multitude of the Jews who watched this ruin from the Upper City
went up a ceaseless scream of utter agony, and dominating all, like the
accompaniment of some fearful music, rose the fierce, triumphant roar
of fire. In straight lines and jagged pinnacles the flames soared
hundreds of feet into the still air, leaping higher and ever higher as
the white walls and gilded roofs fell in, till all the Temple was but
one gigantic furnace, near which none could bide save the dead, whose
very garments took fire as they lay upon the ground. Never, was such a
sight seen before; never, perhaps, will such a sight be seen again—one
so awesome, yet so majestic.

Now every living being whom they could find was slain, and the Romans
drew back, bearing their spoil with them. But the remainder of the
Jews, to the number of some thousands, escaped by the bridges, which
they broke down behind them, across the valley into the Upper City,
whence that piercing, sobbing wail echoed without cease. Miriam watched
till she could bear the sight no longer. The glare blinded her, the
heat of the incandescent furnace shrivelled her up, her white dress
scorched and turned brown. She crouched behind the shelter of her
pinnacle gasping for breath. She prayed that she might die, and could
not. Now she remembered the drink that remained in the leathern bottle,
and swallowed it to the last drop. Then she crouched down again against
the pillar, and lying thus her senses left her.

When they came back it was daylight, and from the heap of ashes that
had been the Temple of Herod and the most glorious building in the
whole world, rose a thick cloud of black smoke, pierced here and there
by little angry tongues of fire. The Court of Israel was strewn so
thick with dead that in places the soldiers walked on them as on a
carpet, or to be rid of them, hurled them into the smouldering ruins.
Upon the altar that stood on the Rock of Sacrifice a strange sight was
to be seen, for set up there was an object like the shaft of a lance
wreathed with what seemed to be twining snakes and surmounted by a
globe on which stood a golden eagle with outspread wings. Gathered in
front of it were a vast number of legionaries who did obeisance to this
object. They were offering worship to the Roman standards upon the
ancient altar of the God of Israel! Presently a figure rode before them
attended by a glittering staff of officers, to be greeted with a mighty
shout of “Titus _Imperator_! Titus _Imperator_!” Here on the scene of
his triumph his victorious legions named their general Cæsar.

Nor was the fighting altogether ended, for on the roofs of some of the
burning cloisters were gathered a few of the most desperate of the
survivors of the Jews, who, as the cloisters crumbled beneath them,
retreated slowly towards the Gate Nicanor, which still stood unharmed.
The Romans, weary with slaughter, called to them to come down and
surrender, but they would not, and Miriam watching them, to her horror
saw that one of these men was none other than her grandfather, Benoni.
As they would not yield, the Romans shot at them with arrows, so that
presently every one of them was down except Benoni, whom no dart seemed
to touch.

“Cease shooting,” cried a voice, “and bring a ladder. That man is brave
and one of the Sanhedrim. Let him be taken alive.”

A ladder was brought and reared against the wall near the Gate Nicanor
and up it came Romans. Benoni retreated before them till he stood upon
the edge of the gulf of advancing fire. Then he turned round and faced
them. As he turned he caught sight of Miriam huddled at the base of her
column upon the roof of the gate, and thinking that she was dead, wrung
his hands and tore his beard. She guessed his grief, but so weak and
parched was she, that she could call no word of comfort to him, or do
more than watch the end with fascinated eyes.

The soldiers came on along the top of the wall till they feared to
approach nearer to the fire, lest they should fall through the burning
rafters.

“Yield!” they cried. “Yield, fool, before you perish! Titus gives you
your life.”

“That he may drag me, an elder of Israel, in chains through the streets
of Rome,” answered the old Jew scornfully. “Nay, I will not yield, and
I pray God that the same end which you have brought upon this city and
its children, may fall upon your city and its children at the hands of
men even more cruel than yourselves.”

Then stooping down he lifted a spear which lay upon the wall and hurled
it at them so fiercely, that it transfixed the buckler of one of the
soldiers and the arm behind the buckler.

“Would that it had been your heart, heathen, and the heart of all your
race!” he screamed, and lifting his hands as though in invocation,
suddenly plunged headlong into the flames beneath.

Thus, fierce and brave to the last, died Benoni the Jew.

Again Miriam fainted, again to be awakened. The door that led from the
gate chambers to its roof burst open and through it sped a figure
bare-headed and dishevelled, his torn raiment black with blood and
smoke. Staring at him, Miriam knew the man for Simeon—yes, Simeon, her
cruel judge, who had doomed her to this dreadful end. After him,
gripping his robe indeed, came a Roman officer, a stout man of middle
age, with a weather-beaten kindly face, which in some dim way seemed to
be familiar to her, and after him again, six soldiers.

“Hold him!” he panted. “We must have one of them to show if only that
the people may know what a live Jew is like,” and the officer tugged so
fiercely at the robe that in his struggles to be free, for he also
hoped to die by casting himself from the gateway tower, Simeon fell
down.

Next instant the soldiers were on him and held him fast. Then it was
for the first time that the captain caught sight of Miriam crouched at
the foot of her pillar.

“Why,” he said, “I had forgotten. That is the girl whom we saw
yesterday from the Court of Women and whom we have orders to save. Is
the poor thing dead?”

Miriam lifted her wan face and looked at him.

“By Bacchus!” he said, “I have seen that face before; it is not one
that a man would forget. Ah! I have it now.” Then he stooped and
eagerly read the writing that was tied upon her breast:

_“Miriam, Nazarene and traitress, is doomed here to die as God shall
appoint before the face of her friends, the Romans.”_

“Miriam,” he said, then started and checked himself.

“Look!” cried one of the soldiers, “the girl wears pearls, and good
ones. Is it your pleasure that I should cut them off?”

“Nay, let them be,” he answered. “Neither she nor her pearls are for
any of us. Loosen her chain, not her necklet.”

So with much trouble they broke the rivets of the chain.

“Can you stand, lady?” said the captain to Miriam.

She shook her head.

“Then I needs must carry you,” and stooping down he lifted her in his
strong arms as though she had been but a child, and, bidding the
soldiers bring the Jew Simeon with them, slowly and with great care
descended the staircase up which Miriam had been taken more than sixty
hours before.

Passing through the outer doors into the archway where the great gate
by which the Romans had gained access to the Temple stood wide, the
captain turned into the Court of Israel, where some soldiers who were
engaged in dividing spoil looked up laughing and asked him whose baby
he had captured. Paying no heed to them he walked across the court,
picking his way through the heaps of dead to a range of the southern
cloisters which were still standing, where officers might be seen
coming and going. Under one of these cloisters, seated on a stool and
employed in examining the vessels and other treasures of the Temple,
which were brought before him one by one, was Titus. Looking up he saw
this strange procession and commanded that they should be brought
before him.

“Who is it that you carry in your arms, captain?” he asked.

“That girl, Cæsar,” he answered, “who was bound upon the gateway and
whom you have orders should not be shot at.”

“Does she still live?”

“She lives—no more. Thirst and heat have withered her.”

“How came she there?”

“This writing tells you, Cæsar.”

Titus read. “Ah!” he said, “Nazarene. An evil sect, worse even than
these Jews, or so thought the late divine Nero. Traitress also. Why,
the girl must have deserved her fate. But what is this? ‘Is doomed to
die as God shall appoint before the face of her friends, the Romans.’
How are the Romans her friends, I wonder? Girl, if you can speak, tell
me who condemned you.”

Miriam lifted her dark head from the shoulder of the captain on which
it lay and pointed with her finger at the Jew, Simeon.

“Is that so, man?” asked Cæsar. “Now tell the truth, for I shall learn
it, and if you lie you die.”

“She was condemned by the Sanhedrim, among whom was her own
grandfather, Benoni; there is his signature with the rest upon the
scroll,” Simeon answered sullenly.

“For what crime?”

“Because she suffered a Roman prisoner to escape, for which deed,” he
added furiously, “may her soul burn in Gehenna for ever and aye!”

“What was the name of the prisoner?” asked Titus.

“I do not remember,” answered Simeon.

“Well,” said Cæsar, “it does not greatly matter, for either he is safe
or he is dead. Your robes, what are left of them, show that you also
are one of the Sanhedrim. Is it not so?”

“Yes. I am Simeon, a name that you have heard.”

“Ah! Simeon, here it is, written on this scroll first of all. Well,
Simeon, you doomed a high-born lady to a cruel death because she saved,
or tried to save, a Roman soldier, and it is but just that you should
drink of your own wine. Take him and fasten him to the column on the
gateway and leave him there to perish. Your Holy House is destroyed,
Simeon, and being a faithful priest, you would not wish to survive your
worship.”

“There you are right, Roman,” he answered, “though I should have been
better pleased with a quicker end, such as I trust may overtake you.”

Then they led him off, and presently Simeon appeared upon the gateway
with Miriam’s chain about his middle and Miriam’s rope knotted afresh
about his wrists.

“Now for this poor girl,” went on Titus Cæsar. “It seems that she is a
Nazarene, a sect of which all men speak ill, for they try to subvert
authority and preach doctrines that would bring the world to ruin. Also
she was false to her own people, which is a crime, though one in this
instance whereof we Romans cannot complain. Therefore, if only for the
sake of example it would be wrong to set her free; indeed, to do so,
would be to give her to death. My command is, then, that she shall be
taken good care of, and if she recovers, be sent to Rome to adorn my
Triumph, should the gods grant me such a thing, and afterwards be sold
as a slave for the benefit of the wounded soldiers and the poor.
Meanwhile, who will take charge of her?”

“I,” said that officer who had freed Miriam. “There is an old woman who
tends my tent, who can nurse her in her sickness.”

“Understand, friend,” answered Titus, “that no harm is to be done to
this girl, who is my property.”

“I understand, O Cæsar,” said the officer. “She shall be treated as
though she were my daughter.”

“Good. You who are present, remember his words and my decree. In Rome,
if we live to reach it, you shall give account to me of the captive
lady, Miriam. Now take her away, for there are greater matters to be
dealt with than the fortunes of this girl.”




CHAPTER XIX
PEARL-MAIDEN


Many days had gone by, but still the fighting was not ended, for the
Jews continued to hold the Upper City. As it chanced, however, in one
of the assaults upon it that officer who had rescued Miriam was badly
hurt by a spear-thrust in the leg, so that he could be of no more
service in this war. Therefore, because he was a man whom Titus
trusted, he was ordered to sail with others of the sick for Rome,
taking in his charge much of the treasure that had been captured, and
for this purpose travelled down to Tyre, whence his vessel was to put
to sea. In obedience to the command of Cæsar he had carried the captive
Miriam to the camp of his legion upon the Mount of Olives, and there
placed her in a tent, where an old slave-woman tended her. For a while
it was not certain whether she should live or die, for her sufferings
and all that she had seen brought her so near to death that it was hard
to keep her from passing its half-opened gates. Still, with good food
and care, the strength came back to her body. But in mind Miriam
remained sick, since during all these weeks she wandered in her talk,
so that no word of reason passed her lips.

Now, many would have wearied of her and thrust her out to take her
chance with hundreds of other poor creatures who roamed about the land
until they perished or were enslaved of Arabs. But this Roman did not
act thus; in truth, as he had promised it should be, had she been his
daughter, Miriam would not have been better tended. Whenever his duties
gave him time he would sit with her, trying to beguile her madness, and
after he himself was wounded, from morning to night they were together,
till at length the poor girl grew to love him in a crazy fashion, and
would throw her arms about his neck and call him “uncle,” as in the old
days she had named the Essenes. Moreover, she learned to know the
soldiers of that legion, who became fond of her and would bring her
offerings of fruit and winter flowers, or of aught else that they
thought would please her. So when the captain received his orders to
proceed to Tyre with the treasure and take ship there, he and his guard
took Miriam with them, and journeying easily, reached the city on the
eighth day.

As it chanced their ship was not ready, so they camped on the outskirts
of Paleotyrus, and by a strange accident in that very garden which had
been the property of Benoni. This place they reached after sunset one
evening and set up their tents, that of Miriam and the old slave-woman
being placed on the seashore next to the tent of her protector. This
night she slept well, and being awakened at the dawn by the murmur of
the sea among the rocks, went to the door of the tent and looked out.
All the camp was sleeping, for here they had no enemy to fear, and a
great calm lay upon the sea and land. Presently the mist lifted and the
rays of the rising sun poured across the blue ocean and its gray,
bordering coast.

With that returning light, as it happened, the light returned also into
Miriam’s darkened mind. She became aware that this scene was familiar;
she recognised the outlines of the proud and ancient island town. More,
she remembered that garden; yes, there assuredly was the palm-tree
beneath which she had often sat, and there the rock, under whose shadow
grew white lilies, where she had rested with Nehushta when the Roman
captain brought her the letter and the gifts from Marcus. Instinctively
Miriam put her hand to her neck. About it still hung the collar of
pearls, and on the pearls the ring which the slave-woman had found in
her hair and tied there for safety. She took off the ring and placed it
back upon her finger. Then she walked to the rock, sat down and tried
to think. But for this, as yet her mind was not strong enough, for
there rose up in it vision after vision of blood and fire, which
crushed and overwhelmed her. All that went before the siege was clear,
the rest one red confusion.

While she sat thus the Roman captain hobbled from his pavilion, resting
on a crutch, for his leg was still lame and shrivelled. First he went
to Miriam’s tent to inquire after her of the old woman, as was his
custom at the daybreak, then, learning that she had gone out of it,
looked round for her. Presently he perceived her sitting in the shade
of the rock gazing at the sea, and followed to join her.

“Good morning to you, daughter,” he said. “How have you slept after
your long journey?” and paused, expecting to be answered with some
babbling, gentle nonsense such as flowed from Miriam’s lips in her
illness. But instead of this she rose and stood before him looking
confused. Then she replied:

“Sir, I thank you, I have slept well; but tell me, is not yonder town
Tyre, and is not this the garden of my grandfather, Benoni, where I
used to wander? Nay, how can it be? So long has passed since I walked
in this garden, and so many things have happened—terrible, terrible
things which I cannot remember,” and she hid her eyes in her hand and
moaned.

“Don’t try to remember them,” he said cheerfully. “There is so much in
life that it is better to forget. Yes, this is Tyre, sure enough. You
could not recognise it last night because it was too dark, and this
garden, I am told, did belong to Benoni. Who it belongs to now I do not
know. To you, I suppose, and through you to Cæsar.”

Now while he spoke thus somewhat at random, for he was watching her all
the while, Miriam kept her eyes fixed upon his face, as though she
searched there for something which she could but half recall. Suddenly
an inspiration entered into them and she said:

“Now I have it! You are the Roman captain, Gallus, who brought me the
letter from——” and she paused, thrusting her hand into the bosom of her
robe, then went on with something like a sob: “Oh! it is gone. How did
it go? Let me think.”

“Don’t think,” said Gallus; “there are so many things in the world
which it is better not to think about. Yes, as it happens, I am that
man, and some years ago I did bring you the letter from Marcus, called
The Fortunate. Also, as it chanced, I never forgot your sweet face and
knew it again at a time when it was well that you should find a friend.
No, we won’t talk about it now. Look, the old slave calls you. It is
time that you should break your fast, and I also must eat and have my
wound dressed. Afterwards we will talk.”

All that morning Miriam saw nothing more of Gallus. Indeed, he did not
mean that she should, since he was sure that her new-found sense ought
not to be overstrained at first, lest it should break down again, never
to recover. So she went out and sat alone by the garden beach, for the
soldiers had orders to respect her privacy, and gazed at the sea.

As she sat thus in quiet, event by event the terrible past came back to
her. She remembered it all now—their flight from Tyre; the march into
Jerusalem; the sojourn in the dark with the Essenes; the Old Tower and
what befell there; the escape of Marcus; her trial before the
Sanhedrim; the execution of her sentence upon the gateway; and then
that fearful night when the flames of the burning Temple scorched to
her very brain, and the sights and sounds of slaughter withered her
heart. After this she could recall but one more thing—the vision of the
majestic figure of Benoni standing against a background of black smoke
upon the lofty cloister-roof and defying the Romans before he plunged
headlong in the flames beneath. Of her rescue on the roof of the Gate
Nicanor, of her being carried before Titus Cæsar in the arms of Gallus,
and of his judgment concerning her she recollected nothing. Nor,
indeed, did she ever attain to a clear memory of those events, while
the time between them and the recovery of her reason by the seashore in
the garden at Tyre always remained a blank. That troubled fragment of
her life was sunk in a black sea of oblivion.

At length the old woman came to summon Miriam to her midday meal, and
led her, not to her own tent, but to that which was pitched to serve as
an eating-place for the captain, Gallus. As she went she saw knots of
soldiers gathered across her path as though to intercept her, and
turned to fly, for the sight of them brought back the terrors of the
siege.

“Have no fear of them,” said the old woman, smiling. “Ill would it go
here with him who dared to lift a finger against their Pearl-Maiden.”

“Pearl-Maiden! Why?” asked Miriam.

“That is what they call you, because of the necklace that was upon your
breast when you were captured, which you wear still. As for why—well, I
suppose because they love you, the poor sick thing they nursed. They
have heard that you are better and gather to give you joy of it; that
is all.”

Sure enough, the words were true, for, as Miriam approached, these
rough legionaries cheered and clapped their hands, while one of them,
an evil-looking fellow with a broken nose, who was said to have
committed great cruelties during the siege, came forward bowing and
presented her with a handful of wild-flowers, which he must have
collected with some trouble, since, at this season of the year they
were not common. She took them, and being still weak, burst into tears.

“Why should you treat me thus,” she asked, “who am, as I understand,
but a poor captive?”

“Nay, nay,” answered a sergeant, with an uncouth oath. “It is we who
are your captives, Pearl-Maiden, and we are glad, because your mind has
come to you, though, seeing how sweet you were without it, we do not
know that it can better you very much.”

“Oh! friends, friends,” began Miriam, then once more broke down.

Meanwhile, hearing the disturbance Gallus had come from his tent and
was hobbling towards them, when suddenly he caught sight of the tears
upon Miriam’s face and broke out into such language as could only be
used by a Roman officer of experience.

“What have you been doing to her, you cowardly hounds?” he shouted. “By
Cæsar and the Standards, if one of you has even said a word that she
should not hear, he shall be flogged until the bones break through his
skin,” and his very beard bristling with wrath, Gallus uttered a series
of the most fearful maledictions upon the head of that supposed
offender, his female ancestry, and his descendants.

“Your pardon, captain,” said the sergeant, “but _you_ are uttering many
words that no maiden should hear.”

“Do you dare to argue with me, you foul-tongued camp scavenger?”
shouted Gallus. “Here, guard, lash him to that tree! Fear not,
daughter; the insult shall be avenged; we shall teach his dirty tongue
to sing another tune,” and again he cursed him, naming him by new
names.

“Oh! sir, sir,” broke in Miriam, “what are you about to do? This man
offered me no insult, none of them offered me anything except kind
words and flowers.”

“Then how is it that you weep?” asked Gallus suspiciously.

“I wept, being still weak, because they who are conquerors were so kind
to one who is a slave and an outcast.”

“Oh!” said Gallus. “Well, guard, you need not tie him up this time, but
after all I take back nothing that I have said, seeing that in this way
or in that they did make you weep. What business had they to insult you
with their kindness? Men, henceforth you will be so good as to remember
that this maiden is the property of Titus Cæsar, and after Cæsar, of
myself, in whose charge he placed her. If you have any offerings to
make to her, and I do not dissuade you from that practice, they must be
made through me. Meanwhile, there is a cask of wine, that good old
stuff from the Lebanon which I had bought for the voyage. If you should
wish to drink the health of our—our captive, it is at your service.”

Then taking Miriam by the hand he led her into the eating-tent, still
grumbling at the soldiers, who for their part laughed and sent for the
wine. They knew their captain’s temper, who had served with them
through many a fight, and knew also that this crazed Pearl-Maiden whom
he saved had twined herself into his heart, as was her fortune with
most men of those among whom from time to time fate drove her to seek
shelter.

In the tent Miriam found two places set, one for herself and one for
the captain Gallus.

“Don’t talk to me,” he said, “but sit down and eat, for little enough
you have swallowed all the time you were sick, and we sail to-morrow
evening at the latest, after which, unless you differ from most women,
little enough will you swallow on these winter seas until it pleases
whatever god we worship to bring us to the coasts of Italy. Now here
are oysters brought by runner from Sidon, and I command that you eat
six of them before you say a word.”

So Miriam ate the oysters obediently, and after the oysters, fish, and
after the fish the breast of a woodcock. But from the autumn lamb,
roasted whole, which followed, she was forced to turn.

“Send it out to the soldiers,” she suggested, and it was sent as her
gift.

“Now, my captive,” said Gallus, drawing his stool near to her, “I want
you to tell me what you can remember of your story. Ah! you don’t know
that for many days past we have dined together and that it had been
your fashion to sit with your arm round my old neck and call me your
uncle. Nay, child, you need not blush, for I am more than old enough to
be your father, let alone your uncle, and nothing but a father shall I
ever be to you.”

“Why are you so good to me?” asked Miriam.

“Why? Oh! for several reasons. First, you were the friend of a comrade
of mine who often talked of you, but who now is dead. Secondly, you
were a sick and helpless thing whom I chanced to rescue in the great
slaughter, and who ever since has been my companion; and thirdly—yes, I
will say it, though I do not love to talk of that matter, I had a
daughter, who died, and who, had she lived, would have been of about
your age. Your eyes remind me of hers—there, is that not enough?

“But now for the story. Stay. I will tell you what I know of it.
Marcus, he whom they called The Fortunate, but whose fortune has
deserted him, was in love with you—like the rest of us. Often he talked
to me of you in Rome, where we were friends after a fashion, though he
was set far above me, and by me sent to you that letter which I
delivered here in this garden, and the trinket that you wear about your
neck, and if I remember right, with it a ring—yes, it is upon your
finger. Well, I took note of you at the time and went my way to the
war, and when I chanced to find you lately upon the top of the Gate
Nicanor, although you were more like a half-burnt cinder than a fair
maiden, I knew you again and carried you off to Cæsar, who named you
his slave and bade me take charge of you and deliver you to him in
Rome. Now I want to know how you came to be upon that gateway.”

So Miriam began and told him all her tale, while he listened patiently.
When she had done he rose and, limping round the little table, bent
over and kissed her solemnly upon the brow.

“By all the gods of the Romans, Greeks, Christians, Jews, and barbarian
nations, you are a noble-hearted woman,” he said, “and that kiss is my
tribute to you. Little wonder that puppy, Marcus, is called The
Fortunate, since, even when he deserved to die who suffered himself to
be taken alive, you appeared to save him—to save him, by Venus, at the
cost of your own sweet self. Well, most noble traitress, what now?”

“I ask that question of you, Gallus. What now? Marcus, whom you should
call no ill name, and who was overwhelmed through no fault of his own,
fighting like a hero, has vanished——”

“Across the Styx, I fear me. Indeed that would be best for him, since
no Roman must be taken prisoner and live.”

“Nay, I think not, or at the least I hope he lives. My servant,
Nehushta, would nurse him for my sake, and for my sake the Essenes,
among whom I dwelt, would guard him, even to the loss of their own
lives. Unless his wound killed him I believe that Marcus is alive
to-day.”

“And if that is so you wish to communicate with him?”

“What else, Gallus? Say, what fate will befall me when I reach Rome?”

“You will be kept safe till Titus comes. Then, according to his
command, you must walk in his Triumph, and after that, unless he
changes his mind, which is not likely, since he prides himself upon
never having reversed a decree, however hastily it was made, or even
added to or taken from a judgment, you must, alas! be set up in the
Forum and sold as a slave to the highest bidder.”

“Sold as a slave to the highest bidder!” repeated Miriam faintly. “That
is a poor fate for a woman, is it not? Had it been that daughter of
yours who died, for instance, you would have thought it a poor fate for
her, would you not?”

“Do not speak of it, do not speak of it,” muttered Gallus into his
beard. “Well, in this, as in other things, let us hope that fortune
will favour you.”

“I should like Marcus to learn that I am to march in the Triumph, and
afterwards to be set up in the Forum and sold as a slave to the highest
bidder,” said Miriam.

“I should like Marcus to learn—but, in the name of the gods—how is he
to learn, if he still lives? Look you, we sail to-morrow night. What do
you wish me to do?”

“I wish you to send a messenger to Marcus bearing a token from me to
him.”

“A messenger! What messenger? Who can find him? I can despatch a
soldier, but your Marcus is with the Essenes, who for their own sakes
will keep him fast enough as a hostage, if they have cured him. Also
the Essenes live, according to your story, in some hyæna-burrow,
opening out of an underground quarry in Jerusalem, that is, if they
have not been discovered and killed long ago. How, then, will any
soldier find their hiding-place?”

“I do not think that such a man would find it,” answered Miriam, “but I
have friends in this city, and if I could come at them I might discover
one who would meet with better fortune. You know that I am a Christian
who was brought up among the Essenes, both of them persecuted people
that have their secrets. If I find a Christian or an Essene he would
take my message and—unless he was killed—deliver it.”

Now Gallus thought for a while, then he said, “If I were to go out in
Tyre asking for Christians or Essenes, none would appear. As well might
a stork go out and call upon a frog. But that old slave-woman, who has
tended on me and you, she is cunning in her way, and if I promised to
set her at liberty should she succeed, well, perhaps she might succeed.
Stay, I will summon her,” and he left the tent.

Some minutes later he returned, bringing the slave with him.

“I have explained the matter to this woman, Miriam,” he said, “and I
think that she understands, and can prove to any who are willing to
visit you, that they will have a free pass in to and out of the camp,
and need fear no harm. Tell her, then, where she is to go and whom she
must seek.”

So Miriam told the woman, saying, “Tell any Essene whom you can find
that she who is called their Queen, bids his presence, and if he asks
more, give him this word—‘The sun rises.’ Tell any Christian whom you
can find that Miriam, their sister, seeks his aid, and if he asks more,
give him this word—‘The dawn comes.’ Do you understand?”

“I understand,” answered the woman.

“Then go,” said Gallus, “and be back by nightfall, remembering that if
you fail, in place of liberty you travel to Rome, whence you will
return no more.”

“My lord, I go,” answered the woman, beating her forehead with her hand
and bowing herself from their presence.

By nightfall she was back again with the tidings that no Christians
seemed to be left in Tyre; all had fled to Pella, or elsewhere. Of the
Essenes, however, she had found one, a minor brother of the name of
Samuel, who, on hearing that Miriam was the captive, and receiving the
watchword, said that he would visit the camp after dark, although he
greatly feared that this might be some snare set to catch him.

After dark he came accordingly, and was led by the old woman, who
waited outside to meet him, to the tent where Miriam sat with Gallus.
This Samuel proved to be a brother of the lowest order of the Essenes,
whom, although he knew of her, Miriam had never seen. He had been
absent from the village by the Jordan at the time of the flight of the
sect, having come to Tyre by leave of the Court to bid farewell to his
mother, who was on her deathbed. Hearing that the brethren had fled,
and his mother being still alive, he had remained in Tyre instead of
seeking to rejoin them at Jerusalem, thus escaping the terrors of the
siege. That was all his story. Now, having buried his mother, he
desired to rejoin the brotherhood, if any of them were left alive.

After Gallus had left the tent, since it was not lawful that she should
speak of their secrets in the presence of any man who was not of the
order, Miriam, having first satisfied herself that he was in truth a
brother, told this Samuel all she knew of the hiding-place of the
Essenes beyond the ancient quarry, and asked him if he was willing to
try to seek it out. He said yes, for he desired to find them; also he
was bound to give her what help he could, since should the brethren
discover that he had refused it, he would be expelled from their order.
Then, having pledged him to be faithful to her trust, not by oath,
which the Essenes held unlawful, but in accordance with their secret
custom which was known to her, she took from her hand the ring that
Marcus had sent her, bidding him find out the Essenes, and, if their
Roman prisoner was yet alive, and among them, to deliver it to him with
a message telling him of her fate and whither she had gone. If he was
dead, or not to be found anywhere, then he was to deliver the ring to
the Libyan woman named Nehushta, with the same message. If he could not
find her either, then to her uncle Ithiel, or, failing him, to whoever
was president of the Essenes, with the same message, praying any or all
of them to succour her in her troubles, should that be possible. At the
least they were to let her have tidings at the house of Gallus, the
captain, in Rome, where he proposed to place her in charge of his wife
until the time came for her to be handed over to Titus and to walk in
the Triumph. Moreover, in case the brother should forget, she wrote a
letter that he might deliver to any of those for whom she gave the
message. In this letter Miriam set out briefly all that had befallen
her since that night of parting in the Old Tower, and by the help of
Gallus, whom she now recalled to the tent, the particulars of her
rescue and of the judgment of Cæsar upon her person, ending it with
these words:

“If it be the will of God and your will, O you who may read this
letter, haste, haste to help me, that I may escape the shame more sore
than death which awaits me yonder in Rome.”

This letter she signed, “Miriam, of the house of Benoni,” but she did
not write upon it the names of those to whom it was addressed, fearing
lest it should fall into other hands and bring trouble upon them.

Then Gallus asked the man Samuel what money he needed for his journey
and as a reward for his service. He answered that it was against his
rule to take any money, who was bound to help those under the
protection of the order without reward or fee, whereat Gallus stared
and said that there were stranger folk in this land than in any others
that he knew, and they were many.

So Samuel, having bowed before Miriam and pressed her hand in a certain
fashion in token of brotherhood and fidelity, was led out of the camp
again, nor did she ever see him more. Yet, as it proved, he was a
faithful messenger, and she did well to trust him.

Next day, at the prayer of Miriam, Gallus also wrote a letter, which
gave him much trouble, to a friend of his, who was a brother officer
with the army at Jerusalem, enclosing one to be handed to Marcus if,
perchance, he should have rejoined the Standards.

“Now daughter,” he said, “we have done all that can be done, and must
leave the rest to fate.”

“Yes,” she answered with a sigh, “we must leave the rest to fate, as
you Romans call God.”

In the evening they set sail for Italy, and with them much of the
captured treasure, many sick and wounded men and a guard of soldiers.
As it chanced, having taken the sea after the autumn gales and before
those of mid-winter began, they had a swift and prosperous voyage,
enduring no hardships save once from want of water. Within thirty days
they came to Rhegium, whence they marched overland to Rome, being
received everywhere very gladly by people who were eager for tidings of
the war.




CHAPTER XX
THE MERCHANT DEMETRIUS


When on that fateful night in the Old Tower Miriam sprang forward to
strike the lantern from the hand of the Jew, Nehushta, who was bending
over the fallen Marcus and dragging at his body, did not even see that
she had left the door.

With an effort, the slope of the rocky passage beyond favouring her,
she half-drew, half-lifted the Roman through the entrance. Then it was,
as she straightened herself a little to take breath, that she heard the
thud of the rock door closing behind her. Still, as it was dark, she
did not guess that Miriam was parted from them, for she said:

“Ah! into what troubles do not these men lead us poor women. Well, just
in time, and I think that none of them saw us.”

There was no answer. Sound could not pierce that wall and the place was
silent as a tomb.

“Lady! In the Name of Christ, where are you, lady?” asked Nehushta in a
piercing whisper, and the echoes of the gallery answered—“Where are
you, lady?”

Just then Marcus awoke.

“What has chanced? What place is this, Miriam?” he asked.

“This has chanced,” answered Nehushta in the same awful voice. “We are
in the passage leading to the vaults; Miriam is in the hands of the
Jews in the Old Tower, and the door is shut between us. Accursed Roman!
to save your life she has sacrificed herself. Without doubt she sprang
from the door to dash the lantern from the hand of the Jew, and before
she could return again it had swung home. Now they will crucify her
because she rescued you—a Roman.”

“Don’t talk, woman,” broke in Marcus savagely, “open the door. I am
still a man, I can still fight, or,” he added with a groan, remembering
that he had no sword, “at the least I can die for her.”

“I cannot,” gasped Nehushta. “She had the iron that lifts the secret
latch. If you had kept your sword, Roman, it might perhaps have served,
but that has gone also.”

“Break it down,” said Marcus. “Come, I will help.”

“Yes, yes, Roman, you will help to break down three feet of solid
stone.”

Then began that hideous scene whereof something has been said. Nehushta
strove to reach the latch with her fingers. Marcus, standing upon one
foot, strove to shake the stone with his shoulder, the black, silent
stone that never so much as stirred. Yet they worked madly, their
breath coming in great gasps, knowing that the work was in vain, and
that even if they could open the door, by now it would be to find
Miriam gone, or at the best to be taken themselves. Suddenly Marcus
ceased from his labour.

“Lost!” he moaned, “and for my sake. O ye gods! for my sake.” Then down
he fell, his harness clattering on the rocky step, and lay there,
muttering and laughing foolishly.

Nehushta ceased also, gasping: “The Lord help you, Miriam, for I
cannot. Oh! after all these years to lose you thus, and because of that
man!” and she glared through the darkness towards the fallen Marcus,
thinking in her heart that she would kill him.

“Nay,” she said to herself, “she loved him, and did she know it might
pain her. Better kill myself; yes, and if I were sure that she is dead
this, sin or no sin, I would do.”

As she sat thus, helpless, hopeless, she saw a light coming up the
stair towards them. It was borne by Ithiel. Nehushta rose and faced
him.

“Praise be to God! there you are at length,” he said. “Thrice have I
been up this stair wondering why Miriam did not come.”

“Brother Ithiel,” answered Nehushta, “Miriam will come no more; she is
gone, leaving us in exchange this man Marcus, the Roman prefect of
Horse.”

“What do you mean? What do you mean?” he gasped. “Where is Miriam?”

“In the hands of the Jews,” she answered. Then she told him all that
story.

“There is nothing to be done,” he moaned when she had finished. “To
open the door now would be but to reveal the secret of our hiding-place
to the Jews or to the Romans, either of whom would put us to the sword,
the Jews for food, the Romans because we are Jews. We can only leave
her to God and protect ourselves.”

“Had I my will,” answered Nehushta, “I would leave myself to God and
still strive to protect her. Yet you are right, seeing that many lives
cannot be risked for the sake of one girl. But what of this man?”

“We will do our best for him,” answered Ithiel, “for so she who
sacrificed herself for his sake would have wished. Also years ago he
was our guest and befriended us. Stay here a while and I will bring men
to carry him to the vault.”

So Ithiel went away to return with sundry of the brethren, who lifted
Marcus and bore him down the stairs and passages to that darksome
chamber where Miriam had slept, while other brethren shut the
trap-door, and loosened the roof of the passage, blocking it with stone
so that without great labour none could pass that path for ever.

Here in this silent, sunless vault for many, many days Marcus lay sick
with a brain fever, of which, had it not been for the skilful nursing
of Nehushta and of the leeches among the Essenes, he must certainly
have died. But these leeches, who were very clever, doctored the deep
sword-cut in his head, removing with little iron hooks the fragments of
bone which pressed upon his brain, and dressing that wound and another
in his knee with salves.

Meanwhile, they learned by their spies that both the Temple and Mount
Sion had fallen. Also they heard of the trial of Miriam and of her
exposure on the Gate Nicanor, but of what happened to her afterwards
they could gather nothing. So they mourned her as dead.

Now, their food being at length exhausted and the watch of the Romans
having relaxed, they determined, those who were left of them, for some
had died and Ithiel himself was very ill, to attempt to escape from the
hateful vaults that had sheltered them for all these months. A question
arose as to what was to be done with Marcus, now but a shadow of a man,
who still wandered somewhat in his mind, but who had passed the worst
of his sickness and seemed like to live. Some were for abandoning him;
some for sending him back to the Romans; but Nehushta showed that it
would be wise to keep him as a hostage, so that if they were attacked
they might produce him and in return for their care, perhaps buy their
lives. In the end they agreed upon this course, not so much for what
they might gain by it, but because they knew that it would have pleased
the lost maid whom they called their Queen, who had perished to save
this man.

So it came about that upon a certain night of rain and storm, when none
were stirring, a number of men with faces white as lepers, of the hue,
indeed, of roots that have pushed in the dark, might have been seen
travelling down the cavern quarries, now tenanted only by the corpses
of those who had perished there from starvation, and so through the
hole beneath the wall into the free air. With them went litters bearing
their sick, and among the sick, Ithiel and Marcus. None hindered their
flight, for the Romans had deserted this part of the ruined city and
were encamped around the towers in the neighbourhood of Mount Sion,
where some few Jews still held out.

Thus it happened that by morning they were well on the road to Jericho,
which, always a desert country, was now quite devoid of life. On they
went, living on roots and such little food as still remained to them,
to Jericho itself, where they found nothing but a ruin haunted by a few
starving wretches. Thence they travelled to their own village, to
discover that, for the most part, this also had been burnt. But certain
caverns in the hillside behind, which they used as store-houses,
remained, and undiscovered in them a secret stock of corn and wine that
gave them food.

Here, then, they camped and set to work to sow the fields which no
Romans or robbers had been able to destroy, and so lived hardly, but
unmolested, till at length the first harvest came and with it plenty.

In this dry and wholesome air Marcus recovered rapidly, who by nature
was very strong. When first his wits returned to him he recognised
Nehushta, and asked her what had chanced. She told him all she knew,
and that she believed Miriam to be dead, tidings which caused him to
fall into a deep melancholy. Meanwhile, the Essenes treated him with
kindness, but let him understand that he was their prisoner. Nor if he
had wished it, and they had given him leave to go, could he have left
them at that time, seeing that the slightest of his hurts proved to be
the worst, since the spear or sword-cut having penetrated to the joint
and let out the oil, the wound in his knee would heal only by very slow
degrees, and for many weeks left him so lame that he could not walk
without a crutch. So here he sat by the banks of the Jordan, mourning
the past and well-nigh hopeless for the future.

Thus in solitude, tended by Nehushta, who now had grown very grim and
old, and by the poor remnant of the Essenes, Marcus passed four or five
miserable months. As he grew stronger he would limp down to the village
where his hosts were engaged in rebuilding some of their dwellings, and
sit in the garden of the house that was once occupied by Miriam. Now it
was but an overgrown place, yet among the pomegranate bushes still
stood that shed which she had used as a workshop, and in it, lying here
and there as they had fallen, some of her unfinished marbles, among
them one of himself which she began and cast aside before she executed
that bust which Nero had named divine and set him to guard in the
Temple at Rome. To Marcus it was a sad place, haunted by a thousand
memories, yet he loved it because those memories were all of Miriam.

Titus, said rumour, having accomplished the utter destruction of
Jerusalem, had moved his army to Cæsarea or Berytus, where he passed
the winter season in celebrating games in the amphitheatres. These he
made splendid by the slaughter of vast numbers of Jewish prisoners, who
were forced to fight against each other, or, after the cruel Roman
fashion, exposed to the attacks of ravenous wild beasts. But although
he thought of doing so, Marcus had no means of communicating with
Titus, and was still too lame to attempt escape. Could he have found
any, indeed, to make use of them might have brought destruction upon
the Essenes, who had treated him kindly and saved his life. Also among
the Romans it was a disgrace for a soldier, and especially for an
officer of high rank, to be made prisoner, and he was loth to expose
his own shame. As Gallus had told Miriam, no Roman should be taken
alive. So Marcus attempted to do nothing, but waited, sick at heart,
for whatever fate fortune might send him. Indeed, had he been quite
sure that Miriam was dead, he, who was disgraced and a captive, would
have slain himself and followed her. But although none doubted her
death—except Nehushta—his spirit did not tell him that this was so.
Thus it came about that Marcus lived on among the Essenes till his
health and strength came back to him, as it was appointed that he
should do until the time came for him to act. At length that time came.

When Samuel, the Essene, left Tyre, bearing the letter and the ring of
Miriam, he journeyed to Jerusalem to find the Holy City but a heap of
ruins, haunted by hyænas and birds of prey that feasted on the
innumerable dead. Still, faithful to his trust, he strove to discover
that entrance to the caverns of which Miriam had told him, and to this
end hovered day by day upon the north side of the city near to the old
Damascus Gate. The hole he could not find, for there were thousands of
stones behind which jackals had burrowed, and how was he to know which
of these openings led to caverns, nor were there any left to direct
him. Still, Samuel searched and waited in the hope that one day an
Essene might appear who would guide him to the hiding-place of the
brethren. But no Essene appeared, for the good reason that they had
fled already. In the end he was seized by a patrol of Roman soldiers
who had observed him hovering about the place and questioned him very
strictly as to his business. He replied that it was to gather herbs for
food, whereon their officer said that they would find him food and with
it some useful work. So they took him and pressed him into a gang of
captives who were engaged in pulling down the walls, that Jerusalem
might nevermore become a fortified city. In this gang he was forced to
labour for over four months, receiving only his daily bread in payment,
and with it many blows and hard words, until at last he found an
opportunity to make his escape.

Now among his fellow-slaves was a man whose brother belonged to the
Order of the Essenes, and from him he learned that they had gone back
to Jordan. So thither Samuel started, having Miriam’s ring still hidden
safely about his person. Reaching the place without further accident he
declared himself to the Essenes, who received him with joy, which was
not to be wondered at, since he was able to tell them that Miriam, whom
they named their Queen and believed to be dead, was still alive. He
asked them if they had a Roman prisoner called Marcus hidden away among
them, and when they answered that this was so, said that he had a
message from Miriam which he was charged to deliver to him. Then they
led him to the garden where her workshop had been, telling him that
there he would find the Roman.

Marcus was seated in the garden, basking in the sunshine, and with him
Nehushta. They were talking of Miriam—indeed, they spoke of little
else.

“Alas! although I seem to know her yet alive, I fear that she must be
dead,” Marcus was saying. “It is not possible that she could have lived
through that night of the burning of the Temple.”

“It does not seem possible,” answered Nehushta, “yet I believe that she
did live—as in your heart you believe also. I do not think it was fated
that any Christian should perish in that war, since it has been
prophesied otherwise.”

“Prove it to me, woman, and I should be inclined to become a Christian,
but of prophecies and such vague talk I am weary.”

“You will become a Christian when your heart is touched and not
before,” answered Nehushta sharply. “That light is from within.”

As she spoke the bushes parted and they saw the Essene, Samuel,
standing in front of them.

“Whom do you seek, man?” asked Nehushta, who did not know him.

“I seek the noble Roman, Marcus,” he answered, “for whom I have a
message. Is that he?”

“I am he,” said Marcus, “and now, who sent you and what is your
message?”

“The Queen of the Essenes, whose name is Miriam, sent me,” replied the
man.

Now both of them sprang to their feet.

“What token do you bear?” asked Marcus in a slow, restrained voice,
“for know, we thought that lady dead.”

“This,” he answered, and drawing the ring from his robe he handed it to
him, adding, “Do you acknowledge the token?”

“I acknowledge it. There is no such other ring. Have you aught else?”

“I had a letter, but it is lost. The Roman soldiers robbed me of my
robe in which it was sewn, and I never saw it more. But the ring I
saved by hiding it in my mouth while they searched me.”

Marcus groaned, but Nehushta said quickly:

“Did she give you no message? Tell us your story and be swift.”

So he told them all.

“How long was this ago?” asked Nehushta.

“Nearly five months. For a hundred and twenty days I was kept as a
slave at Jerusalem, labouring at the levelling of the walls.”

“Five months,” said Marcus. “Tell me, do you know whether Titus has
sailed?”

“I heard that he had departed from Alexandria on his road to Rome.”

“Miriam will walk in his Triumph, and afterwards be sold as a slave!
Woman, there is no time to lose,” said Marcus.

“None,” answered Nehushta; “still, there is time to thank this faithful
messenger.”

“Ay,” said Marcus. “Man, what reward do you seek? Whatever it be it
shall be paid to you who have endured so much. Yes, it shall be paid,
though here and now I have no money.”

“I seek no reward,” replied the Essene, “who have but fulfilled my
promise and done my duty.”

“Yet Heaven shall reward you,” said Nehushta. “And now let us hence to
Ithiel.”

Back they went swiftly to the caves that were occupied by the Essenes
during the rebuilding of their houses. In a little cabin that was open
to the air lay Ithiel. The old man was on his death-bed, for age,
hardship, and anxiety had done their work with him, so that now he was
unable to stand, but reclined upon a pallet awaiting his release. To
him they told their story.

“God is merciful,” he said, when he had heard it. “I feared that she
might be dead, for in the presence of so much desolation, my faith
grows weak.”

“It may be so,” answered Marcus, “but your merciful God will allow this
maiden to be set up in the Forum at Rome and sold to the highest
bidder. It would have been better that she perished on the gate
Nicanor.”

“Perhaps this same God,” answered Ithiel with a faint smile, “will
deliver her from that fate, as He has delivered her from many others.
Now what do you seek, my lord Marcus?”

“I seek liberty, which hitherto you have refused to me, Ithiel. I must
travel to Rome as fast as ships and horses can carry me. I desire to be
present at that auction of the captives. At least, I am rich and can
purchase Miriam—unless I am too late.”

“Purchase her to be your slave?”

“Nay, to be my wife.”

“She will not marry you; you are not a Christian.”

“Then, if she asks it, to set her free. Man, would it not be better
that she should fall into my hands than into those of the first
passer-by who chances to take a fancy to her face?”

“Yes, I think it is better,” answered Ithiel, “though who am I that I
should judge? Let the Court be summoned and at once. This matter must
be laid before them. If you should purchase her and she desires it, do
you promise that you will set her free?”

“I promise it.”

Ithiel looked at him strangely and said: “Good, but in the hour of
temptation, if it should come, see that you do not forget your word.”

So the Court was called together, not the full hundred that used to sit
in the great hall, but a bare score of the survivors of the Essenes,
and to them the brother, Samuel, repeated his tale. To them also Marcus
made his petition for freedom, that he might journey to Rome with
Nehushta, and if it were possible, deliver Miriam from her bonds. Now,
some of the more timid of the Essenes spoke against the release of so
valuable a hostage upon the chance of his being able to aid Miriam, but
Ithiel cried from his litter:

“What! Would you allow our own advantage to prevail against the hope
that this maiden, who is loved by everyone of us, may be saved? Shame
upon the thought. Let the Roman go upon his errand, since we cannot.”

So in the end they agreed to let him go, and, as he had none, even
provided money for his faring out of their scanty, secret store,
trusting that he might find opportunity to repay it in time to come.

That night Marcus and Nehushta bade farewell to Ithiel.

“I am dying,” said the old Essene. “Before ever you can set foot in
Rome the breath will be out of my body, and beneath the desert sand I
shall lie at peace—who desire peace. Yet, say to Miriam, my niece, that
my spirit will watch over her spirit, awaiting its coming in a land
where there are no more wars and tribulations, and that, meanwhile, I
who love her bid her to be of good cheer and to fear nothing.”

So they parted from Ithiel and travelled upon horses to Joppa, Marcus
disguising his name and rank lest some officer among the Romans should
detain him. Here by good fortune they found a ship sailing for
Alexandria, and in the port of Alexandria a merchant vessel bound for
Rhegium, in which they took passage, none asking them who they might
be.

Upon the night of the burning of the Temple, Caleb, escaping the
slaughter, was driven with Simon the Zealot across the bridge into the
Upper City, which bridge they broke down behind them. Once he tried to
return, in the mad hope that during the confusion he might reach the
gate Nicanor and, if she still lived, rescue Miriam. But already the
Romans held the head of the bridge, and already the Jews were hacking
at its timbers, so in that endeavour he failed and in his heart made
sure that Miriam had perished. So bitterly did Caleb mourn, who, fierce
and wayward as he was by nature, still loved her more than all the
world besides, that for six days or more he sought death in every
desperate adventure which came to his hand, and they were many. But
death fled him, and on the seventh day he had tidings.

A man who was hidden among the ruins of the cloisters managed to escape
to the Upper City. From him Caleb learned that the woman, who was said
to have been found upon the roof of the gate Nicanor, had been brought
before Titus, who gave her over to the charge of a Roman captain, by
whom she had been taken without the walls. He knew no more. The story
was slight enough, yet it sufficed for Caleb, who was certain that this
woman must be Miriam. From that moment he determined to abandon the
cause of the Jews, which, indeed, was now hopeless, and to seek out
Miriam, wherever she might be. Yet, search as he would, another fifteen
days went by before he could find his opportunity.

At length Caleb was placed in charge of a watch upon the wall, and, the
other members of his company falling asleep from faintness and fatigue,
contrived in the dark to let himself down by a rope which he had
secreted, dropping from the end of it into the ditch. In this ditch he
found many dead bodies, and from one of them, that of a peasant who had
died but recently, took the clothes and a long winter cloak of
sheepskins, which he exchanged for his own garments. Then, keeping only
his sword, which he hid beneath the cloak, he passed the Roman pickets
in the gloom and fled into the country. When daylight came Caleb cut
off his beard and trimmed his long hair short. After this, meeting a
countryman with a load of vegetables which he had licence to sell in
the Roman camp Caleb bought his store from him for a piece of gold, for
he was well furnished with money, promising the simple man that if he
said a word of it he would find him out and kill him. Then
counterfeiting the speech and actions of a peasant, which he, who had
been brought up among them down by the banks of Jordan, well could do,
Caleb marched boldly to the nearest Roman camp and offered his wares
for sale.

Now this camp was situated outside the gate of Gennat, not far from the
tower Hippicus. Therefore, it is not strange that although in the
course of his bargaining he made diligent inquiry as to the fate of the
girl who had been taken to the gate Nicanor, Caleb could hear nothing
of her, seeing that she was in a camp situated on the Mount of Olives,
upon the other side of Jerusalem. Baffled for that day, Caleb continued
his inquiries on the next, taking a fresh supply of vegetables, which
he purchased from the same peasant, to another body of soldiers camping
in the Valley of Himnon. So he went on from day to day searching the
troops which surrounded the city, and working from the Valley of Himnon
northwards along the Valley of the Kedron, till on the tenth day he
came to a little hospital camp pitched on the slope of the hill
opposite to the ruin which once had been the Golden Gate. Here, while
proffering his vegetables, he fell into talk with the cook who was sent
to chaffer with him.

“Ah!” said the cook handling the basket with satisfaction, “it is a
pity, friend, that you did not bring this stuff here a while ago when
we wanted it sorely and found it hard to come by in this barren,
sword-wasted land.”

“Why?” asked Caleb carelessly.

“Oh! because of a prisoner we had here, a girl whose sufferings had
made her sick in mind and body, and whose appetite I never knew how to
tempt, for she turned from meat, and ever asked for fish, of which, of
course, we had none, or failing that, for green food and fruits.”

“What were her name and story?” asked Caleb.

“As for her name I know it not. We called her Pearl-Maiden because of a
collar of pearls she wore and because also she was white and beautiful
as a pearl. Oh! beautiful indeed, and so gentle and sweet, even in her
sickness, that the roughest brute of a legionary with a broken head
could not choose but to love her. Much more then, that old bear,
Gallus, who watched her as though she were his own cub.”

“Indeed? And where is this beautiful lady now? I should like to sell
her something.”

“Gone, gone, and left us all mourning.”

“Not dead?” said Caleb in a new voice of eager dismay, “Oh! not dead?”

The fat cook looked at him calmly.

“You take a strange interest in our Pearl-Maiden, Cabbage-seller,” he
said. “And, now that I come to think of it, you are a strange-looking
man for a peasant.”

With an effort Caleb recovered his self-command.

“Once I was better off than I am now, friend,” he answered. “As you
know, in this country the wheel of fortune has turned rather quick of
late.”

“Yes, yes, and left many crushed flat behind it.”

“The reason why I am interested,” went on Caleb, taking no heed, “is
that I may have lost a fine market for my goods.”

“Well, and so you have, friend. Some days ago the Pearl-Maiden departed
to Tyre in charge of the captain, Gallus, on her way to Rome. Perhaps
you would wish to follow and sell her your onions there.”

“Perhaps I should,” answered Caleb. “When you Romans have gone this
seems likely to become a bad country for gardeners, since owls and
jackals do not buy fruit, and you will leave no other living thing
behind you.”

“True,” answered the cook. “Cæsar knows how to handle a broom and he
has made a very clean sweep,” and he pointed complacently to the
heaped-up ruins of the Temple before them. “But how much for the whole
basket full?”

“Take them, friend,” said Caleb, “and sell them to your mess for the
best price that you can get. You need not mention that you paid
nothing.”

“Oh! no, I won’t mention it. Good morning, Mr. Cabbage-grower, good
morning.”

Then he stood still watching as Caleb vanished quickly among the great
boles of the olive trees. “What can stir a Jew so much,” he reflected
to himself, “as to make him give something for nothing, and especially
to a Roman? Perhaps he is Pearl-Maiden’s brother. No, that can’t be
from his eyes—her lover more likely. Well, it is no affair of mine, and
although he never grew them, the vegetables are good and fresh.”

That evening when Caleb, still disguised as a peasant, was travelling
through the growing twilight across the hills that bordered the road to
Tyre, he heard a mighty wailing rise from Jerusalem and knew that it
was the death-cry of his people. Now, everywhere above such portions of
the beleaguered city as remained standing, shot up tall spires and
wreaths of flame. Titus had forced the walls, and thousands upon
thousands of Jews were perishing beneath the swords of his soldiers, or
in the fires of their burning homes. Still, some ninety thousand were
left alive, to be driven like cattle into the Court of Women. Here more
than ten thousand died of starvation, while some were set aside to
grace the Triumph, some to be slaughtered in the amphitheatres at
Cæsarea and Berytus, but the most were transported to Egypt, there,
until they died, to labour in the desert mines. Thus was the last
desolation accomplished and the prophecy fulfilled: “And the Lord shall
bring thee into Egypt again with ships . . . and there ye shall sell
yourselves unto your enemies for bondmen and for bondwomen, and no man
shall buy you.” Thus did “Ephraim return to Egypt,” whence he came
forth to sojourn in the Promised Land until the cup of his sin was
full. Now once more that land was a desert without inhabitants; all its
pleasant places were waste; all its fenced cities destroyed, and over
their ruins and the bones of their children flew Cæsar’s eagles. The
war was ended, there was peace in Judæa. _Solitudinem faciunt pacem
appellant!_

When Caleb reached Tyre, by the last light of the setting sun he saw a
white-sailed galley beating her way out to sea. Entering the city, he
inquired who went in the galley and was told Gallus, a Roman captain,
in charge of a number of sick and wounded men, many of the treasures of
the Temple, and a beautiful girl, who was said to be the grand-daughter
of Benoni of that town.

Then knowing that he was too late, Caleb groaned in bitterness of
spirit. Presently, however, he took thought. Now, Caleb was wise in his
generation, for at the beginning of this long war he had sold all his
land and houses for gold and jewels, which, to a very great value, he
had left hidden in Tyre in the house of a man he trusted, an old
servant of his father’s. To this store he had added from time to time
out of the proceeds of plunder, of trading, and of the ransom of a rich
Roman knight who was his captive, so that now his wealth was great.
Going to the man’s house, Caleb claimed and packed this treasure in
bales of Syrian carpets to resemble merchandise.

Then the peasant who had travelled into Tyre upon business about a
mule, was seen no more, but in place of him appeared Demetrius, the
Egyptian merchant, who bought largely, though always at night, of the
merchandise of Tyre, and sailed with it by the first ship to
Alexandria. Here this merchant bought much more goods, such as would
find a ready sale in the Roman market, enough to fill the half of a
galley, indeed, which lay in the harbour near the Pharos lading for
Syracuse and Rhegium.

At length the galley sailed, meaning to make Crete, but was caught by a
winter storm and driven to Paphos in Cyprus, where, being afraid to
attempt the seas again, let the merchant, Demetrius, do what he would
to urge them forward, the captain and crew of the galley determined to
winter. So they beached her in the harbour and went up to the great
temple, rejoicing to pay their vows and offer gifts to Venus, who had
delivered them from the fury of the seas, that they might swell the
number of her votaries.

But although he accompanied them, since otherwise they might have
suspected that he was a Jew, Demetrius, who sought another goddess,
cursed Venus in his heart, knowing that had it not been for her
delights the sailors would have risked the weather. Still, there was no
help for it and no other ship by which he could sail, so here he abode
for more than three months, spending his time in Curium, Amathos and
Salamis, trading among the rich natives of Cyprus, out of whom he made
a large profit, and adding wine, and copper from Tamasus to his other
merchandise, as much as there was room for on the ship.

In the end after the great spring festival, for the captain said that
it would not be fortunate to leave until this had been celebrated, they
set sail and came by way of Rhodes to the Island of Crete, and thence
touching at Cythera to Syracuse in Sicily, and so at last to Rhegium.
Here the merchant, Demetrius, transhipped his goods into a vessel that
was sailing to the port of Centum Cellæ, and having reached that place
hired transport to convey them to Rome, nearly forty miles away.




CHAPTER XXI
THE CÆSARS AND PRINCE DOMITIAN


When the captain Gallus reached the outskirts of Rome he halted, for he
did not desire that Miriam should be led through the streets in the
daytime, and thus cause questions to be asked concerning her. Also he
sent on a messenger bidding the man find out his wife, Julia, if she
were still alive, since of this Gallus, who had not seen her for
several years, could tell nothing, and inform her that he would be with
her shortly, bringing with him a maiden who had been placed in his
charge by Titus. Before nightfall, the messenger returned, and with him
Julia herself, a woman past middle-age, but, although grey-haired,
still handsome and stately.

Miriam saw their meeting, which was a touching sight, since this
childless couple who had been married for almost thirty years, had now
been separated for a long time. Moreover, a rumour had reached Julia
that her husband was not only wounded, but dead, wherefore her joy and
thankfulness at his coming were even greater than they would otherwise
have been. One thing, however, Miriam noted, that whereas her friend
and benefactor, Gallus, held up his hands and thanked the gods that he
found his wife living and well, Julia on her part said:

“Aye, I thank God,” touching her breast with her fingers as she spoke
the words.

Presently the matron seemed to notice her, and, looking at her with a
doubtful eye, asked:

“How comes it, husband, that you are in charge of this captive Jewess,
if Jewess she be who is so fair?”

“By the orders of Titus Cæsar, wife,” he answered, “to whom she must be
delivered on his arrival. She was condemned to perish on the gate
Nicanor as a traitress to the Jews and a Nazarene.”

Julia started and looked at the girl over her shoulder.

“Are you of that faith, daughter?” she asked in a changed voice,
crossing her hands upon her breast as though by chance.

“I am, mother,” answered Miriam, repeating the sign.

“Well, well, husband,” said Julia, “the maid’s tale can wait. Whether
she was a traitress to the Jews, or a follower of Christus, is not our
affair. At least she is in your charge, and therefore welcome to me,”
and stepping to where Miriam stood with bowed head she kissed her on
the forehead, saying aloud:

“I greet you, daughter, who are so sweet to see and in misfortune,”
adding beneath her breath, “in the Name you know.”

Then Miriam was sure that she had fallen into the hands of a woman who
was a Christian, and was thankful in her heart, for while the Cæsars
sat upon the Roman throne the Christians of every clime, rank and race
were one great family.

That evening, so soon as the darkness fell, they entered Rome by the
Appian Gate. Here they separated, Gallus leading his soldiers to convoy
the treasure to the safe keeping of that officer who was appointed to
receive it, and afterwards to the camp prepared for them, while Julia,
with Miriam and an escort of two men only, departed to her own home, a
small dwelling in a clean but narrow and crowded street that overhung
the Tiber between the Pons Ælius and the Porta Flamina. At the door of
the house Julia dismissed the soldiers, saying:

“Go without fear, and take witness that I am bond for the safety of
this captive.”

So the men went gladly enough, for they desired to rest after the toils
of their long journey, and the door of the house having been opened by
a servant and locked again behind them, Julia led Miriam across a
little court to the sitting-room that lay beyond. Hanging lamps of
bronze burned in the room, and by their light Miriam saw that it was
very clean and well, though not richly, furnished.

“This is my own house, daughter,” she explained, “which my father left
me, where I have dwelt during all these weary years that my husband has
been absent in the wars of the East. It is a humble place, but you will
find peace and safety in it, and, I trust, comfort. Poor child,” she
added in a gentle voice, “I who am also a Christian, though as yet of
this my husband knows nothing, welcome you in the Name of the Lord.”

“In the Name of our Lord, I thank you,” answered Miriam, “who am but a
friendless slave.”

“Such find friends,” said Julia, “and if you will suffer it I think
that I shall be one of them.” Then at a sign from the elder woman they
knelt down, and in silence each of them put up her prayer of
thanksgiving, the wife because her husband had come back to her safe,
the maiden because she had been led to a house ruled by a woman of her
own faith.

After this they ate, a plain meal but well cooked and served. When it
was done Julia conducted Miriam to the little whitewashed chamber which
had been prepared for her. It was lighted from the court by a lattice
set high in the wall, and, like all the house, very clean and sweet,
with a floor of white marble.

“Once another maid slept here,” said Julia with a sigh, glancing at the
white bed in the corner.

“Yes,” said Miriam, “she was named Flavia, was she not, your only
child? Nay, do not be astonished. I have heard so much of her that I
seem to have known her well, who can be known no more—here.”

“Did Gallus tell you?” asked Julia. “He used rarely to speak of her.”

Miriam nodded. “Gallus told me. You see he was very good to me and we
became friends. For all that he has done, may Heaven bless him, who,
although he seems rough, has so kind a heart.”

“Yes, may Heaven bless all of us, living and dead,” answered Julia.
Then she kissed Miriam and left her to her rest.

When Miriam came out of her bedchamber on the following morning, she
found Gallus clad in his body armour, now new cleaned, though dinted
with many a blow, standing in the court and watching the water which
squirted from a leaden pipe to fall into a little basin.

“Greeting, daughter,” he said, looking up. “I trust that you have
rested well beneath my roof who have sojourned so long in tents.”

“Very well,” she answered, adding, “If I might ask it, why do you wear
your mail here in peaceful Rome?”

“Because I am summoned to have an audience of Cæsar, now within an
hour.”

“Is Titus come, then?” she asked hurriedly.

“Nay, nay, not Titus Cæsar, but Vespasian Cæsar, his father, to whom I
must make report of all that was passing in Judæa when we left, of the
treasure that I brought with me and—of yourself.”

“Oh! Gallus,” said Miriam, “will he take me away from your charge?”

“I know not. I hope not. But who can say? It is as his fancy may move
him. But if he listens to me I swear that you shall stay here for ever;
be sure of that.”

Then he went, leaning on a spear shaft, for the wound in his leg had
caused it to shrink so much that he could never hope to be sound again.

Three hours later he returned to find the two women waiting for him
anxiously enough. Julia glanced at his face as he came through the door
of the street wall into the vestibulum or courtyard where they were
waiting.

“Have no fear,” she said. “When Gallus looks so solemn he brings good
tidings, for if they are bad he smiles and makes light of them,” and
advancing she took him by the hand and led him past the porter’s room
into the atrium.

“What news, husband?” she asked when the door was shut behind them so
that none might overhear their talk.

“Well,” he answered, “first, my fighting days are over, since I am
discharged the army, the physicians declaring that my leg will never be
well again. Wife, why do you not weep?”

“Because I rejoice,” answered Julia calmly. “Thirty years of war and
bloodshed are enough for any man. You have done your work. It is time
that you should rest who have been spared so long, and at least I have
saved while you were away, and there will be food to fill our mouths.”

“Yes, yes, wife, and as it happens, more than you think, since
Vespasian, being gracious and pleased with my report, has granted me
half-pay for all my life, to say nothing of a gratuity and a share of
the spoil, whatever that may bring. Still I grieve, who can never hope
to lift spear more.”

“Grieve not, for thus I would have had it, Gallus. But what of this
maid?”

“Well, I made my report about her, as I was bound to do, and at first
Domitian, Cæsar’s son, being curious to see her, prompted Vespasian to
order that she should be brought to the palace. Almost Cæsar spoke the
word, then a thought seemed to strike him and he was silent, whereon I
said that she had been very sick and still needed care and nursing, and
that if it was his will, my wife could tend her until such time as
Titus Cæsar, whose spoil she was, might arrive. Again Domitian
interrupted, but Vespasian answered, ‘The Jewish maid is not your
slave, Domitian, or my slave. She is the slave of your brother, Titus.
Let her bide with this worthy officer until Titus comes, he being
answerable in his person and his goods that she shall then be produced
before him, she or proof of her death.’ Then, waving his hand to show
that the matter was done with, he went on to speak of other things,
demanding details of the capture of the Temple and comparing my list of
the vessels and other gear with that which was furnished by the
treasurer, into whose charge I handed them yesternight. So, Maid
Miriam, till Titus comes you are safe.”

“Yes,” answered Miriam with a sigh, “till Titus comes. But after
that—what?”

“The gods alone know,” he said impatiently. “Meanwhile, since my head
is on it, I must ask your word of you that you will attempt no flight.”

“I give it, Gallus,” she answered smiling, “who would die rather than
bring evil on you or yours. Also, whither should I fly?”

“I know not. But you Christians find many friends: the rats themselves
have fewer hiding-places. Still, I trust you, and henceforth you are
free, till Titus comes.”

“Aye,” repeated Miriam, “—till Titus comes.”

So for hard upon six months, till midsummer, indeed, Miriam dwelt in
the house of Gallus and his wife, Julia. She was not happy, although to
them she became as a daughter. Who could be happy even in the sunshine
of a peaceful present, that walked her world between two such banks of
shadow? Behind was the shadow of the terrible past; in front, black and
forbidding, rose the shadow of the future, which might be yet more
terrible, the future when she would be the slave of some man unknown.
Sometimes walking with Julia, humbly dressed and mingling with the
crowd, her head-dress arranged to hide her face as much as might be,
she saw the rich lords of Rome go by in chariots, on horseback, in
litters, all sorts and conditions of them, fat, proud men with bold
eyes; hard-faced statesmen or lawyers; war-worn, cruel-looking
captains; dissolute youths with foppish dress and perfumed hair, and
shuddering, wondered whether she was appointed to any one of these. Or
was it, perhaps, to that rich and greasy tradesman, or to yon low-born
freedman with a cunning leer? She knew not, God alone knew, and in Him
must be her trust.

Once as Miriam was walking thus, gorgeously clad slaves armed with rods
of office appeared, bursting a way through the crowded streets to an
accompaniment of oaths and blows. After these came lictors bearing the
fasces on their shoulders; then a splendid chariot drawn by white
horses, and driven by a curled and scented charioteer. In it, that he
might be the better seen, stood a young man, tall, ruddy-faced, and
clad in royal attire, who looked downward as though from bashfulness,
but all the while scanned the crowd out of the corners of his dim blue
eyes shaded by lids devoid of lashes. For a moment Miriam felt those
eyes rest upon her, and knew that she was the subject of some jest
which their owner addressed to the exquisite charioteer, causing him to
laugh. Then a horror of that man took hold of her, and when he had gone
by, bowing in answer to the shouts of the people, who, as it seemed to
her, cheered from fear and not with joy, she asked Julia who he might
be.

“Who but Domitian,” she answered, “the son of one Cæsar and the brother
of another, who hates both and would like to wear their crown. He is an
evil man, and if he should chance to cross your path, beware of him,
Miriam.”

Miriam shuddered and said:

“As well, mother, might you bid the mouse that is caught abroad to
beware of the cat it meets at night.”

“Some mice find holes that cats cannot pass,” answered Julia with
meaning as they turned their faces homeward.

During all this time, although Gallus made diligent inquiry among the
soldiers who arrived from Judæa, Miriam could hear nothing of Marcus,
so that at last she came to believe that he must be dead, and with him
the beloved and faithful Nehushta, and to hope that if this were so she
also might be taken. Still amongst all this trouble she had one great
comfort. Under the mild rule of Vespasian, although their
meeting-places were known, the Christians had peace for a while.
Therefore, in company with Julia and many others of the brotherhood,
she was able to visit the catacombs on the Appian Way by night, and
there in those dismal, endless tombs to offer prayer and receive the
ministrations of the Church. The great Apostles, St. Peter and St.
Paul, had suffered martyrdom, indeed, but they had left many teachers
behind them, and the chief of these soon grew to know and love the poor
Jewish captive who was doomed to slavery. Therefore here also she found
friends and consolation of spirit.

In time Gallus came to learn that his wife was also of the Faith, and
for a while this knowledge seemed to cast him down. In the end,
however, he shrugged his shoulders and said that she was certainly of
an age to judge for herself and that he trusted no harm might come of
it. Indeed, when the principles of the Christian hope were explained to
him, he listened to them eagerly enough, who had lost his only child,
and until now had never heard this strange story of resurrection and
eternal life. Still, although he listened, and even from time to time
was present when the brethren prayed, he would not be baptised, who
said that he was too sunk in years to throw incense on a new altar.

At length Titus came, the Senate, which long before his arrival had
decreed him a Triumph, meeting him outside the walls, and there, after
some ancient formalities communicating to him their decision. Moreover,
it was arranged that Vespasian, his father, should share in this
Triumph, because of the great deeds which he had done in Egypt, so that
it was said everywhere that this would be the most splendid ceremony
which Rome had ever seen. After this Titus passed to his palace and
there lived privately for several weeks, resting while the preparations
for the great event went forward.

One morning early Gallus was summoned to the palace, whence he returned
rubbing his hands and trying to look pleased, with him, as Julia had
said, a sure sign of evil tidings.

“What is it, husband?” she asked.

“Oh! nothing, nothing,” he answered, “except that our Pearl-Maiden here
must accompany me after the mid-day meal into the august presences of
Vespasian and Titus. The Cæsars wish to see her, that they may decide
where she is to walk in the procession. If she is held to be beautiful
enough, they will grant to her a place of honour, by herself. Do you
hear that, wife—by herself, not far in front of the very chariot of
Titus? As for the dress that she will wear,” he went on nervously,
since neither of his auditors seemed delighted with this news, “it is
to be splendid, quite splendid, all of the purest white silk with
little discs of silver sewn about it, and a representation of the Gate
Nicanor worked in gold thread upon the breast of the robe.”

At this tidings Miriam broke down and began to weep.

“Dry your tears, girl,” he said roughly, although the thickness of his
voice suggested that water and his own eyes were not far apart. “What
must be, must be, and now is the time for that God you worship to show
you some mark of favour. Surely, He should do so, seeing how long and
how often you pray to Him in burrows that a jackal would turn from.”

“I think He will,” answered Miriam, ceasing her sobs with a bold
up-lifting of her soul towards the light of perfect faith.

“I am sure He will,” added Julia, gently stroking Miriam’s dark and
curling hair.

“Then,” broke in Gallus, driving the point to its logical conclusion,
“what have you to fear? A long, hot walk through the shouting populace,
who will do no harm to one so lovely, and after that, whatever good
fate your God may choose for you. Come, let us eat, that you may look
your best when you appear before the Cæsars.”

“I would rather look my worst,” said Miriam, bethinking her of Domitian
and his bleared eyes. Still, to please Gallus, she tried to eat, and
afterwards, accompanied by him and by Julia, was carried in a closed
litter to the palace.

Too soon she was there, arriving a little before them, and was helped
from the litter by slaves wearing the Imperial livery. Now she found
herself alone in a great marble court filled with officers and nobles
awaiting audience.

“That is the Pearl-Maiden,” said one of them, whereon they all crowded
around her, criticising her aloud in their idle curiosity.

“Too short,” said one. “Too thin,” said another. “Too small in the foot
for her ankle,” said a third. “Fools,” broke in a fourth, a young man
with a fine figure and dark rings round his eyes, “what is the use of
trying to cheapen this piece of goods thus in the eyes of the
experienced? I say that this Pearl-Maiden is as perfect as those pearls
about her own neck; on a small scale, perhaps, but quite perfect, and
you will admit that I ought to know.”

“Lucius says that she is perfect,” remarked one of them in a tone of
acquiescence, as though that verdict settled the matter.

“Yes,” went on the critical Lucius, “now, to take one thing only, a
point so often overlooked. Observe how fresh and firm her flesh is.
When I press it thus,” and he suited the action to the word, “as I
thought, my finger leaves scarcely any mark.”

“But my arm does,” said a gruff voice beside him, and next moment this
scented judge of human beings received the point of the elbow of Gallus
between the eyes just where the nose is set into the forehead. With
such force and skill was the blow directed that next instant the critic
was sprawling on his back upon the pavement, the blood gushing from his
nostrils. Now most of them laughed, but some murmured, while Gallus
said:

“Way there, friends, way there! I am charged to deliver this lady to
the Cæsars and to certify that while she was in my care no man has so
much as laid a finger on her. Way there, I pray you! And as for that
whimpering puppy on his back, if he wishes it, he knows where to find
Gallus. My sword will mark him worse than my elbow, if he wants
blood-letting, that I swear.”

Now with jests and excuses they fell back one and all. There were few
of them who did not know that, lame as he might be now, old Gallus was
still the fiercest and most dreaded swordsman of his legion. Indeed he
was commonly reported to have slain eighteen men in single combat, and
when young even to have faced the most celebrated gladiator of the day
for sport, or to win a private bet, and given him life as he lay at his
mercy.

So they passed on through long halls guarded by soldiers, till at
length they came to a wide passage closed with splendid curtains, where
the officer on duty asked them their business. Gallus told him and he
vanished through the curtains, whence he returned presently, beckoning
them to advance. They followed him down a corridor set with busts of
departed emperors and empresses, to find themselves in a round marble
chamber, very cool and lighted from above. In this chamber sat and
stood three men: Vespasian, whom they knew by his strong, quiet face
and grizzled hair; Titus, his son, “the darling of mankind,” thin,
active, and æsthetic-looking, with eyes that were not unkindly, a
sarcastic smile playing about the corners of his mouth; and Domitian,
his brother, who has already been described, a man taller than either
of them by half a head, and more gorgeously attired. In front of the
august three was a master of ceremonies clad in a dark-coloured robe,
who was showing them drawings of various sections of the triumphal
procession, and taking their orders as to such alterations as they
wished.

Also there were present, a treasurer, some officers and two or three of
the intimate friends of Titus.

Vespasian looked up.

“Greeting, worthy Gallus,” he said in the friendly, open voice of one
who has spent his life in camps, “and to your wife, Julia, greeting
also. So that is the Pearl-Maiden of whom we have heard so much talk.
Well, I do not pretend to be a judge of beauty, still I say that this
Jewish captive does not belie her name. Titus, do you recognise her?”

“In truth, no, father. When last I saw her she was a sooty, withered
little thing whom Gallus yonder carried in his great arms, as a child
might carry a large doll that he had rescued from the fire. Yes, I
agree that she is beautiful and worthy of a very good place in the
procession. Also she should fetch a large price afterwards, for that
necklace of pearls goes with her—make a note of this, Scribe—and the
reversion to considerable property in Tyre and elsewhere. This, by
special favour, she will be allowed to inherit from her grandfather,
the old rabbi, Benoni, one of the Sanhedrim, who perished in the
burning of the Temple.”

“How can a slave inherit property, son?” asked Vespasian, raising his
eyebrows.

“I don’t know,” answered Titus with a laugh. “Perhaps Domitian can tell
you. He says that he has studied law. But so I have decreed.”

“A slave,” interrupted Domitian wisely, “has no rights and can hold no
property, but the Cæsar of the East”—here he sneered—“can declare that
certain lands and goods will pass to the highest bidder with the person
of the slave, and this, Vespasian Cæsar, my father, is what I
understand Titus Cæsar, my brother, has thought it good to do in the
present instance.”

“Yes,” said Titus in a quiet voice, though his face flushed, “that,
Domitian, is what I have thought it good to do. In such a matter is not
my will enough?”

“Conqueror of the East,” replied Domitian, “Thrower-down of the
mountain stronghold called Jerusalem, to which the topless towers of
Ilium were as nothing, and Exterminator of a large number of misguided
fanatics, in what matter is not your will enough? Yet a boon, O Cæsar.
As you are great, be generous,” and with a mocking gesture he bowed the
knee to Titus.

“What boon do you seek of me, brother, who know that all I have is,
or,” he added slowly, “will be—yours?”

“One that is already granted by your precious words, Titus. Of all you
have, which is much, I seek only this Pearl-Maiden, who has taken my
fancy. The girl only, not her property in Tyre, wherever that may be,
which you can keep for yourself.”

Vespasian looked up, but before he could speak, Titus answered quickly:

“I said, Domitian, ‘all I have.’ This maid I have not, therefore the
words do not apply. I have decreed that the proceeds of the sale of
these captives is to be divided equally between the wounded soldiers
and the poor of Rome. Therefore she is their property, not mine. I will
not rob them.”

“Virtuous man! No wonder that the legions love him who cannot withdraw
one lot from a sale of thousands, even to please an only brother,”
soliloquised Domitian.

“If you wish for the maid,” went on Titus, taking no heed of the
insult, “the markets are open—buy her. It is my last word.”

Suddenly Domitian grew angry, the false modesty left his face, his tall
form straightened itself, and he stared round with his blear,
evil-looking eyes.

“I appeal,” he shouted, “I appeal from Cæsar the Small to Cæsar the
Great, from the murderer of a brave barbarian tribe to the conqueror of
the world. O Cæsar, Titus here declared that all he has is mine. Yet
when I ask him for the gift of one captive girl he refuses me. Command,
I pray you, that he should keep his word.”

Now the officers and the secretaries looked up, for of a sudden this
small matter had become very important. For long the quarrel between
Titus and his jealous brother had smouldered, now over the petty
question of a captive it had broken into flame.

The face of Titus grew hard and stern as that of some statue of the
offended Jove.

“Command, I pray you, father,” he said, “that my brother should cease
to offer insult to me. Command also that he should cease to question my
will and my authority in matters great or small that are within my
rule. Since you are appealed to as Cæsar, as Cæsar judge, not of this
thing only but of all, for there is much between him and me that needs
to be made plain.”

Vespasian looked round him uneasily, but seeing no escape and that
beneath the quarrel lay issues which were deep and wide, he spoke out
in his brave, simple-minded fashion.

“Sons,” he said, “seeing that there are but two of you who together, or
one after the other, must inherit the world, it is an evil-omened thing
that you should quarrel thus, since on the chances of your enmity may
hang your own fates and the fates of peoples. Be reconciled, I pray
you. Is there not enough for both? As for the matter in hand—this is my
judgment. With all the spoils of Judæa, this fair maid is the property
of Titus. Titus, whose boast it is that he does not go back upon his
word, has decreed that she shall be sold and her price divided between
the sick soldiers and the poor. Therefore she is no longer his to give
away, even to his brother. With Titus I say—if you desire the girl,
Domitian, bid your agent buy her in the market.”

“Aye, I will buy her,” snarled Domitian, “but this I swear, that soon
or late Titus shall pay the price and one that he will be loth to
give.” Then followed by his secretary and an officer, he turned and
left the audience hall.

“What does he mean?” asked Vespasian, looking after him with anxious
eyes.

“He means that——” and Titus checked himself. “Well, time and my destiny
will show the world what he means. So be it. As for you, Pearl-Maiden,
who, though you know it not, have cost Cæsar so dear, well, you are
fairer than I thought, and shall have the best of places in the
pageant. Yet, for your sake, I pray that one may be found who, when you
come to the market-place, may outbid Domitian,” and he waved his hand
to show that the audience was at an end.




CHAPTER XXII
THE TRIUMPH


Another week went by and the eve of the Triumph was at hand. On the
afternoon before the great day sewing-women had come to the house of
Gallus, bringing with them the robe that Miriam must wear. As had been
promised, it was splendid, of white silk covered with silver discs and
having the picture of the gate Nicanor fashioned on the breast, but cut
so low that it shamed Miriam to put it on.

“It is naught, it is naught,” said Julia. “The designer has made it
thus that the multitude may see those pearls from which you take your
name.” But to herself she thought: “Oh! monstrous age, and monstrous
men, whose eyes can delight in the disgrace of a poor unfriended
maiden. Surely the cup of iniquity of my people is full, and they shall
drink it to the dregs!”

That same afternoon also came an assistant of the officer, who was
called the Marshal, with orders to Gallus as to when and where he was
to deliver over his charge upon the morrow. With him he brought a
packet, which, when opened, proved to contain a splendid golden girdle,
fashioned to the likeness of a fetter. The clasp was an amethyst, and
round it were cut these words: “The gift of Domitian to her who
to-morrow shall be his.”

Miriam threw the thing from her as though it were a snake.

“I will not wear it,” she said. “I say that I will not wear it; at
least to-day I am my own,” while Julia groaned and Gallus cursed
beneath his breath.

Knowing her sore plight, that evening there came to visit her one of
the elders of the Christian Church in Rome, a bishop named Cyril, who
had been the friend and disciple of the Apostle Peter. To him the poor
girl poured out all the agony of her heart.

“Oh! my father, my father in Christ,” she said, “I swear to you that
were I not of our holy faith, rather than endure this shame I would
slay myself to-night! Other dangers have I passed, but they have been
of the body alone, whereas this——. Pity me and tell me, you in whose
ear God speaks, tell me, what must I do?”

“Daughter,” answered the grave and gentle man, “you must trust in God.
Did He not save you in the house at Tyre? Did He not save you in the
streets of Jerusalem? Did He not save you on the gate Nicanor?”

“He did,” answered Miriam.

“Aye, daughter, and so shall He save you in the slave-market of Rome. I
have a message for your ear, and it is that no shame shall come near to
you. Tread your path, drink your cup, and fear nothing, for the Lord
shall send His angel to protect you until such time as it pleases Him
to take you to Himself.”

Miriam looked at him, and as she looked peace fell upon her soul and
shone in her soft eyes.

“I hear the word of the Lord spoken through the mouth of His
messenger,” she said, “and henceforth I will strive to fear nothing,
no, not even Domitian.”

“Least of all Domitian, daughter, that son of Satan, whom Satan shall
pay in his own coin.”

Then going to the door he summoned Julia, and while Gallus watched
without, the two of them prayed long and earnestly with Miriam. When
their prayer was finished the bishop rose, blessed her, and bade her
farewell.

“I leave you, daughter,” he said, “but though you see him not, another
takes my place. Do you believe?”

“I have said that I believe,” murmured Miriam.

Indeed, in those days when men still lived who had seen the Christ and
His voice still echoed through the world, to the strong faith of His
followers, it was not hard to credit that His angel did descend to
earth to protect and save at their Master’s bidding.

So Cyril, the bishop, went, and that night from many a catacomb prayers
rose up to Heaven for Miriam in her peril. That night also she slept
peacefully.

Two hours before the dawn, Julia awoke her and arrayed her in the
glittering, hateful garments. When all was ready, with tears she bade
her farewell.

“Child, child,” she said, “you have become to me as my own daughter
was, and now I know not how and when we shall meet again.”

“Perhaps sooner than you think,” Miriam answered. “But if not, if,
indeed, I speak to you for the last time, why, then, my blessings on
you who have played a mother’s part to a helpless maid that was no kin
of yours. Yes, and on you Gallus also, who have kept me safe through so
many dangers.”

“And who hopes, dear one, to keep you safe through many more. Since I
may not swear by the gods before you, I swear it by the Eagles that
Domitian will do well to have a care how he deals by you. To him I owe
no fealty and, as has been proved before to-day, the sword of vengeance
can reach the heart of princes.”

“Aye, Gallus,” said Miriam gently, “but let it not be your sword, nor,
I trust, shall you need to think of vengeance.”

Then the litter was brought into the courtyard, with the guards that
were sent to accompany it, and they started for the gathering-place
beyond the Triumphal Way. Dark though it still was, all Rome was astir.
On every side shone torches, from every house and street rose the
murmur of voices, for the mighty city made herself ready to celebrate
the greatest festival which her inhabitants had seen. Even now at times
the press was so dense that the soldiers were obliged to force a way
through the crowd, which poured outwards to find good places along the
line of the Triumph, or to take up their station on stands of timber,
and in houses they had hired, whose roofs, balconies and windows
commanded the path of the pageant.

They crossed the Tiber. This Miriam knew by the roar of the water
beneath, and because the crush upon the narrow bridge was so great.
Thence she was borne along through country comparatively open, to the
gateways of some large building, where she was ordered to dismount from
the litter. Here officers were waiting who took charge of her, giving
to Gallus a written receipt for her person. Then, either because he
would not trust himself to bid her farewell, or because he did not
think it wise to do so in the presence of the officers, Gallus turned
and left her without a word.

“Come on, girl,” said a man, but a secretary, looking up from his
tablets, called to him:

“Gently there with that lot, or you will hear about it. She is
Pearl-Maiden, the captive who made the quarrel between the Cæsars and
Domitian, of which all Rome is talking. Gently, I tell you, gently, for
many free princesses are worth less to-day.”

Hearing this, the man bowed to Miriam, almost with reverence, and
begged her to follow him to a place that had been set apart for her.
She obeyed, passing through a great number of people, of whom all she
could see in the gloom of the breaking dawn was that, like herself,
they were captives, to a little chamber where she was left alone
watching the light grow through the lattice, and listening to the hum
of voices that rose without, mingled now and again with sobs and wails
of grief. Presently the door opened and a servant entered with bread on
a platter and milk in an earthenware vessel. These she took thankfully,
knowing that she would need food to support her during the long day,
but scarcely had she begun to eat when a slave appeared clad in the
imperial livery, and bearing a tray of luxurious meats served in silver
vessels.

“Pearl-Maiden,” he said, “my master, Domitian, sends you greeting and
this present. The vessels are your own, and will be kept for you, but
he bids me add, that to-night you shall sup off dishes of gold.”

Miriam made no answer, though one rose to her lips; but after the man
had departed, with her foot she overset the tray so that the silver
vases fell clattering to the floor, where the savory meats were
spilled. Then she went on eating the bread and milk till her hunger was
satisfied.

Scarcely had she finished her meal, when an officer entered the cell
and led her out into a great square, where she was marshalled amongst
many other prisoners. By now the sun was up and she saw before her a
splendid building, and gathered below the building all the Senate of
Rome in their robes, and many knights on horses, and nobles, and
princes from every country with their retinues—a very wonderful and
gallant sight. In front of the building were cloisters, before which
were set two ivory chairs, while to right and left of these chairs, as
far as the eye could reach, were drawn up thousand upon thousands of
soldiers; the Senate, the Knights and the Princes, as she could see
from the rising ground whereon she stood, being in front of them and of
the chairs. Presently from the cloisters, clad in garments of silk and
wearing crowns of laurel, appeared the Cæsars, Vespasian and Titus,
attended by Domitian and their staffs. As they came the soldiers saw
them and set up a mighty triumphant shout which sounded like the roar
of the sea, that endured while the Cæsars sat themselves upon their
thrones. Up and up went the sound of the continual shouting, till at
length Vespasian rose and lifted his hand.

Then silence fell and, covering his head with his cloak, he seemed to
make some prayer, after which Titus also covered his head with his
cloak and offered a prayer. This done, Vespasian addressed the
soldiers, thanking them for their bravery and promising them rewards,
whereon they shouted again until they were marched off to the feast
that had been made ready. Now the Cæsars vanished and the officers
began to order the great procession, of which Miriam could see neither
the beginning nor the end. All she knew was that before her in lines
eight wide were marshalled two thousand or more Jewish prisoners bound
together with ropes, among whom, immediately in front of her, were a
few women. Next she came, walking by herself, and behind her, also
walking by himself, a dark, sullen-looking man, clad in a white robe
and a purple cloak, with a gilded chain about his neck.

Looking at him she wondered where she had seen his face, which seemed
familiar to her. Then there rose before her mind a vision of the Court
of the Sanhedrim sitting in the cloisters of the Temple, and of herself
standing there before them. She remembered that this man was seated
next to that Simeon who had been so bitter against her and pronounced
upon her the cruel sentence of death, also that some one in the crowd
had addressed him as Simon, the son of Gioras, none other than the
savage general whom the Jews had admitted into the city to make way
upon the Zealot, John of Gischala. From that day to this she had heard
nothing of him till now they met again, the judge and the victim,
caught in a common net. Presently, in the confusion they were brought
together and he knew her.

“Are you Miriam, the grand-daughter of Benoni?” he asked.

“I am Miriam,” she answered, “whom you, Simon, and your fellows doomed
to a cruel death, but who have been preserved——”

“——To walk in a Roman Triumph. Better that you had died, maiden, at the
hands of your own people.”

“Better that you had died, Simon, at your own hands, or at those of the
Romans.”

“That I am about to do,” he replied bitterly. “Fear not, woman, you
will be avenged.”

“I ask no vengeance,” she answered. “Nay, cruel as you are I grieve
that you, a great captain, should have come to this.”

“I grieve also, maiden. Your grandsire, old Benoni, chose the better
part.”

Then the soldiers separated them and they spoke no more.

An hour passed and the procession began its march along the Triumphal
Way. Of it Miriam could see little. All she knew was that in front
there were ranks of fettered prisoners, while behind men carried upon
trays and tables the golden vessels of the Temple, the seven-branched
candlestick and the ancient sacred book of the Jewish law. They were
followed by other men, who bore aloft images of victory in ivory and
gold. Then, although these did not join them till they reached the
Porta Triumphalis, or the Gate of Pomp, attended, each of them, by
lictors having their fasces wreathed with laurel, came the Cæsars.
First went Vespasian Cæsar, the father. He rode in a splendid golden
chariot, to which were harnessed four white horses led by Libyan
soldiers. Behind him stood a slave clad in a dull robe, set there to
avert the influence of the evil eye and of the envious gods, who held a
crown above the head of the Imperator, and now and again whispered in
his ear the ominous words, _Respice post te, hominem memento te_ (“Look
back at me and remember thy mortality.”)

After Vespasian Cæsar, the father, came Titus Cæsar, the son, but his
chariot was of silver, and graved upon its front was a picture of the
Holy House of the Jews melting in the flames. Like his father he was
attired in the _toga picta_ and _tunica palmata_, the gold-embroidered
over-robe and the tunic laced with silver leaves, while in his right
hand he held a laurel bough, and in his left a sceptre. He also was
attended by a slave who whispered in his ear the message of mortality.

Next to the chariot of Titus, alongside of it indeed, and as little
behind as custom would allow, rode Domitian, gloriously arrayed and
mounted on a splendid steed. Then came the tribunes and the knights on
horseback, and after them the legionaries to the number of five
thousand, every man of them having his spear wreathed in laurel.

Now the great procession was across the Tiber, and, following its
appointed path down broad streets and past palaces and temples, drew
slowly towards its object, the shrine of Jupiter Capitolinus, that
stood at the head of the Sacred Way beyond the Forum. Everywhere the
side paths, the windows of houses, the great scaffoldings of timber,
and the steps of temples were crowded with spectators. Never before did
Miriam understand how many people could inhabit a single city. They
passed them by thousands and by tens of thousands, and still, far as
the eye could reach, stretched the white sea of faces. Ahead that sea
would be quiet, then, as the procession pierced it, it began to murmur.
Presently the murmur grew to a shout, the shout to a roar, and when the
Cæsars appeared in their glittering chariots, the roar to a triumphant
peal which shook the street like thunder. And so on for miles and
miles, till Miriam’s eyes were dim with the glare and glitter, and her
head swam at the ceaseless sound of shouting.

Often the procession would halt for a while, either because of a check
to one of the pageants in front, or in order that some of its members
might refresh themselves with drink which was brought to them. Then the
crowd, ceasing from its cheers, would make jokes, and criticise
whatever person or thing they chanced to be near. Greatly did they
criticise Miriam in this fashion, or at the least she thought so, who
must listen to it all. Most of them, she found, knew her by her name of
Pearl-Maiden, and pointed out to each other the necklace about her
throat. Many, too, had heard something of her story, and looked eagerly
at the picture of the gate Nicanor blazoned upon her breast. But the
greater part concerned themselves only with her delicate beauty,
passing from mouth to mouth the gossip concerning Domitian, his quarrel
with the Cæsars, and the intention which he had announced of buying
this captive at the public sale. Always it was the same talk; sometimes
more brutal and open than others—that was the only difference.

Once they halted thus in the street of palaces through which they
passed near to the Baths of Agrippa. Here the endless comments began
again, but Miriam tried to shut her ears to it and looked about her. To
her left was a noble-looking house built of white marble, but she
noticed that its shutters were closed, also that it was undecorated
with garlands, and idly wondered why. Others wondered too, for when
they had wearied of discussing her points, she heard one plebeian ask
another whose house that was and why it had been shut up upon this
festal day. His fellow answered that he could not remember the owner’s
name, but he was a rich noble who had fallen in the Jewish wars, and
that the palace was closed because it was not yet certain who was his
heir.

At that moment her attention was distracted by a sound of groans and
laughter coming from behind. She looked round to see that the wretched
Jewish general, Simon, had sunk fainting to the ground, overcome by the
heat, or the terrors of his mind, or by the sufferings which he was
forced to endure at the hands of his cruel guards, who flogged him as
he walked, for the pleasure of the people. Now they were beating him to
life again with their rods; hence the laughter of the audience and the
groans of the victim. Sick at heart, Miriam turned away from this
horrid sight, to hear a tall man, whose back was towards her, but who
was clad in the rich robes of an Eastern merchant, asking one of the
marshals of the Triumph, in a foreign accent, whether it was true that
the captive Pearl-Maiden was to be sold that evening in the
auction-mart of the Forum. The marshal answered yes, such were the
orders as regarded her and the other women, since there was no
convenient place to house them, and it was thought best to be rid of
them and let their masters take them home at once.

“Does she please you, sir? Are you going to bid?” he added. “If so, you
will find yourself in high company.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” answered the man with a shrug of his shoulders.

Then he vanished into the crowd.

Now, for the first time that day, Miriam’s spirit seemed to fail her.
The weariness of her body, the foul talk, the fouler cruelty, the cold
discussion of the sale of human beings to the first-comer as though
they were sheep or swine, the fear of her fate that night, pressed upon
and overcame her mind, so that she felt inclined, like Simon, the son
of Gioras, to sink fainting to the pavement and lie there till the
cruel rods beat her to her feet again. Hope sank low and faith grew
dim, while in her heart she wondered vaguely what was the meaning of it
all, and why poor men and women were made to suffer thus for the
pleasure of other men and women; wondered also what escape there could
be for her.

While she mused thus, like a ray of light through the clouds, a sense
of consolation, sweet as it was sudden, seemed to pierce the darkness
of her bitter thoughts. She knew not whence it came, nor what it might
portend, yet it existed, and the source of it seemed near to her. She
scanned the faces of the crowd, finding pity in a few, curiosity in
more, but in most gross admiration if they were men, or scorn of her
misfortune and jealousy of her loveliness if they were women. Not from
among these did that consolation flow. She looked up to the sky, half
expecting to see there that angel of the Lord into whose keeping the
bishop, Cyril, had delivered her. But the skies were empty and brazen
as the faces of the Roman crowd; not a cloud could be seen in them,
much less an angel.

As her eyes sank earthwards their glance fell upon one of the windows
of the marble house to her left. If she remembered right some few
minutes before the shutters of that window had been closed, now they
were open, revealing two heavy curtains of blue embroidered silk.
Miriam thought this strange, and, without seeming to do so, kept her
eyes fixed upon the curtains. Presently, for her sight was good, she
saw fingers between them—long, dark-coloured fingers. Then very slowly
the curtains were parted, and in the opening thus made appeared a face,
the face of an old woman, dark and noble looking and crowned with
snow-white hair. Even at that distance Miriam knew it in an instant.

Oh, Heaven! it was the face of Nehushta, Nehushta whom she thought
dead, or at least for ever lost. For a moment Miriam was paralysed,
wondering whether this was not some vision born of the turmoil and
excitement of that dreadful day. Nay, surely it was no vision, surely
it was Nehushta herself who looked at her with loving eyes, for see!
she made the sign of the cross in the air before her, the symbol of
Christian hope and greeting, then laid her finger upon her lips in
token of secrecy and silence. The curtain closed and she was gone, who
not five seconds before had so mysteriously appeared.

Miriam’s knees gave way beneath her, and while the marshals shouted to
the procession to set forward, she felt that she must sink to the
ground. Indeed, she would have fallen had not some woman in the crowd
stepped forward and thrust a goblet of wine into her hands, saying:

“Drink that, Pearl-Maiden, it will make your pale cheeks even prettier
than they are.”

The words were coarse, but Miriam, looking at the woman, knew her for
one of the Christian community with whom she had worshipped in the
catacombs. So she took the cup, fearing nothing, and drank it off. Then
new strength came to her, and she went forward with the others on that
toilsome, endless march.

At length, however, it did end, an hour or so before sunset. They had
passed miles of streets; they had trodden the Sacred Way bordered by
fanes innumerable and adorned with statues set on columns; and now
marched up the steep slope that was crowned by the glorious temple of
Jupiter Capitolinus. As they began to climb it guards broke into their
lines, and seizing the chain that hung about the neck of Simon, dragged
him away.

“Whither do they take you?” asked Miriam as he passed her.

“To what I desire—death,” he answered, and was gone.

Now the Cæsars, dismounting from their chariots, took up their stations
by altars at the head of the steps, while beneath them, rank upon rank,
gathered all those who had shared their Triumph, each company in its
allotted place. Then followed a long pause, the multitude waiting for
Miriam knew not what. Presently men were seen running from the Forum up
a path that had been left open, one of them carrying in his hand some
object wrapped in a napkin. Arriving in face of the Cæsars he threw
aside the cloth and held up before them and in sight of all the people
the grizzly head of Simon, the son of Gioras. By this public murder of
a brave captain of their foes was consummated the Triumph of the
Romans, and at the sight of its red proof trumpets blew, banners waved,
and from half a million throats went up a shout of victory that seemed
to rend the very skies, for the multitude was drunk with the glory of
its brutal vengeance.

Then silence was called, and there before the Temple of Jove the beasts
were slain, and the Cæsars offered sacrifice to the gods that had given
them victory.

Thus ended the Triumph of Vespasian and Titus, and with it the record
of the struggle of the Jews against the iron beak and claws of the
Roman Eagle.




CHAPTER XXIII
THE SLAVE-RING


Had Miriam chanced to look out of her litter as she passed the Temple
of Isis, escorted by Gallus and the guards before dawn broke upon that
great day of the Triumph, and had there been light to enable her to
see, she might have beheld two figures galloping into Rome as fast as
their weary horses would carry them. Both rode after the fashion of
men, but one of them, wrapped in an Eastern garment that hid the face,
was in fact a woman.

“Fortune favours us, Nehushta,” said the man in a strained voice. “At
least, we are in time for the Triumph, who might so easily have been
too late. Look, yonder they gather already by Octavian’s Walks,” and he
pointed to the companies of soldiers who hurried past them to the
meeting-place.

“Yes, yes, my lord Marcus, we are in time. There go the eagles and here
comes their prey,” and in her turn Nehushta pointed to a guarded
litter—had they but known it, the very one that carried the beloved
woman whom they sought. “But whither now? Would you also march in the
train of Titus?”

“Nay, woman, it is too late. Also I know not what would be my welcome.”

“Your welcome? Why, you were his friend, and Titus is faithful to his
friends.”

“Aye, but perhaps not to those who have been taken prisoner by the
enemy. Towards the commencement of the siege that happened to a man I
knew. He was captured with a companion. The companion the Jews slew,
but as he was about to be beheaded upon the wall, this man slipped from
the hands of the executioner, and leaping from it escaped with little
hurt. Titus gave him his life, but dismissed him from his legion. Why
should I fare better?”

“That you were taken was no fault of yours, who were struck senseless
and overwhelmed.”

“Maybe, but would that avail me? The rule, a good rule, is that no
Roman soldier should yield to an enemy. If he is captured while
insensible, then on finding his wits he must slay himself, as I should
have striven to do, had I awakened to find myself in the hands of the
Jews. But things fell out otherwise. Still, I tell you, Nehushta, that
had it not been for Miriam, I should not have turned my face to Rome,
at any rate until I had received pardon and permission from Titus.”

“What then are your plans, lord Marcus?”

“To go to my own house near the Baths of Agrippa. The Triumph must pass
there, and if Miriam is among the captives we shall see her. If not,
then either she is dead or already sold, or perchance given as a
present to some friend of Cæsar’s.”

Now they ceased talking, for the people were so many that they could
only force their way through the press riding one after the other.
Thus, Nehushta following Marcus, they crossed the Tiber and passed
through many streets, decorated, most of them, for the coming pageant,
till at length Marcus drew rein in front of a marble mansion in the Via
Agrippa.

“A strange home-coming,” he muttered. “Follow me,” and he rode round
the house to a side-entrance.

Here he dismounted and knocked at the small door for some time without
avail. At length it was opened a little way, and a thin, querulous
voice, speaking through the crack, said:

“Begone, whoever you are. No one lives here. This is the house of
Marcus, who is dead in the Jewish war. Who are you that disturb me?”

“The heir of Marcus.”

“Marcus has no heir, unless it be Cæsar, who doubtless will take his
property.”

“Open, Stephanus,” said Marcus, in a tone of command, at the same time
pushing the door wide and entering. “Fool,” he added, “what kind of a
steward are you that you do not know your master’s voice?”

Now he who had kept the door, a withered little man in a scribe’s brown
robe, peered at this visitor with his sharp eyes, then threw up his
hands and staggered back, saying:

“By the spear of Mars! it is Marcus himself, Marcus returned from the
dead! Welcome, my lord, welcome.”

Marcus led his horse through the deep archway, and when Nehushta had
followed him into the courtyard beyond, returned, closed and locked the
door.

“Why did you think me dead, friend?” he asked.

“Oh! my lord,” answered the steward, “because all who have come home
from the war declared that you had vanished away during the siege of
the city of the Jews, and that you must either be dead or taken
prisoner. Now I knew well that you would never disgrace your ancient
house, or your own noble name, or the Eagles which you serve, by
falling alive into the hands of the enemy. Therefore, I was sure that
you were dead.”

Marcus laughed bitterly, then turning to Nehushta, said:

“You hear, woman, you hear. If such is the judgment of my steward and
freedman, what will be that of Cæsar and my peers?” Then he added,
“Now, Stephanus, that what you thought impossible—what I myself should
have thought impossible—has happened. I was taken prisoner by the Jews,
though through no fault of mine.”

“Oh! if so,” said the old steward, “hide it, my lord, hide it. Why, two
such unhappy men who had surrendered to save their lives and were found
in some Jewish dungeon, have been condemned to walk in the Triumph this
day. Their hands are to be tied behind them; in place of their swords
they must wear a distaff, and on their breasts a placard with the words
written: ‘I am a Roman who preferred dishonour to death.’ You would not
wish their company, my lord.”

The face of Marcus went first red, then white.

“Man,” he said, “cease your ill-omened talk, lest I should fall upon my
sword here before your eyes. Bid the slaves make ready the bath and
food, for we need both.”

“Slaves, my lord? There are none here, save one old woman, who attends
to me and the house.”

“Where are they then?” asked Marcus angrily.

“The most part of them I have sent into the country, thinking it better
that they should work upon your estates rather than live here idle, and
others who were not needed I have sold.”

“You were ever careful, Stephanus.” Then he added by an afterthought,
“Have you any money in the house?”

The old steward looked towards Nehushta suspiciously and seeing that
she was engaged with the horses out of earshot, answered in a whisper:
“Money? I have so much of it that I know not what to do. The strong
place you know of is almost full of gold and still it comes. There are
the rents and profits of your great estates for three years; the
proceeds of the sale of slaves and certain properties, together with
the large outstanding amount that was due to my late master, the Lord
Caius, which I have at length collected. Oh! at least you will not lack
for money.”

“There are other things that I could spare less readily,” said Marcus,
with a sigh; “still, it may be needed. Now tie up those horses by the
fountain, and give us food, what you have, for we have ridden these
thirty hours without rest. Afterwards you can talk.”

It was mid-day. Marcus, bathed, anointed, and clad in the robes of his
order, was standing in one of the splendid apartments of his marble
house, looking through an opening in the shutters at the passing of the
Triumph. Presently old Nehushta joined him. She also was clad in clean,
white robes which the slave woman had found for her.

“Have you any news?” asked Marcus impatiently.

“Some, lord, which I have pieced together from what is known by the
slave-woman, and by your steward, Stephanus. A beautiful Jewish captive
is to walk in the Triumph and afterwards to be sold with other captives
in the Forum. They heard of her because it is said that there has been
a quarrel between Titus and his brother Domitian, and Vespasian also,
on account of this woman.”

“A quarrel? What quarrel?”

“I, or rather your servants, know little of it, but they have heard
that Domitian demanded the girl as a gift, whereon Titus told him that
if he wished for her, he might buy her. Then the matter was referred to
Vespasian Cæsar, who upheld the decree of Titus. As for Domitian, he
went away in a rage, declaring that he would purchase the girl and
remember the affront which had been put upon him.”

“Surely the gods are against me,” said Marcus, “if they have given me
Domitian for a rival.”

“Why so, lord? Your money is as good as his, and perhaps you will pay
more.”

“I will pay to my last piece, but will that free me from the rage and
hate of Domitian?”

“Why need he know that you were the rival bidder?”

“Why? Oh! in Rome everything is known—even the truth sometimes.”

“Time enough to trouble when trouble comes. First let us wait and see
whether this maid be Miriam.”

“Aye,” he answered, “let us wait—since we must.”

So they waited and with anxious eyes watched the great show roll by
them. They saw the cars painted with scenes of the taking of Jerusalem
and the statues of the gods fashioned in ivory and gold. They saw the
purple hangings of the Babylonian broidered pictures, the wild beasts,
and the ships mounted upon wheels. They saw the treasures of the temple
and the images of victory, and many other things, for that pageant
seemed to be endless, and still the captives and the Emperors did not
come.

One sight there was also that caused Marcus to shrink as though fire
had burned him, for yonder, set in the midst of a company of jugglers
and buffoons that gibed and mocked at them, were the two unhappy men
who had been taken prisoners by the Jews. On they tramped, their hands
bound behind them, clad in full armour, but wearing a woman’s distaff
where the sword should have been, and round their necks the placards
which proclaimed their shame. The brutal Roman mob hooted them also,
that mob which ever loved spectacles of cruelty and degradation,
calling them cowards. One of the men, a bull-necked, black-haired
fellow, suffered it patiently, remembering that at even he must be set
free to vanish where he would. The other, who was blue-eyed and
finer-featured, having gentle blood in his veins, seemed to be maddened
by their talk, for he glared about him, gnashing his teeth like a wild
beast in a cage. Opposite to the house of Marcus came the climax.

“Cur,” yelled a woman in the mob, casting a pebble that struck him on
the cheek. “Cur! Coward!”

The blue-eyed man stopped, and, wheeling round, shouted in answer:

“I am no coward, I who have slain ten men with my own hand, five of
them in single combat. You are the cowards who taunt me. I was
overwhelmed, that is all, and afterwards in the prison I thought of my
wife and children and lived on. Now I die and my blood be on you.”

Behind him, drawn by eight white oxen, was the model of a ship with the
crew standing on its deck. Avoiding his guard, the man ran down the
line of oxen and suddenly cast himself upon the ground before the
wooden-wheeled car, which passed over his neck, crushing the life out
of him.

“Well done! Well done!” shouted the crowd, rejoicing at this unexpected
sight. “Well done! He was brave after all.”

Then the body was carried away and the procession moved forward. But
Marcus, who watched, hid his face in his hands, and Nehushta, lifting
hers, uttered a prayer for the passing soul of the victim.

Now the prisoners began to go past, marching eight by eight, hundreds
upon hundreds of them, and once more the mob shouted and rejoiced over
these unfortunates, whose crime was that they had fought for their
country to the end. The last files passed, then at a little distance
from them, tramping forward wearily, appeared the slight figure of a
girl dressed in a robe of white silk blazoned at its breast with gold.
Her bowed head, from which the curling tresses fell almost to her
waist, was bared to the fierce rays of the sun, and on her naked bosom
lay a necklace of great pearls.

“Pearl-Maiden, Pearl-Maiden!” shouted the crowd.

“Look!” said Nehushta, gripping the shoulder of Marcus with her hand.

He looked, and after long years once more beheld Miriam, for though he
had heard her voice in the Old Tower at Jerusalem, then her face was
hidden from him by the darkness. There was the maid from whom he had
parted in the desert village by Jordan, the same, and yet changed. Then
she had been a lovely girl, now she was a woman on whom sorrow and
suffering had left their stamp. The features were finer, the deep,
patient eyes were frightened and reproachful; her beauty was such as we
see in dreams, not altogether that of earth.

“Oh! my darling, my darling,” murmured Nehushta, stretching out her
arms towards her. “Christ be thanked, that I have found you, my
darling.” Then she turned to Marcus, who was devouring Miriam with his
eyes, and said in a fierce voice:

“Roman, now that you see her again, do you still love her as much as of
old time?”

He took no note and she repeated the question. Then he answered:

“Why do you trouble me with such idle words. Once she was a woman to be
won, now she is a spirit to be worshipped.”

“Woman or spirit, or woman and spirit, beware how you deal with her,
Roman,” snarled Nehushta still more fiercely, “or——” and she let her
hand fall upon the knife that was hidden in her robe.

“Peace, peace!” said Marcus, and as he spoke the procession came to a
halt before his windows. “How weary she is, and sad,” he went on
speaking to himself. “Her heart seems crushed. Oh! that I must stay
here and see her thus, who dare not show myself! If she could but know!
If she could but know!”

Nehushta thrust him aside and took his place. Fixing her eyes upon
Miriam she made some effort of the will, so fierce and concentrated
that beneath the strain her body shook and quivered. See! Her thought
reached the captive, for she looked up.

“Stand to one side,” she whispered to Marcus, then unlatched the
shutters and slowly pushed them open. Now between her and the air was
nothing but the silken curtains. Very gently she parted these with her
hands, for some few seconds suffering her face to be seen between them.
Then laying her fingers on her lips she drew back and they closed
again.

“It is well,” she said, “she knows.”

“Let her see me also,” said Marcus.

“Nay, she can bear no more. Look, look, she faints.”

Groaning in bitterness of spirit they watched Miriam, who seemed about
to fall. Now a woman gave her the cup of wine, and drinking she
recovered herself.

“Note that woman,” muttered Marcus, “that I may reward her.”

“It is needless,” answered Nehushta, “she seeks no reward.”

“That is strange in a Roman,” he said bitterly.

“She is more than a Roman, she is a Christian. As she passed it she
made a sign of the cross with the cup.”

The waggons creaked; the officers shouted; the procession moved
forward. From behind the curtain the pair kept their eyes fixed upon
Miriam until she vanished in the dust and crowd. When she had gone they
seemed to see little else; even the sight of the glorious Cæsars could
not hold their eyes.

Marcus summoned the steward, Stephanus.

“Go forth,” he said, “and discover when and where the captive
Pearl-Maiden is to be sold. Then return to me swiftly. Be secret and
silent, and let none suspect whence you come or what you seek. Your
life hangs upon it. Go.”

The sun was sinking fast, staining the marble temples and colonnades of
the Forum blood-red with its level beams. For the most part the
glorious place was deserted now, since, the Triumph over at length, the
hundreds of thousands of the Roman populace, wearied out with pleasure
and excitement, had gone home to spend the night in feasting. About one
of the public slave-markets, however, a round of marble enclosed with a
rope and set in front of a small building, where the slaves were
sheltered until the moment of their sale, a mixed crowd was gathered,
some of them bidders, some idlers drawn thither by curiosity. Others
were in the house behind examining the wares before they came to the
hammer. Presently an old woman, meanly clad with her face veiled to the
eyes, and bearing on her back a heavy basket such as was used to carry
fruit to market, presented herself at the door of the house.

“What do you want?” asked the gatekeeper.

“To inspect the slaves,” she answered in Greek.

“Go away,” he said roughly, “you are not a buyer.”

“I may be if the stuff is good enough,” she replied, slipping a gold
coin into his hand.

“Pass in, old lady, pass in,” and in another second the door had closed
behind her, and Nehushta found herself among the slaves.

In this building the light was already so low that torches were burning
for the convenience of visitors. By the flare of them Nehushta saw the
unfortunate captives—there were but fifteen—seated upon marble benches,
while slave women moved from the one to the other, washing their hands
and feet and faces in scented water, brushing and tying their hair and
removing the dust of the procession from their robes, so that they
might look more comely to the eyes of the purchasers. Also there were
present a fair number of bidders, twenty or thirty of them, who
strolled from girl to girl discussing the points of each and at times
asking them to stand up, or turn round, or show their arms and ankles,
that they might judge of them better. At the moment when Nehushta
entered one of these, a fat man with greasy curls who looked like an
Eastern, was endeavouring to persuade a dark and splendid Jewess to let
him see her foot. Pretending not to understand she sat still and
sullen, till at length he stooped down and lifted her robe. Then in an
instant the girl dealt him such a kick in the face that amidst the
laughter of the spectators he rolled backwards on the floor, whence he
rose with a cut and bloody forehead.

“Very good, my beauty, very good,” he muttered in a savage voice,
“before twelve hours are over you shall pay for that.”

But again the girl sat sullen and motionless, pretending not to
understand.

Most of the public, however, were gathered about Miriam, who sat upon a
chair by herself, her hands folded, her head bent down, a very picture
of pitiful, outraged modesty. One by one as their turns came and the
attendant suffered them to approach, the men advanced and examined her
closely, though Nehushta noted that none of them were allowed to touch
her with their hands. Placing herself at the end of the line she
watched with all her eyes and listened with all her ears. Soon she had
her reward. A tall man, dressed like a merchant of Egypt, went up to
Miriam and bent over her.

“Silence!” said the attendant. “I am ordered to suffer none to speak to
the slave who is called Pearl-Maiden. Move on, sir, move on.”

The man lifted his head, and although in that gloom she could not see
his face, Nehushta knew its shape. Still she was not sure, till
presently he moved his right hand so that it came between her and the
flame of one of the torches, and she perceived that the top joint of
the first finger was missing.

“Caleb,” she thought to herself, “Caleb, escaped and in Rome! So
Domitian has another rival.” Then she went back to the door-keeper and
asked him the name of the man.

“A merchant of Alexandria named Demetrius,” he said.

Nehushta returned to her place. In front of her two men, agents who
bought slaves and other things for wealthy clients, were talking.

“More fit for a sale of dogs,” said one, “after sunset when everybody
is tired out, than for that of one of the fairest women who ever stood
upon the block.”

“Pshaw,” answered the other, “the whole thing is a farce. Domitian is
in a hurry, that’s all, so the auction must be held to-night.”

“He means to buy her?”

“Of course. I am told that his factor, Saturius, has orders to go up to
a thousand sestertia if need be,” and he nodded towards a quiet man
dressed in a robe of some rich, dark stuff, who stood in a corner of
the place watching the company.

“A thousand sestertia! For one slave girl! Ye gods! a thousand
sestertia!”

“The necklace goes with her, that is worth something, and there is
property at Tyre.”

“Property in Tyre,” said the other, “property in the moon. Come on, let
us look at something a little less expensive. As I wish to keep my head
on my shoulders, I am not going to bid against the prince in any case.”

“No, nor anyone else either. I expect he will get his fancy pretty
cheap after all.”

Then the two men moved away, and a minute afterwards Nehushta found
that it was her turn to approach Miriam.

“Here comes a curious sort of buyer,” said one of the attendants.

“Don’t judge the taste of the fruit by the look of the rind, young
man,” answered Nehushta, and at the sound of that voice for the first
time Pearl-Maiden lifted her head, then dropped it quickly.

“She is well enough,” Nehushta said aloud, “but there used to be
prettier women when I was young; in fact, though dark, I was myself,” a
statement at which those within hearing, noting her gaunt and aged form
bent beneath the heavy basket, tittered aloud. “Come, lift up your
head, my dear,” she went on, trying to entice the captive to consent by
encouraging waves of her hand.

They were fruitless; still, had any thought of it there was meaning in
them. On Nehushta’s finger, as it chanced, shone a ring which Miriam
ought to know, seeing that for some years she had worn it on her own.

It would seem that she did know it, at any rate her bosom and neck grew
red and a spasm passed across her face which even the falling hair did
not suffice to hide.

The ring told Miriam that Marcus lived and that Nehushta was his
messenger. This suspense at least was ended.

Now the door-keeper called a warning and the buyers flocked from the
building. Outside, the auctioneer, a smooth-faced, glib-tongued man,
was already mounting the rostrum. Calling for silence he began his
speech. On this evening of festival, he said, he would be brief. The
lots he had to offer to the select body of connoisseurs he saw before
him, were the property of the Imperator Titus, and the proceeds of the
sale, it was his duty to tell them, would not go into Cæsar’s pocket,
but were to be equally divided between the poor of Rome and deserving
soldiers who had been wounded or had lost their health in the war, a
fact which must cause every patriotic citizen to bid more briskly.
These lots, he might say, were unique, being nothing else than the
fifteen most beautiful girls, believed all of them to be of noble
blood, among the many thousands who had been captured at the sack of
Jerusalem, the city of the Jews, especially selected to adorn the great
conqueror’s Triumph. No true judge, who desired a charming memento of
the victory of his country’s arms, would wish to neglect such an
opportunity, especially as he was informed that the Jewish women were
affectionate, docile, well instructed in many arts, and very
hard-working. He had only one more thing to say, or rather two things.
He regretted that this important sale should be held at so unusual an
hour. The reason was that there was really no place where these slaves
could be comfortably kept without risk of their maltreatment or escape,
so it was held to be best that they should be removed at once to the
seclusion of their new homes, a decision, he was sure, that would meet
the wishes of buyers. The second point was that among them was one lot
of surpassing interest; namely, the girl who had come to be generally
spoken of as Pearl-Maiden.

This young woman, who could not be more than three or four-and-twenty
years of age, was the last representative of a princely family of the
Jews. She had been found exposed upon one of the gates of the holy
house of that people, where it would seem she was sentenced to perish
for some offence against their barbarous laws. As the clamours of the
populace that day had testified, she was of the most delicate and
distinguished beauty, and the collar of great pearls which she wore
about her neck gave evidence of her rank. If he knew anything of the
tastes of his countrymen the price which would be paid for her must
prove a record even in that ring. He was aware that among the vulgar a
great, almost a divine name had been coupled with that of this captive.
Well, he knew nothing, except this, that he was certain that if there
was any truth in the matter the owner of the name, as became a noble
and a generous nature, would wish to obtain his prize fairly and
openly. The bidding was as free to the humblest there—provided, of
course, that he could pay, and he might remark that not an hour’s
credit would be given except to those who were known to him—as to Cæsar
himself. Now, as the light was failing, he would order the torches to
be lit and commence the sale. The beauteous Pearl-Maiden, he might add,
was Lot No. 7.

So the torches were lit, and presently the first victim was led out and
placed upon a stand of marble in the centre of the flaring ring. She
was a dark-haired child of about sixteen years of age, who stared round
her with a frightened gaze.

The bidding began at five sestertia and ran up to fifteen, or about
£120 of our money, at which price she was knocked down to a Greek, who
led her back into the receiving house, paid the gold to a clerk who was
in attendance, and took her away, sobbing as she went. Then followed
four others, who were sold at somewhat better prices. No. 6 was the
dark and splendid Jewess who had kicked the greasy-curled Eastern in
the face. As soon as she appeared upon the block, this brute stepped
forward and bid twenty sestertia for her. An old grey-bearded fellow
answered with a bid of twenty-five. Then some one bid thirty, which the
Eastern capped with a bid of forty. So it went on till the large total
of sixty sestertia was offered, whereon the Eastern advanced two more,
at which price, amidst the laughter of the audience, she was knocked
down to him.

“You know me and that the money is safe,” he said to the auctioneer.
“It shall be paid to you to-morrow; I have enough to carry without
lading myself up with so much gold. Come on, girl, to your new home,
where I have a little score to settle with you,” and grasping her by
the left wrist he pulled her from the block and led her unresisting
through the crowd and to the shadows beyond.

Already No. 7 had been summoned to the block and the auctioneer was
taking up his tale, when from out of these shadows rose the sound of a
dreadful yell. Some of the audience snatched torches from their stands
and ran to the spot whence it came. There, on the marble pavement lay
the Eastern dead or dying, while over him stood the Jewess, a red
dagger, his own, which she had snatched from its scabbard, in her hand,
and on her stately face a look of vengeful triumph.

“Seize her! Seize the murdering witch! Beat her to death with rods,”
they cried, and at the command of the auctioneer slaves ran up to take
her.

She waited till they were near, then, without a word or a sound, lifted
her strong, white arm and drove the knife deep into her own heart. For
a moment she stood still, till suddenly she stretched her hands wide
and fell face downwards dead upon the body of the brute who had bought
her.

The crowd gasped and was silent. Then one of them, a sickly looking
patrician, called out:

“Oh! I did well to come. What a sight! What a sight! Blessings on you,
brave girl, you have given Julius a new pleasure.”

After this there was tumult and confusion while the attendants carried
away the bodies. A few minutes later the auctioneer climbed back into
his rostrum and alluded in moving terms to the “unfortunate accident”
which had just happened.

“Who would think,” he said, “that one so beautiful could also be so
violent? I weep when I consider that this noble purchaser, whose name I
forget at the moment, but whose estate, by the way, is liable for the
money, should have thus suddenly been transferred from the arms of
Venus to that of Pluto, although it must be admitted that he gave the
woman some provocation. Well, gentlemen, grief will not bring him to
life again, and we who still stand beneath the stars have business to
attend. Bear me witness, all of you, that I am blameless in this
affair, and, slaves, bring out that priceless gem, the Pearl-Maiden.”




CHAPTER XXIV
MASTER AND SLAVE


Now a hush of expectancy fell upon the crowd, till presently two
attendants appeared, each of them holding in his hand a flaming torch,
and between them the captive Pearl-Maiden. So beautiful did she look as
she advanced thus with bowed head, the red light of the torches falling
upon her white robe and breast and reflected in a faint, shimmering
line from the collar of pearls about her neck, that even that jaded
company clapped as she came. In another moment she had mounted the two
steps and was standing on the block of marble. The crowd pressed
closer, among them the merchant of Egypt, Demetrius, and the veiled
woman with the basket, who was now attended by a little man dressed as
a slave and bearing on his back another basket, the weight of which he
seemed to find irksome, since from time to time he groaned and twisted
his shoulders. Also the chamberlain, Saturius, secure in the authority
of his master, stepped over the rope and against the rule began to walk
round and round the captive, examining her critically.

“Look at her!” said the auctioneer. “Look for yourselves. I have
nothing to say, words fail me—unless it is this. For more than twenty
years I have stood in this rostrum, and during that time I suppose that
fifteen or sixteen thousand young women have been knocked down to my
hammer. They have come out of every part of the world; from the
farthest East, from the Grecian mountains, from Egypt and Cyprus, from
the Spanish plains, from Gaul, from the people of the Teutons, from the
island of the Britons, and other barbarous places that lie still
further north. Among them were many beautiful women, of every style and
variety of loveliness, yet I tell you honestly, my patrons, I do not
remember one who came so near perfection as this maiden whom I have the
honour to sell to-night. I say again—look at her, look at her, and tell
me with what you can find fault.

“What do you say? Oh! yes, I am informed that her teeth are quite
sound, there is no blemish to conceal, none at all, and the hair is all
her own. That gentleman says that she is rather small. Well, she is not
built upon a large scale, and to my mind that is one of her
attractions. Little and good, you know, little and good. Only consider
the proportions. Why, the greatest sculptors, ancient or modern, would
rejoice to have her as model, and I hope that in the interests of the
art-loving public”—here he glanced at the Chamberlain, Saturius—“that
the fortunate person into whose hands she passes will not be so selfish
as to deny them this satisfaction.

“Now I have said enough and must but add this, that by the special
decree of her captor, the Imperator Titus, the beautiful necklace of
pearls worn by the maiden goes with her. I asked a jeweller friend of
mine to look at it just now, and judging as well as he could without
removing it from her neck, which was not allowed, he values it at least
at a hundred sestertia. Also, there goes with this lot considerable
property, situated in Tyre and neighbouring places, to which, had she
been a free woman, she would have succeeded by inheritance. You may
think that Tyre is a long way off and that it will be difficult to take
possession of this estate, and, of course, there is something in the
objection. Still, the title to it is secure enough, for here I have a
deed signed by Titus Cæsar himself, commanding all officials, officers
and others concerned, to hand over without waste or deduction all
property, real or personal, belonging to the estate of the late Benoni,
the Jewish merchant of Tyre, and a member of the Sanhedrim—the lot’s
grandfather, I am informed, gentlemen—to her purchaser, who has only to
fill in his own name in the blank space, or any representatives whom he
may appoint, which deed is especially declared to be indefeasible. Any
one wish to see it? No? Then we will take it as read. I know that in
such a matter, my patrons, my word is enough for you.

“Now I am about to come to business, with the remark that the more
liberal your bidding the better will our glorious general, Titus Cæsar,
be pleased; the better will the poor and the invalided soldiers, who
deserve so well at your hands, be pleased; the better will the girl
herself be pleased, who I am sure will know how to reward a generous
appreciation of her worth; and the better shall I, your humble friend
and servant, be pleased, because, as I may inform you in strict
secrecy, I am paid, not by a fixed salary, but by commission.

“Now, gentlemen, what may I say? A thousand sestertia to begin with?
Oh! don’t laugh, I expect more than that. What! Fifty? You are joking,
my friend. However, the acorn grows into the oak, doesn’t it? and I am
told that you can stop the sources of the Tiber with your hat; so I’ll
start with fifty. Fifty—a hundred. Come, bid up, gentlemen, or we shall
never get home to supper. Two hundred—three, four, five, six, seven,
eight—ah! that’s better. What are you stopping for?” and he addressed a
hatchet-faced man who had thrust himself forward over the rope of the
ring.

The man shook his head with a sigh. “I’m done,” he said. “Such goods
are for my betters,” a sentiment that seemed to be shared by his
rivals, since they also stopped bidding.

“Well, friend Saturius,” said the auctioneer, “have you gone to sleep,
or have you anything to say? Only in hundreds, now, gentlemen, mind,
only in hundreds, unless I give the word. Thank you, I have nine
hundred,” and he looked round rather carelessly, expecting at heart
that this bid would be the last.

Then the merchant from Alexandria stepped forward and held up his
finger.

“A thousand, by the Gods!”

Saturius looked at the man indignantly. Who was this that dared to bid
against Domitian, the third dignitary in all the Roman empire, Cæsar’s
son, Cæsar’s brother, who might himself be Cæsar? Still he answered
with another bid of eleven hundred.

Once more the finger of Domitian went up.

“Twelve. Twelve hundred!” said the auctioneer, in a voice of suppressed
excitement, while the audience gasped, for such prices had not been
heard of.

“Thirteen,” said the Chamberlain.

Again the finger went up.

“Fourteen hundred. I have fourteen hundred. Against you, worthy
Saturius. Come, come, I must knock the lot down, which perhaps would
not please some whom I could mention. Don’t be stingy, friend, you have
a large purse to draw on, and it is called the Roman Empire. Now. Thank
you, I have fifteen hundred. Well, my friend yonder. What! Have you had
enough?” and he pointed to the Alexandrian merchant, who, with a groan,
had turned aside and hidden his face in his hands.

“Knocked out, knocked out, it seems,” said the auctioneer, “and though
it is little enough under all the circumstances for this lot, who is as
lovely as she is historical, I suppose that I can scarcely expect——”
and he looked around despondently.

Suddenly the old woman with the basket glanced up and, speaking in a
quiet matter-of-fact voice but with a foreign accent, said:

“Two thousand.”

A titter of laughter went around the room.

“My dear madam?” queried the auctioneer, looking at her dubiously,
“might I ask if you mean sester_tii_ or sester_tia_?[*] Your pardon,
but it has occurred to me that you might be confounding the two sums.”

[*] A _sestertius_ was worth less than 2d., a _sestertium_ was a sum of
money of the value of about £8.


“Two thousand sester_tia_,” repeated the matter-of-fact voice with the
foreign accent.

“Well, well,” said the auctioneer, “I suppose that I must accept the
bid. Friend Saturius, I have two thousand sestertia, and it is against
you.”

“Against me it must remain, then,” replied the little man in a fury.
“Do all the kings in the world want this girl? Already I have exceeded
my limit by five hundred sestertia. I dare do no more. Let her go.”

“Don’t vex yourself, Saturius,” said the auctioneer, “bidding is one
thing, paying another. At present I have a bona-fide bid of fifteen
hundred from you. Unless this liberal but unknown lady is prepared with
the cash I shall close on that. Do you understand, madam?”

“Perfectly,” answered the veiled old woman. “Being a stranger to Rome I
thought it well to bring the gold with me, since strangers cannot
expect credit.”

“To bring the gold with you!” gasped the auctioneer. “To bring two
thousand sestertia with you! Where is it then?”

“Where? Oh! in my servant’s and my own baskets, and something more as
well. Come, good sir, I have made my bid. Does the worthy gentleman
advance?”

“No,” shouted Saturius. “You are being fooled, she has not got the
money.”

“If he does not advance and no other worthy gentleman wishes to bid,
then will you knock the lot down?” said the old woman. “Pardon me if I
press you, noble seller of slaves, but I must ride far from Rome
to-night, to Centum Cellæ, indeed, where my ship waits; therefore, I
have no time to lose.”

Now the auctioneer saw that there was no choice, since under the rules
of the public mart he must accept the offer of the highest bidder.

“Two thousand sestertia are bid for this lot No. 7, the Jewish captive
known as Pearl-Maiden, sold by order of Titus Imperator, together with
her collar of pearls and the property to which, as a free woman, she
would have been entitled. Any advance on two thousand sestertia?” and
he looked at Saturius, who shook his head. “No? Then—going—going—gone!
I declare the lot sold, to be delivered on payment of the cash to the
person named—by the way, madam, what is your name?”

“Mulier.”

At this the company burst into a loud laugh.

“Mulier?” repeated the auctioneer, “M u l i e r—Woman?”

“Yes, am I not a woman, and what better name can I have than is given
to all my sex?”

“In truth, you are so wrapped up that I must take your word for it,”
replied the auctioneer. “But come, let us put an end to this farce. If
you have the money, follow me into the receiving house—for I must see
to the matter myself—and pay it down.”

“With pleasure, sir, but be so good as to bring my property with you.
She is too valuable to be left here unprotected amongst these
distinguished but disappointed gentlemen.”

Accordingly Miriam was led from the marble stand into an office annexed
to the receiving-house, whither she was followed by the auctioneer and
by Nehushta and her servant, whose backs, it was now observed, bent
beneath the weight of the baskets that were strapped upon them. Here
the door was locked, and with the help of her attendant Nehushta
loosened her basket, letting it fall upon the table with a sigh of
relief.

“Take it and count,” he said to the auctioneer, untying the lid.

He lifted it and there met his eye a layer of lettuces neatly packed.

“By Venus!” he began in a fury.

“Softly, friend, softly,” said Nehushta, “these lettuces are of a kind
which only grow in yellow soil. Look,” and lifting the vegetables she
revealed beneath row upon row of gold coin. “Examine it before you
count,” she said.

He did so by biting pieces at hazard with his teeth and causing them to
ring upon the marble table.

“It is good,” he said.

“Quite so. Then count.”

So he and the clerk counted, even to the bottom of the basket, which
was found to contain gold to the value of over eleven hundred
sestertia.

“So far well,” he said, “but that is not enough.”

The buyer beckoned to the man with her who stood in the corner, his
face hidden by the shadow, and he dragged forward the second basket,
which he had already unstrapped from his shoulders. Here also were
lettuces, and beneath the lettuces gold. When the full two thousand
sestertia were counted, that is, over fifteen thousand pounds of our
money, this second basket still remained more than a third full.

“I ought to have run you up, madam,” said the auctioneer, surveying the
shining gold with greedy eyes.

“Yes,” she replied calmly, “if you had guessed the truth you might have
done so. But who knows the truth, except myself?”

“Are you a sorceress?” he asked.

“Perhaps. What does it matter? At least, the gold will not melt. And,
by the way, it is troublesome carrying so much of the stuff back again.
Would you like a couple of handfuls for yourself, and say ten pieces
for your clerk? Yes? Well, please first fill in that deed with the name
that I shall give you and with your own as witness? Here it is—‘Miriam,
daughter of Demas and Rachel, born in the year of the death of Herod
Agrippa.’ Thank you. You have signed, and the clerk also, I think. Now
I will take that roll.

“One thing more, there is another door to this Receiving-house? With
your leave I should prefer to go out that way, as my newly acquired
property seems tired, and for one day has had enough of public notice.
You will, I understand, give us a few minutes to depart before you
return to the rostrum, and your clerk will be so courteous as to escort
us out of the Forum. Now help yourself. Man, can’t you make your hand
larger than that? Well, it will suffice to pay for a summer holiday. I
see a cloak there which may serve to protect this slave from the chill
air of the night. In case it should be claimed, perhaps these five
pieces will pay for it. Most noble and courteous sir, again I thank
you. Young woman, throw this over your bare shoulders and your head;
that necklace might tempt the dishonest.

“Now, if our guide is ready we will be going. Slave, bring the basket,
at the weight of which you need no longer groan, and you, young woman,
strap on this other basket; it is as well that you should begin to be
instructed in your domestic duties, for I tell you at once that having
heard much of the skill of the Jews in those matters, I have bought you
to be my cook and to attend to the dressing of my hair. Farewell, sir,
farewell; may we never meet again.”

“Farewell,” replied the astonished auctioneer, “farewell, my lady
Mulier, who can afford to give two thousand sestertia for a cook! Good
luck to you, and if you are always as liberal as this, may we meet once
a month, say I. Yet have no fear,” he added meaningly, “I know when I
have been well treated and shall not seek you out—even to please Cæsar
himself.”

Three minutes later, under the guidance of the clerk, who was as
discreet as his master, they had passed, quite undisturbed, through
various dark colonnades and up a flight of marble stairs.

“Now you are out of the Forum, so go your ways,” he said.

They went, and the clerk stood watching them until they were round a
corner, for he was young and curious, and to him this seemed the
strangest comedy of the slave-market of which he had ever even heard.

As he turned to go he found himself face to face with a tall man, in
whom he recognized that merchant of Egypt who had bid for Pearl-Maiden
up to the enormous total of fourteen hundred sestertia.

“Friend,” said Demetrius, “which way did your companions go?”

“I don’t know,” answered the clerk.

“Come, try to remember. Did they walk straight on, or turn to the left,
or turn to the right? Fix your attention on these, it may help you,”
and once more that fortunate clerk found five gold pieces thrust into
his hand.

“I don’t know that they help me,” he said, for he wished to be faithful
to his hire.

“Fool,” said Demetrius in a changed voice, “remember quickly, or here
is something that will——” and he showed him a dagger glinting in his
hand. “Now then, do you wish to go the same road as they carried the
Jewish girl and the Eastern?”

“They turned to the right,” said the clerk sulkily. “It is the truth,
but may that road you speak of be yours who draw knives on honest
folk.”

With a bound Demetrius left his side, and for the second time the clerk
stood still, watching him go.

“A strange business,” he said to himself, “but, perhaps my master was
right and that old woman is a sorceress, or, perhaps, the young one is
the sorceress, since all men seem ready to pay a tribe’s tribute to get
hold of her; or, perhaps, they are both sorceresses. A strange story,
of which I should like to know the meaning, and so, I fancy, would the
Prince Domitian when he comes to hear of it. Saturius, the chamberlain,
has a fat place, but I would not take it to-night, no, not if it were
given to me.”

Then that young man returned to the mart in time to hear his master
knock down Lot thirteen, a very sweet-looking girl, to Saturius
himself, who proposed, though with a doubtful heart, to take her to
Domitian as a substitute.

Meanwhile, Nehushta, Miriam and the steward Stephanus, disguised as a
slave, went on as swiftly as they dared towards the palace of Marcus in
the Via Agrippa. The two women held each other by the hand but said
nothing; their hearts seemed too full for speech. Only the old steward
kept muttering—“Two thousand sestertia! The savings of years! Two
thousand sestertia for that bit of a girl! Surely the gods have smitten
him mad.”

“Hold your peace, fool,” said Nehushta at length. “At least, I am not
mad; the property that went with her is worth more than the money.”

“Yes, yes,” replied the aggrieved Stephanus, “but how will that benefit
my master? You put it in her name. Well, it is no affair of mine, and
at least this accursed basket is much lighter.”

Now they were at the side door of the house, which Stephanus was
unlocking with his key.

“Quick,” said Nehushta, “I hear footsteps.”

The door opened and they passed in, but at that moment one went by
them, pausing to look until the door closed again.

“Who was that?” asked Stephanus nervously.

“He whom they called Demetrius, the merchant of Alexandria, but whom
once I knew by another name,” answered Nehushta in a slow voice while
Stephanus barred the door.

They walked through the archway into an antechamber lit by a single
lamp, leaving Stephanus still occupied with his bolts and chains. Here
with a sudden motion Nehushta threw off her cloak and tore the veil
from her brow. In another instant, uttering a low, crooning cry, she
flung her long arms about Miriam and began to kiss her again and again
on the face.

“My darling,” she moaned, “my darling.”

“Tell me what it all means, Nou,” said the poor girl faintly.

“It means that God has heard my prayers and suffered my old feet to
overtake you in time, and provided the wealth to preserve you from a
dreadful fate.”

“Whose wealth? Where am I?” asked Miriam.

Nehushta made no answer, only she unstrapped the basket from Miriam’s
back and unclasped the cloak from about her shoulders. Then, taking her
by the hand, she led her into a lighted passage and thence through a
door into a great and splendid room spread with rich carpets and
adorned with costly furniture and marble images. At the end of this
room was a table lighted by two lamps, and on the further side of this
table sat a man as though he were asleep, for his face was hidden upon
his arms. Miriam saw him and clung to Nehushta trembling.

“Hush!” whispered her guide, and they stood still in the shadow.

The man lifted his head so that the light fell full upon it, and Miriam
saw that it was Marcus. Marcus grown older and with a patch of grey
hair upon his temple where the sword of Caleb had struck him, very worn
and tired-looking also, but still Marcus and no other. He was speaking
to himself.

“I can bear it no longer,” he said. “Thrice have I been to the gate and
still no sign. Doubtless the plan has miscarried and by now she is in
the palace of Domitian. I will go forth and learn the worst,” and he
rose from the table.

“Speak to him,” whispered Nehushta, pushing Miriam forward.

She advanced into the circle of the lamplight, but as yet Marcus did
not see her, for he had gone to the window-place to find a cloak that
lay there. Then he turned and saw her. Before him in her robe of white,
the soft light shining on her gentle loveliness, stood Miriam. He
stared at her bewildered.

“Do I dream?” he said.

“Nay, Marcus,” she answered in her sweet voice, “you do not dream. I am
Miriam.”

In an instant he was at her side and held her in his arms, nor did she
resist him, for after so many fears and sufferings they seemed to her a
home.

“Loose me, I pray you,” she said at length, “I am faint, I can bear no
more.”

At her entreaty he suffered her to sink upon the cushions of a couch
that was at hand.

“Tell me, tell me everything,” he said.

“Ask it of Nehushta,” she answered, leaning back. “I am spent.”

Nehushta ran to her side and began to chafe her hands. “Let be with
your questions,” she said. “I bought her, that’s enough. Ask that old
huckster, Stephanus, the price. But first in the name of charity give
her food. Those who have walked through a Triumph to end the day on the
slave block need victuals.”

“It is here, it is here,” Marcus said confusedly, “such as there is.”
Taking a lamp he led the way to a table that was placed in the shadow,
where stood some meat and fruit with flagons of rich coloured wine and
pure water and shallow silver cups to drink from.

Putting her arm about Miriam’s waist, Nehushta supported her to the
table and sat her down upon one of the couches. Then she poured out
wine and put it to her lips, and cut meat and made her swallow it till
Miriam would touch no more. Now the colour came back to her face, and
her eyes grew bright again, and resting there upon the couch, she
listened while Nehushta told Marcus all the story of the slave sale.

“Well done,” he said, laughing in his old merry fashion, “well done,
indeed! Oh! what favouring god put it into the head of that honest old
miser, Stephanus, from year to year to hoard up all that sum of gold
against an hour of sudden need which none could foresee!”

“My God and hers,” answered Nehushta solemnly, “to Whom if He give you
space, you should be thankful, which, by the way, is more than
Stephanus is, who has seen so much of your savings squandered in an
hour.”

“Your savings?” said Miriam, looking up. “Did you buy me, Marcus?”

“I suppose so, beloved,” he answered.

“Then, then, I am your slave?”

“Not so, Miriam,” he replied nervously. “As you know well, it is I who
am yours. All I ask of you is that you should become my wife.”

“That cannot be, Marcus,” she answered in a kind of cry. “You know that
it cannot be.”

His face turned pale.

“After all that has come and gone between us, Miriam, do you still say
so?”

“I still say so.”

“You could give your life for me, and yet you will not give your life
to me?”

“Yes, Marcus.”

“Why? Why?”

“For the reasons that I gave you yonder by the banks of Jordan; because
those who begat me laid on me the charge that I should marry none who
is not a Christian. How then can I marry you?”

Marcus thought a moment.

“Does the book of your law forbid it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, but the dead forbid it, and rather will I join
them than break their command.”

Again Marcus thought and spoke.

“Well, then, since I must, I will become a Christian.”

She looked at him sadly and answered:

“It is not enough. Do you remember what I told you far away in the
village of the Essenes, that this is no matter of casting incense on an
altar, but rather one of a changed spirit. When you can say those words
from your heart as well as with your lips, then, Marcus, I will listen
to you, but unless God calls you this you can never do.”

“What then do you propose?” he asked.

“I? I have not had time to think. To go away, I suppose.”

“To Domitian?” he queried. “Nay, forgive me, but a sore heart makes
bitter lips.”

“I am glad you asked forgiveness for those words, Marcus,” she said
quivering. “What need is there to insult a slave?”

The word seemed to suggest a new train of thought to Marcus.

“Yes,” he said, “a slave—my slave whom I have bought at a great price.
Well, why should I let you go? I am minded to keep you.”

“Marcus, you can keep me if you will, but then your sin against your
own honour will be greater even than your sin against me.”

“Sin!” he said, passionately. “What sin? You say you cannot marry me,
not because you do not wish it, if I understand you right, but for
other reasons which have weight, at any rate with you. But the dead
give no command as to whom you should love.”

“No, my love is my own, but if it is not lawful it can be denied.”

“Why should it be denied?” he asked softly and coming towards her. “Is
there not much between you and me? Did not you, brave and blessed woman
that you are, risk your life for my sake in the Old Tower at Jerusalem?
Did you not for my sake stand there upon the gate Nicanor to perish
miserably? And I, though it be little, have I not done something for
you? Have I not so soon as your message reached me, journeyed here to
Rome, at the cost, perhaps, of what I value more than life—my honour?”

“Your honour?” she asked. “Why your honour?”

“Because those who have been taken prisoner by the enemy and escaped
are held to be cowards among the Romans,” he answered bitterly, “and it
may be that such a lot awaits me.”

“Coward! You a coward, Marcus?”

“Aye. When it is known that I live, that is what my enemies will call
me who lived on for your sake, Miriam—for the sake of a woman who
denies me.”

“Oh!” she said, “this is bitter. Now I remember and understand what
Gallus meant.”

“Then will you still deny me? Must I suffer thus in vain? Think, had it
not been for you I could have stayed afar until the thing was
forgotten, that is, if I still chose to live; but now, because of you,
things are thus, and yet, Miriam—you deny me,” and he put his arms
about her and drew her to his breast.

She did not struggle, she had no strength, only she wrung her hands and
sobbed, saying:

“What shall I do? Woe is me, what shall I do?”

“Do?” said the voice of Nehushta, speaking clear as a clarion from the
shadows. “Do your duty, girl, and leave the rest to Heaven.”

“Silence, accursed woman!” gasped Marcus, turning pale with anger.

“Nay,” she answered, “I will not be silent. Listen, Roman; I like you
well, as you have reason to know, seeing that it was I who nursed you
back to life, when for one hour’s want of care you must have died. I
like you well, and above everything on earth I wish that ere my eyes
shut for the last time they may see your hand in her hand, and her hand
in your hand, man and wife before the face of all men. Yet I tell you
that now indeed you are a coward in a deeper fashion than that the
Romans dream of; you are a coward who try to work upon the weakness of
this poor girl’s loving heart, who try in the hour of her sore distress
to draw her from the spirit, if not from the letter, of her duty. So
great a coward are you that you remind her even that she is your slave
and threaten to deal with her as you heathen deal with slaves. You put
a gloss upon the truth; you try to filch the fruit you may not pluck;
you say ‘you may not marry me, but you are my property, and therefore
if you give way to your master it is no sin.’ I tell you it is a sin,
doubly a sin, since you would bind the weight of it on her back as well
as on your own, and a sin that in this way or in that would bring its
reward to both of you.”

“Have you finished?” asked Marcus coldly, but suffering Miriam to slip
from his arms back upon the couch.

“No, I have not finished; I spoke of the fruits of evil; now as my
heart prompts me I speak of the promise of good. Let this woman go free
as you have the power to do; strike the chains off her neck and take
back the price that you have paid for her, since she has property which
will discharge it to the last farthing, which property to-day stands in
her name and can be conveyed to you. Then, go search the Scriptures and
see if you can find no message in them. If you find it, well and good,
then take her with a clean heart and be happy. If you find it not, well
and good, then leave her with a clean heart and be sorrowful, for so it
is decreed. Only in this matter do not dare to be double-minded, lest
the last evil overtake you and her, and your children and hers. Now I
have done, and, my lord Marcus, be so good as to signify your pleasure
to your slave, Pearl-Maiden, and your servant, Nehushta the Libyan.”

Marcus began to walk up and down the room, out of the light into the
shadow, out of the shadow into the light. Presently he halted, and the
two women watching saw that his face was drawn and ashen, like the face
of an old man.

“My pleasure,” he said vacantly, “—that is a strange word on my lips
to-night, is it not? Well, Nehushta, you have the best of the argument.
All you say is quite true, if a little over-coloured. Of course, Miriam
is quite right not to marry me if she has scruples, and, of course, I
should be quite wrong to take advantage of the accident of my being
able to purchase her in the slave-ring. I think that is all I have to
say. Miriam, I free you, as indeed I remember I promised the Essenes
that I would do. Since no one knows you belong to me, I suppose that no
formal ceremony will be necessary. It is a manumission ‘inter amicos,’
as the lawyers say, but quite valid. As to the title to the Tyre
property, I accept it in payment of the debt, but I beg that you will
keep it a while on my behalf, for, at present, there might be trouble
about transferring it into my name. Now, good-night. Nehushta will take
you to her room, Miriam, and to-morrow you can depart whither you will.
I wish you all fortune, and—why do you not thank me? Under the
circumstances, it would be kind.”

But Miriam only burst into a flood of tears.

“What will you do, Marcus? Oh! what will you do?” she sobbed.

“In all probability, things which I would rather you did not know of,”
he answered bitterly, “or I may take it into my head to accept the
suggestion of our friend, Nehushta, and begin to search those
Scriptures of which I have heard so much; that seem, by the way,
specially designed to prevent the happiness of men and women.” Then he
added fiercely, “Go, girl, go at once, for if you stand there weeping
before me any longer, I tell you that I shall change my mind, and as
Nehushta says, imperil the safety of your soul, and of my own—which
does not matter.”

So Miriam stumbled from the room and through the curtained doorway. As
Nehushta followed her Marcus caught her by the arm.

“I have half a mind to murder you,” he said, quietly.

The old Libyan only laughed.

“All I have said is true and for your own good, Marcus,” she answered,
“and you will live to know it.”

“Where will you take her?”

“I don’t know yet, but Christians always have friends.”

“You will let me hear of her.”

“Surely, if it is safe.”

“And if she needs help you will tell me?”

“Surely, and if you need her help, and it can be done, I will bring her
to you.”

“Then may I need help soon,” he said. “Begone.”




CHAPTER XXV
THE REWARD OF SATURIUS


Meanwhile, in one of the palaces of the Cæsars not far from the
Capitol, was being enacted another and more stormy scene. It was the
palace of Domitian, whither, the bewildering pomp of the Triumph
finished at last, the prince had withdrawn himself in no happy mood.
That day many things had happened to vex him. First and foremost, as
had been brought home to his mind from minute to minute throughout the
long hours, its glory belonged not to himself, not even to his father,
Vespasian, but to his brother, the conqueror of the Jews. Titus he had
always hated, Titus, who was as beloved of mankind for his virtues,
such as virtues were in that age, as he, Domitian, was execrated for
his vices. Now Titus had returned after a brilliant and successful
campaign to be crowned as Cæsar, to be accepted as the sharer of his
father’s government, and to receive the ovations of the populace, while
his brother Domitian must ride almost unnoted behind his chariot. The
plaudits of the roaring mob, the congratulations of the Senate, the
homage of the knights and subject princes, the offerings of foreign
kings, all laid at the feet of Titus, filled him with a jealousy that
went nigh to madness. Soothsayers had told him, it was true, that his
hour would come, that he would live and reign after Vespasian and Titus
had gone down, both of them, to Hades. But even if they spoke the truth
this hour seemed a long way off.

Also there were other things. At the great sacrifice before the temple
of Jupiter, his place had been set too far back where the people could
not see him; at the feast which followed the master of the ceremonies
had neglected, or had forgotten, to pour a libation in his honour.

Further, the beautiful captive, Pearl-Maiden, had appeared in the
procession unadorned by the costly girdle which he had sent her; while,
last of all, the different wines that he had drunk had disagreed with
him, so that because of them, or of the heat of the sun, he suffered
from the headache and sickness to which he was liable. Pleading this
indisposition as an excuse, Domitian left the banquet very early, and
attended by his slaves and musicians retired to his own palace.

Here his spirits revived somewhat, since he knew that before long his
chamberlain, Saturius, would appear with the lovely Jewish maiden upon
whom he had set his fancy. This at least was certain, for he had
arranged that the auction should be held that evening and instructed
him to buy her at all costs, even for a thousand sestertia. Indeed, who
would dare to bid for a slave that the Prince Domitian desired?

Learning that Saturius had not yet arrived, he went to his private
chambers, and to pass away the time commanded his most beautiful slaves
to dance before him, where he inflamed himself by drinking more wine of
a vintage that he loved. As the fumes of the strong liquor mounted to
his brain the pains in his head ceased, at any rate for a while. Very
soon he became half-drunk, and as was his nature when in drink, savage.
One of the dancing slaves stumbled and growing nervous stepped out of
time, whereon he ordered the poor half-naked girl to be scourged before
him by the hands of her own companions. Happily for her, however,
before the punishment began a slave arrived with the intelligence that
Saturius waited without.

“What, alone?” said the prince, springing to his feet.

“Nay, lord,” said the slave, “there is a woman with him.”

At this news instantly his ill-temper was forgotten.

“Let that girl go,” he said, “and bid her be more careful another time.
Away, all the lot of you, I wish to be private. Now, slave, bid the
worthy Saturius enter with his charge.”

Presently the curtains were drawn apart and through them came Saturius
rubbing his hands and smiling somewhat nervously, followed by a woman
wrapped in a long cloak and veiled. He began to offer the customary
salutations, but Domitian cut him short.

“Rise, man,” he said. “That sort of thing is very well in public, but I
don’t want it here. So you have got her,” he added, eyeing the draped
form in the background.

“Yes,” replied Saturius doubtfully.

“Good, your services shall be remembered. You were ever a discreet and
faithful agent. Did the bidding run high?”

“Oh! my lord, enormous, ee—normous. I never heard such bidding,” and he
stretched out his hands.

“Impertinence! Who dared to compete with me?” remarked Domitian. “Well,
what did you have to give?”

“Fifty sestertia, my lord.”

“Fifty sestertia?” answered Domitian with an air of relief. “Well, of
course it is enough, but I have known beautiful maidens fetch more. By
the way, dear one,” he went on, addressing the veiled woman, “you must,
I fear, be tired after all that weary, foolish show.”

The “dear one” making no audible reply, Domitian went on:

“Modesty is pleasing in a maid, but now I pray you, forget it for
awhile. Unveil yourself, most beautiful, that I may behold that
loveliness for which my heart has ached these many days. Nay, that task
shall be my own,” and he advanced somewhat unsteadily towards his
prize.

Saturius thought that he saw his chance. Domitian was so intoxicated
that it would be useless to attempt to explain matters that night.
Clearly he should retire as soon as possible.

“Most noble prince and patron,” he began, “my duty is done, with your
leave I will withdraw.”

“By no means, by no means,” hiccupped Domitian, “I know that you are an
excellent judge of beauty, most discriminating Saturius, and I should
like to talk over the points of this lady with you. You know, dear
Saturius, that I am not selfish, and to tell the truth, which you won’t
mind between friends—who could be jealous of a wizened, last year’s
walnut of a man like you? Not I, Saturius, not I, whom everybody
acknowledges to be the most beautiful person in Rome, much better
looking than Titus is, although he does call himself Cæsar. Now for it.
Where’s the fastening? Saturius, find the fastening. Why do you tie up
the poor girl like an Egyptian corpse and prevent her lord and master
from looking at her?”

As he spoke the slave did something to the back of her head and the
veil fell to the ground, revealing a girl of very pleasing shape and
countenance, but who, as might be expected, looked most weary and
frightened. Domitian stared at her with his bleared and wicked eyes,
while a puzzled expression grew upon his face.

“Very odd!” he said, “but she seems to have changed! I thought her eyes
were blue, and that she had curling black hair. Now they are dark and
she has straight hair. Where’s the necklace, too? Where’s the necklace?
Pearl-Maiden, what have you done with your necklace? Yes, and why
didn’t you wear the girdle I sent you to-day?”

“Sir,” answered the Jewess, “I never had a necklace——”

“My lord Domitian,” began Saturius with a nervous laugh, “there is a
mistake—I must explain. This girl is not Pearl-Maiden. Pearl-Maiden
fetched so great a price that it was impossible that I should buy her,
even for you——”

He stopped, for suddenly Domitian’s face had become terrible. All the
drunkenness had left it, to be replaced by a mask of savage cruelty
through which glared the pale and glittering eyes. The man appeared as
he was, half satyr and half fiend.

“A mistake——” he said. “Oh! a mistake? And I have been counting on her
all these weeks, and now some other man has taken her from me—the
prince Domitian. And you—you dare to come to me with this tale, and to
bring this slut with you instead of my Pearl-Maiden——” and at the
thought he fairly sobbed in his drunken, disappointed rage. Then he
stepped back and began to clap his hands and call aloud.

Instantly slaves and guards rushed into the chamber, thinking that
their lord was threatened with some evil.

“Men,” he said, “take that woman and kill her. No, it might make a
stir, as she was one of Titus’s captives. Don’t kill her, thrust her
into the street.”

The girl was seized by the arms and dragged away.

“Oh! my lord,” began Saturius.

“Silence, man, I am coming to you. Seize him, and strip him. Oh! I know
you are a freedman and a citizen of Rome. Well, soon you shall be a
citizen of Hades, I promise you. Now, bring the heavy rods and beat him
till he dies.”

The dreadful order was obeyed, and for a while nothing was heard save
the sound of heavy blows and the smothered moans of the miserable
Saturius.

“Wretches,” yelled the Imperial brute, “you are playing, you do not hit
hard enough. I will teach you how to hit,” and snatching a rod from one
of the slaves he rushed at his prostrate chamberlain, the others
drawing back to allow their master to show his skill in flogging.

Saturius saw Domitian come, and knew that unless he could change his
purpose in another minute the life would be battered out of him. He
struggled to his knees.

“Prince,” he cried, “hearken ere you strike. You can kill me if you
will who are justly angered, and to die at your hands is an honour that
I do not merit. Yet, dread lord, remember that if you slay me then you
will never find that Pearl-Maiden whom you desire.”

Domitian paused, for even in his fury he was cunning. “Doubtless,” he
thought, “the knave knows where the girl is. Perhaps even he has hidden
her away for himself.”

“Ah!” he said aloud, quoting the vulgar proverb, “‘the rod is the
mother of reason.’ Well, can you find her?”

“Surely, if I have time. The man who can afford to pay two thousand
sestertia for a single slave cannot easily be hidden.”

“Two thousand sestertia!” exclaimed Domitian astonished. “Tell me that
story. Slaves, give Saturius his robe and fall back—no, not too far, he
may be treacherous.”

The chamberlain threw the garment over his bleeding shoulders and
fastened it with a trembling hand. Then he told his tale, adding:

“Oh! my lord, what could I do? You have not enough money at hand to pay
so huge a sum.”

“Do, fool? Why you should have bought her on credit and left me to
settle the price afterwards. Oh! never mind Titus, I could have
outwitted him. But the mischief is done; now for the remedy, so far as
it can be remedied,” he added, grinding his teeth.

“That I must seek to-morrow, lord.”

“To-morrow? And what will you do to-morrow?”

“To-morrow I will find where the girl’s gone, or try to, and then—why
he who has bought her might die and—the rest will be easy.”

“Die he surely shall be who has dared to rob Domitian of his darling,”
answered the prince with an oath. “Well, hearken, Saturius, for this
night you are spared, but be sure that if you fail for the second time
you also shall die, and after a worse fashion than I promised you. Now
go, and to-morrow we will take counsel. Oh! ye gods, why do you deal so
hardly with Domitian? My soul is bruised and must be comforted with
poesy. Rouse that Greek from his bed and send him to me. He shall read
to me of the wrath of Achilles when they robbed him of his Briseis, for
the hero’s lot is mine.”

So this new Achilles departed, now that his rage had left him, weeping
maudlin tears of disappointed passion, to comfort his “bruised soul”
with the immortal lines of Homer, for when he was not merely a brute
Domitian fancied himself a poet. It was perhaps as well for his peace
of mind that he could not see the face of Saturius, as the chamberlain
comforted his bruised shoulders with some serviceable ointment, or hear
the oath which that useful and industrious officer uttered as he sought
his rest, face downwards, since for many days thereafter he was unable
to lie upon his back. It was a very ugly oath, sworn by every god who
had an altar in Rome, with the divinities of the Jews and the
Christians thrown in, that in a day to come he would avenge Domitian’s
rods with daggers. Had the prince been able to do so, there might have
risen in his mind some prescience of a certain scene, in which he must
play a part on a far-off but destined night. He might have beheld a
vision of himself, bald, corpulent and thin-legged, but wearing the
imperial robes of Cæsar, rolling in a frantic struggle for life upon
the floor of his bed-chamber, at death grips with one Stephanus, while
an old chamberlain named Saturius drove a dagger again and again into
his back, crying at each stroke:

“Oho! That for thy rods, Cæsar! Oho! Dost remember the Pearl-Maiden?
That for thy rods, Cæsar, and that—and that—and _that_——!”

But Domitian, weeping himself to sleep over the tale of the wrongs of
the god-like Achilles, which did but foreshadow those of his divine
self, as yet thought nothing of the rich reward that time should bring
him.

On the morrow of the great day of the Triumph the merchant Demetrius of
Alexandria, whom for many years we have known as Caleb, sat in the
office of the store-house which he had hired for the bestowal of his
goods in one of the busiest thoroughfares of Rome. Handsome, indeed,
noble-looking as he was, and must always be, his countenance presented
a sorry sight. From hour to hour during the previous day he had fought
a path through the dense crowds that lined the streets of Rome, to keep
as near as might be to Miriam while she trudged her long route of
splendid shame.

Then came the evening, when, with the other women slaves, she was put
up to auction in the Forum. To prepare for this sale Caleb had turned
almost all his merchandise into money, for he knew that Domitian was a
purchaser, and guessed that the price of the beautiful Pearl-Maiden, of
whom all the city was talking, would rule high. The climax we know. He
bid to the last coin that he possessed or could raise, only to find
that others with still greater resources were in the market. Even the
agent of the prince had been left behind, and Miriam was at last
knocked down to some mysterious stranger woman dressed like a peasant.
The woman was veiled and disguised; she spoke with a feigned voice and
in a strange tongue, but from the beginning Caleb knew her. Incredible
as it might seem, that she should be here in Rome, he was certain that
she was Nehushta, and no other.

That Nehushta should buy Miriam was well, but how came she by so vast a
sum of money, here in a far-off land? In short, for whom was she
buying? Indeed, for whom would she buy? He could think of one
only—Marcus. But he had made inquiries and Marcus was not in Rome.
Indeed he had every reason to believe that his rival was long dead,
that his bones were scattered among the tens of thousands which
whitened the tumbled ruins of the Holy City in Judæa. How could it be
otherwise? He had last seen him wounded, as he thought to death—and he
should know, for the stroke fell from his own hand—lying senseless in
the Old Tower in Jerusalem. Then he vanished away, and where Marcus had
been Miriam was found. Whither did he vanish, and if it was true that
she succeeded in hiding him in some secret hole, what chance was there
that he could have lived on without food and unsuccoured? Also if he
lived, why had he not appeared long before? Why was not so wealthy a
Patrician and distinguished a soldier riding in the triumphant train of
Titus?

With black despair raging in his breast, he, Caleb, had seen Miriam
knocked down to the mysterious basket-laden stranger whom none could
recognise. He had seen her depart together with the auctioneer and a
servant, also basket-laden, to the office of the receiving house,
whither he had attempted to follow upon some pretext, only to be
stopped by the watchman. After this he hung about the door until he saw
the auctioneer appear alone, when it occurred to him that the purchaser
and the purchased must have departed by some other exit, perhaps in
order to avoid further observation. He ran round the building to find
himself confronted only by the empty, star-lit spaces of the Forum.
Searching them with his eyes, for one instant it seemed to him that far
away he caught sight of a little knot of figures climbing a black
marble stair in the dark shadow of some temple. He sped across the open
space, he ran up the great stair, to find at the head of it a young man
in whom he recognised the auctioneer’s clerk, gazing along a wide
street as empty as was the stair.

The rest is known to us. He followed, and twice perceived the little
group of dark-robed figures hurrying round distant corners. Once he
lost them altogether, but a passer-by on his road to some feast told
him courteously enough which way they had gone. On he ran almost at
hazard, to be rewarded in the end by the sight of them vanishing
through a narrow doorway in the wall. He came to the door and saw that
it was very massive. He tried it even, it was locked. Then he thought
of knocking, only to remember that to state his business would probably
be to meet his death. At such a place and hour those who purchased
beautiful slaves might have a sword waiting for the heart of an
unsuccessful rival who dared to follow them to their haunts.

Caleb walked round the house, to find that it was a palace which seemed
to be deserted, although he thought that he saw light shining through
one of the shuttered windows. Now he knew the place again. It was here
that the procession had halted and one of the Roman soldiers who had
committed the crime of being taken captive escaped the taunts of the
crowd by hurling himself beneath the wheel of a great pageant car. Yes,
there was no doubt of it, for his blood still stained the dusty stones
and by it lay a piece of the broken distaff with which, in their
mockery, they had girded the poor man. They were gentle folk, these
Romans! Why, measured by this standard, some such doom would have
fallen upon his rival, Marcus, for Marcus also was taken prisoner—by
himself. The thought made Caleb smile, since well he knew that no
braver soldier lived. Then came other thoughts that pressed him closer.
Somewhere in that great dead-looking house was Miriam, as far off from
him as though she were still in Judæa. There was Miriam—and who was
with her? The new-found lord who had spent two thousand sestertia on
her purchase? The thought of it almost turned his brain.

Heretofore, the life of Caleb had been ruled by two passions—ambition
and the love of Miriam. He had aspired to be ruler of the Jews, perhaps
their king, and to this end had plotted and fought for the expulsion of
the Romans from Judæa. He had taken part in a hundred desperate
battles. Again and again he had risked his life; again and again he had
escaped. For one so young he had reached high rank, till he was
numbered among the first of their captains.

Then came the end, the last hideous struggle and the downfall. Once
more his life was left in him. Where men perished by the hundred
thousand he escaped, winning safety, not through the desire of it, but
because of the love of Miriam which drove him on to follow her. Happily
for himself he had hidden money, which, after the gift of his race, he
was able to turn to good account, so that now he, who had been a leader
in war and council, walked the world as a merchant in Eastern goods.
All that glittering past had gone from him; he might become wealthy,
but, Jew as he was, he could never be great nor fill his soul with the
glory that it craved. There remained to him, then, nothing but this
passion for one woman among the millions who dwelt beneath the sun, the
girl who had been his playmate, whom he loved from the beginning,
although she had never loved him, and whom he would love until the end.

Why had she not loved him? Because of his rival, that accursed Roman,
Marcus, the man whom time upon time he had tried to kill, but who had
always slipped like water from his hands. Well, if she was lost to him
she was lost to Marcus also, and from that thought he would take such
comfort as he might. Indeed he had no other, for during those dreadful
hours the fires of all Gehenna raged in his soul. He had lost—but who
had found her?

Throughout the long night Caleb tramped round the cold, empty-looking
palace, suffering perhaps as he had never suffered before, a thing to
be pitied of gods and men. At length the dawn broke and the light crept
down the splendid street, showing here and there groups of weary and
half-drunken revellers staggering homewards from the feast, flushed men
and dishevelled women. Others appeared also, humble and industrious
citizens going to their daily toil. Among them were people whose
business it was to clean the roads, abroad early this morning, for
after the great procession they thought that they might find articles
of value let fall by those who walked in it, or by the spectators. Two
of these scavengers began sweeping near the place where Caleb stood,
and lightened their toil by laughing at him, asking him if he had spent
his night in the gutter and whether he knew his way home. He replied
that he waited for the doors of the house to be opened.

“Which house?” they asked. “The ‘Fortunate House?’” and they pointed to
the marble palace of Marcus, which, as Caleb now saw for the first
time, had these words blazoned in gold letters on its portico.

He nodded.

“Well,” said one of them, “you will wait for some time, for that house
is no longer fortunate. Its owner is dead, killed in the wars, and no
one knows who his heir may be.”

“What was his name?” he asked.

“Marcus, the favourite of Nero, also called the Fortunate.”

Then, with a bitter curse upon his lips Caleb turned and walked away.




CHAPTER XXVI
THE JUDGMENT OF DOMITIAN


Two hours had gone by and Caleb, with fury in his heart, sat brooding
in the office attached to the warehouse that he had hired. At that
moment he had but one desire—to kill his successful rival, Marcus.
Marcus had escaped and returned to Rome; of that there could be no
doubt. He, one of the wealthiest of its patricians, had furnished the
vast sum which enabled old Nehushta to buy the coveted Pearl-Maiden in
the slave-ring. Then his newly acquired property had been taken to this
house, where he awaited her. This then was the end of their long
rivalry; for this he, Caleb, had fought, toiled, schemed and suffered.
Oh! rather than such a thing should be, in that dark hour of his soul,
he would have seen her cast to the foul Domitian, for Domitian, at
least, she would have hated, whereas Marcus, he knew, she loved.

Now there remained nothing but revenge. Revenged he must be, but how?
He might dog Marcus and murder him, only then his own life would be
hazarded, since he knew well the fate that awaited the foreigner, and
most of all the Jew, who dared to lift his hand against a Roman noble,
and if he hired others to do the work they might bear evidence against
him. Now Caleb did not wish to die; life seemed the only good that he
had left. Also, while he lived he might still win Miriam—after his
rival had ceased to live. Doubtless, then she would be sold with his
other slaves, and he could buy her at the rate such tarnished goods
command. No, he would do nothing to run himself into danger. He would
wait, wait and watch his opportunity.

It was near at hand, for of old as to-day the king of evil was ever
ready to aid those who called upon him with sufficient earnestness.
Indeed, even as Caleb sat there in his office, there came a knock upon
the door.

“Open!” he cried savagely, and through it entered a small man with
close-cropped hair and a keen, hard face which seemed familiar to him.
Just now, however, that face was somewhat damaged, for one of the eyes
had been blackened and a wound upon the temple was strapped with
plaster. Also its owner walked lame and continually twitched his
shoulders as though they gave him uneasiness. The stranger opened his
lips to speak, and Caleb knew him at once. He was the chamberlain of
Domitian who had been outbid by Nehushta in the slave ring.

“Greeting, noble Saturius,” he said. “Be seated, I pray, for it seems
to pain you to stand.”

“Yes, yes,” answered the chamberlain, “still I had rather stand. I met
with an accident last night, a most unpleasant accident,” and he
coughed as though to cover up some word that leapt to his lips. “You
also, worthy Demetrius—that is your name, is it not?” he added, eyeing
him keenly—“look as though you had not slept well.”

“No,” answered Caleb, “I also met with an accident—oh! nothing that you
can see—a slight internal injury which is, I fear, likely to prove
troublesome. Well, noble Saturius, how can I—serve you? Anything in the
way of Eastern shawls, for instance?”

“I thank you, friend, no. I come to speak of shoulders, not shawls,”
and he twitched his own—“women’s shoulders, I mean. A remarkably fine
pair for their size had that Jewish captive, by the way, in whom you
seemed to take an interest last night—to the considerable extent indeed
of fourteen hundred sestertia.”

“Yes,” said Caleb, “they were well shaped.”

Then followed a pause.

“Perhaps as I am a busy man,” suggested Caleb presently, “you would not
mind coming to the point.”

“Certainly, I was but waiting for your leave. As you may have heard, I
represent a very noble person——”

“Who, I think, took an interest in the captive to the extent of fifteen
hundred sestertia,” suggested Caleb.

“Quite so—and whose interest unfortunately remains unabated, or rather,
I should say, that it is transferred.”

“To the gentleman whose deep feeling induced him to provide five
hundred more?” queried Caleb.

“Precisely. What intuition you have! It is a gift with which the East
endows her sons.”

“Suppose you put the matter plainly, worthy Saturius.”

“I will, excellent Demetrius. The great person to whom I have alluded
was so moved when he heard of his loss that he actually burst into
tears, and even reproached me, whom he loves more dearly than his
brother——”

“He might easily do that, if all reports are true,” said Caleb, drily,
adding, “Was it then that you met with your accident?”

“It was. Overcome at the sight of my royal master’s grief, I fell
down.”

“Into a well, I suppose, since you managed to injure your eye, your
back, and your leg all at once. There—I understand—these things will
happen—in the households of the Great where the floors are so slippery
that the most wary feet may slide. But that does not console the
sufferer whose hurt remains, does it?”

“No,” answered Saturius with a snarl, “but until he is in a position to
relay the floors, he must find chalk for his sandals and ointment for
his back. I want the purchaser’s name, and thought perhaps that you
might have it, for the old woman has vanished, and that fool of an
auctioneer knows absolutely nothing.”

“Why do you want his name?”

“Because Domitian wants his head. An unnatural desire indeed that
devours him; still one which, to be frank, I find it important to
satisfy.”

Of a sudden a great light seemed to shine in Caleb’s mind, it was as
though a candle had been lit in a dark room.

“Ah!” he said. “And supposing I can show him how to get this head, even
how to get it without any scandal, do you think that in return he would
leave me the lady’s hand? You see I knew her in her youth and take a
brotherly interest in her.”

“Quite so, just like Domitian and the two thousand sestertia man and,
indeed, half the male population of Rome, who, when they saw her
yesterday were moved by the same family feeling. Well, I don’t see why
he shouldn’t. You see my master never cared for pearls that were not
perfectly white, or admired ladies upon whom report cast the slightest
breath of scandal. But he is of a curiously jealous disposition, and it
is, I think, the head that he requires, not the hand.”

“Had you not better make yourself clear upon the point before we go any
further?” asked Caleb. “Otherwise I do not feel inclined to undertake a
very difficult and dangerous business.”

“With pleasure. Now would you let me have your demands, in writing,
perhaps. Oh! of course, I understand—to be answered in writing.”

Caleb took parchment and pen and wrote:

“A free pardon, with full liberty to travel, live and trade throughout
the Roman empire, signed by the proper authorities, to be granted to
one Caleb, the son of Hilliel, for the part he took in the Jewish war.

“A written promise, signed by the person concerned, that if the head he
desires is put within his reach the Jewish slave named Pearl-Maiden
shall be handed over at once to Demetrius, the merchant of Alexandria,
whose property she shall become absolutely and without question.”

“That’s all,” he said, giving the paper to Saturius. “The Caleb spoken
of is a Jewish friend of mine to whom I am anxious to do a good turn,
without whose help and evidence I should be quite unable to perform my
share of the bargain. Being very shy and timid—his nerves were much
shattered during the siege of Jerusalem—he will not stir without this
authority, which, by the way, will require the signature of Titus
Cæsar, duly witnessed. Well, that is merely an offering to friendship;
of course _my_ fee is the reversion to the lady, whom I desire to
restore to her relations, who mourn her loss in Judæa.”

“Precisely—quite so,” replied Saturius. “Pray do not trouble to explain
further. I have always found those of Alexandria most excellent
merchants. Well, I hope to be back within two hours.”

“Mind you come alone. As I have told you, everything depends upon this
Caleb, and if he is in any way alarmed there is an end of the affair.
He only has a possible key to the mystery. Should it be lost your
patron will never get his head, and I shall never get my hand.”

“Oh! bid the timid Caleb have no fear. Who would wish to harm a dirty
Jewish deserter from his cause and people? Let him come out of his
sewer and look upon the sun. The Cæsars do not war with carrion rats.
Most worthy Demetrius, I go swiftly, as I hope to return again with all
you need.”

“Good, most noble Saturius, and for both our sakes—remember that the
palace floor is slippery, and do not get another fall, for it might
finish you.”

“I am in deep waters, but I think that I can swim well,” reflected
Caleb as the door closed behind his visitor. “At any rate it gives me a
chance who have no other, and that prince is playing for revenge, not
love. What can Miriam be to him beyond the fancy of an hour, of which a
thief has robbed him? Doubtless he wishes to kill the thief, but kings
do not care for faded roses, which are only good enough to weave the
chaplet of a merchant of Alexandria. So I cast for the last time, let
the dice fall as it is fated.”

Very shortly afterwards in the palace of Domitian the dice began to
fall. Humbly, most humbly, did that faithful chamberlain, Saturius, lay
the results of his mission before his august master, Domitian, who
suffering from a severe bilious attack that had turned his ruddy
complexion to a dingy yellow, and made the aspect of his pale eyes more
unpleasant than usual, was propped up among cushions, sniffing attar of
roses and dabbing vinegar water upon his forehead.

He listened indifferently to the tale of his jackal, until the full
meaning of the terms asked by the mysterious Eastern merchant
penetrated his sodden brain.

“Why,” he said, “the man wants Pearl-Maiden; that’s his share, while
mine is the life of the fellow who bought her, whoever he may be. Are
you still mad, man, that you should dare to lay such a proposal before
me? Don’t you understand that I need both the woman and the blood of
him who dared to cheat me out of her?”

“Most divine prince, I understand perfectly, but this fish is only
biting; he must be tempted or he will tell nothing.”

“Why not bring him here and torture him?”

“I have thought of that, but those Jews are so obstinate. While you
were twisting the truth out of him the other man would escape with the
girl. Much better promise everything he asks and then——”

“And then—what?”

“And then forget your promises. What can be simpler?”

“But he needs them in writing.”

“Let him have them in writing, my writing, which your divine self can
repudiate. Only the pardon to Caleb, who I suppose is this Demetrius
himself, can be signed by Titus. It will not affect you whether a Jew
more or less has the right to trade in the Empire, if thereby you can
win his services in an important matter. Then, when the time comes, you
can net both your unknown rival and the lady, leaving our friend
Demetrius to report the facts to her relatives in Judæa, for whom, as
he states, he is alone concerned.”

“Saturius,” said Domitian, growing interested, “you are not so foolish
as I thought you were. Decidedly that trouble last night has quickened
your wits. Be so good as to stop wriggling your shoulders, will you, it
makes me nervous, and I wish that you would have that eye of yours
painted. You know that I cannot bear the sight of black; it reminds me,
who am by nature joyous and light-hearted as a child, of melancholy
things. Now forge a letter for my, or rather for your signature,
promising the reversion of Pearl-Maiden to this Demetrius. Then bear my
greetings to Titus, begging his signature to an order granting the
desired privileges to one Caleb, a Jew who fought against him at
Jerusalem—with less success than I could have wished—whom I desire to
favour.”

Three hours later Saturius presented himself for the second time in the
office of the Alexandrian merchant.

“Most worthy Demetrius,” he said, “I congratulate you. Everything has
been arranged as you wish. Here is the order, signed by Titus and duly
witnessed, granting to you—I mean to your friend, Caleb—pardon for
whatever he may have done in Judæa, and permission to live and trade
anywhere that he may wish within the bounds of the Empire. I may tell
you that it was obtained with great difficulty, since Titus, worn out
with toil and glory, leaves this very day for his villa by the sea,
where he is ordered by his physicians to rest three months, taking no
part whatever in affairs. Does the document satisfy you?”

Caleb examined the signatures and seals.

“It seems to be in order,” he said.

“It is in order, excellent Demetrius. Caleb can now appear in the
Forum, if it pleases him, and lecture upon the fall of Jerusalem for
the benefit of the vulgar. Well, here also is a letter from the
divine—or rather the half divine—Domitian to yourself, Demetrius of
Alexandria, also witnessed by myself and sealed. It promises to you
that if you give evidence enabling him to arrest that miscreant who
dared to bid against him—no, do not be alarmed, the lady was not
knocked down to you—you shall be allowed to take possession of her or
to buy her at a reasonable valuation, not to exceed fifteen sestertia.
That is as much as she will fetch now in the open market. Are you
satisfied with this document?”

Caleb read and scrutinised the letter.

“The signatures of Domitian and of yourself as witness seem much
alike,” he remarked suspiciously.

“Somewhat,” replied Saturius, with an airy gesture. “In royal houses it
is customary for chamberlains to imitate the handwriting of their
imperial masters.”

“And their morals—no, they have none—their manners also,” commented
Caleb.

“At the least,” went on Saturius, “you will acknowledge the seals——”

“Which might be borrowed. Well, I will take the risk, for if there is
anything wrong about these papers I am sure that the prince Domitian
would not like to see them exhibited in a court of law.”

“Good,” answered Saturius, with a relief which he could not altogether
conceal. “And now for the culprit’s name.”

“The culprit’s name,” said Caleb, leaning forward and speaking slowly,
“is Marcus, who served as one of Titus Cæsar’s prefects of horse in the
campaign of Judæa. He bought the lady Miriam, commonly known as
Pearl-Maiden, by the agency of Nehushta, an old Libyan woman, who
conveyed her to his house in the Via Agrippa, which is known as the
‘Fortunate House,’ where doubtless, she now is.”

“Marcus,” said Saturius. “Why, he was reported dead, and the matter of
the succession to his great estates is now being debated, for he was
the heir of his uncle, Caius, the pro-consul, who amassed a vast
fortune in Spain. Also after the death of the said Caius, this Marcus
was a favourite of the late divine Nero, who constituted him guardian
of some bust of which he was enamoured. In short, he is a great man,
if, as you say, he still lives, whom even Domitian will find it hard to
meddle with. But how do you know all this?”

“Through my friend Caleb. Caleb followed the black hag, Nehushta, and
the beautiful Pearl-Maiden to the very house of Marcus, which he saw
them enter. Marcus who was her lover, yonder in Judæa——”

“Oh! never mind the rest of the story, I understand it all. But you
have not yet shown that Marcus was in the house, and if he was, bad
taste as it may have been to bid against the prince Domitian, well, at
a public auction it is lawful.”

“Ye—es, but if Marcus has committed a crime, could he not be punished
for that crime?”

“Without doubt. But what crime has Marcus committed?”

“The crime of being taken prisoner by the Jews and escaping from them
with his life, for which, by an edict of Titus, whose laws are those of
the Medes and Persians, the punishment is death, or at the least,
banishment and degradation.”

“Well, and who can prove all this?”

“Caleb can, because he took him prisoner.”

“And where,” asked Saturius in exasperation, “where is this thrice
accursed cur, Caleb?”

“Here,” answered Demetrius. “I am Caleb, O thrice blessed chamberlain,
Saturius.”

“Indeed,” said Saturius. “Well, that makes things more simple. And now,
friend Demetrius—you prefer that name, do you not—what do you propose?”

“I propose that the necessary documents should be procured, which, to
your master, will not be difficult; that Marcus should be arrested in
his house, put upon his trial and condemned under the edict of Titus,
and that the girl, Pearl-Maiden, should be handed over to me, who will
at once remove her from Rome.”

“Good,” said Saturius. “Titus having gone, leaving Domitian in charge
of military affairs, the thing, as it chances, is easy, though any
sentence that may be passed must be confirmed by Cæsar himself. And
now, again farewell. If our man is in Rome, he shall be taken to-night,
and to-morrow your evidence may be wanted.”

“Will the girl be handed over to me then?”

“I think so,” replied Saturius, “but of course I cannot say for
certain, as there may be legal difficulties in the way which would
hinder her immediate re-sale. However, you may rely upon me to do the
best I can for you.”

“It will be to your advantage,” answered Caleb significantly. “Shall we
say—fifty sestertia on receipt of the slave?”

“Oh! if you wish it, if you wish it, for gifts cement the hearts of
friends. On account? Well, to a man with many expenses, five sestertia
always come in useful. You know what it is in these palaces, so little
pay and so much to keep up. Thank you, dear Demetrius, I will give you
and the lady a supper out of the money—when you get her,” he added to
himself as he left the office.

When early on the following morning Caleb came to his warehouse from
the dwelling where he slept, he found waiting for him two men dressed
in the livery of Domitian, who demanded that he would accompany them to
the palace of the prince.

“What for?”

“To give evidence in a trial,” they said.

Then he knew that he had made no mistake, that his rival was caught,
and in the rage of his burning jealousy, such jealousy as only an
Eastern can feel, his heart bounded with joy. Still, as he trudged
onward through streets glittering in the morning sunlight, Caleb’s
conscience told him that not thus should this rival be overcome, that
he who went to accuse the brave Marcus of cowardice was himself a
coward, and that from the lie which he was about to act if not to
speak, could spring no fruit of peace or happiness. But he was mad and
blind. He could think only of Miriam—the woman whom he loved with all
his passionate nature and whose life he had preserved at the risk of
his own—fallen at last into the arms of his rival. He would wrench her
thence, yes, even at the price of his own honour and of her life-long
agony, and, if it might be, leave those arms cold in death, as often
already he had striven to do. When Marcus was dead perhaps she would
forgive him. At the least he would occupy his place. She would be his
slave, to whom, notwithstanding all that had been, he would give the
place of wife. Then, after a little while, seeing how good and tender
he was to her, surely she must forget this Roman who had taken her
girlish fancy and learn to love him.

Now they were passing the door of the palace. In the outer hall
Saturius met them and motioned to the slaves to stand back.

“So you have them,” said Caleb, eagerly.

“Yes, or to be exact, one of them. The lady has vanished.”

Caleb staggered back a pace.

“Vanished! Where?”

“I wish that I could tell you. I thought that perhaps you knew. At
least we found Marcus alone in his house, which he was about to leave,
apparently to follow Titus. But come, the court awaits you.”

“If she has gone, why should I come?” said Caleb, hanging back.

“I really don’t know, but you must. Here, slaves, escort this witness.”

Then seeing that it was too late to change his mind, Caleb waved them
back and followed Saturius. Presently they entered an inner hall,
lofty, but not large. At the head of it, clad in the purple robes of
his royal house, sat Domitian in a chair, while to his right and left
were narrow tables, at which were gathered five or six Roman officers,
those of Domitian’s own bodyguard, bare-headed, but arrayed in their
mail. Also there were two scribes with their tablets, a man dressed in
a lawyer’s robe, who seemed to fill the office of prosecutor, and some
soldiers on guard.

When Caleb entered, Domitian, who, notwithstanding his youthful, ruddy
countenance, looked in a very evil mood, was engaged in talking
earnestly to the lawyer. Glancing up, he saw him and asked:

“Is that the Jew who gives evidence, Saturius?”

“My lord, it is the man,” answered the chamberlain; “also the other
witness waits without.”

“Good. Then bring in the accused.”

There was a pause, till presently Caleb heard footsteps behind him and
looked round to see Marcus advancing up the hall with a proud and
martial air. Their eyes met, and for an instant Marcus stopped.

“Oh!” he said aloud, “the Jew Caleb. Now I understand.” Then he marched
forward and gave the military salute to the prince.

Domitian stared at him with hate in his pale eyes, and said carelessly:

“Is this the accused? What is the charge?”

“The charge is,” said the lawyer, “that the accused Marcus, a prefect
of horse serving with Titus Cæsar in Judæa, suffered himself to be
taken prisoner by the Jews when in command of a large body of Roman
troops, contrary to the custom of the army and to the edict issued by
Titus Cæsar at the commencement of the siege of Jerusalem. This edict
commanded that no soldier should be taken alive, and that any soldier
who was taken alive and subsequently rescued, or who made good his
escape, should be deemed worthy of death, or at the least of
degradation from his rank and banishment. My lord Marcus, do you plead
guilty to the charge?”

“First, I ask,” said Marcus, “what court is this before which I am put
upon my trial? If I am to be tried I demand that it shall be by my
general, Titus.”

“Then,” said the prosecutor, “you should have reported yourself to
Titus upon your arrival in Rome. Now he has gone to where he may not be
troubled, leaving the charge of military matters in the hands of his
Imperial brother, the Prince Domitian, who, with these officers, is
therefore your lawful judge.”

“Perhaps,” broke in Domitian with bitter malice, “the lord Marcus was
too much occupied with other pursuits on his arrival in Rome to find
time to explain his conduct to the Cæsar Titus.”

“I was about to follow him to do so when I was seized,” said Marcus.

“Then you put the matter off a little too long. Now you can explain it
here,” answered Domitian.

Then the prosecutor took up the tale, saying that it had been
ascertained on inquiry that the accused, accompanied by an old woman,
arrived in Rome upon horseback early on the morning of the Triumph;
that he went straight to his house, which was called “The House
Fortunate,” where he lay hid all day; that in the evening he sent out
the old woman and a slave carrying on their backs a great sum of gold
in baskets, with which gold he purchased a certain fair Jewish captive,
known as Pearl-Maiden, at a public auction in the Forum. This
Pearl-Maiden, it would seem, was taken to his house, but when he was
arrested on the morrow neither she nor the old woman were found there.
The accused, he might add, was arrested just as he was about to leave
the house, as he stated, in order to report himself to Titus Cæsar, who
had already departed from Rome. This was the case in brief, and to
prove it he called a certain Jew named Caleb, who was now living in
Rome, having received an amnesty given by the hand of Titus. This Jew
was now a merchant who traded under the name of Demetrius.

Then Caleb stood forward and told his tale. In answer to questions that
were put to him, he related how he was in command of a body of the Jews
which fought an action with the Roman troops at a place called the Old
Tower, a few days before the capture of the Temple. In the course of
this action he parleyed with a captain of the Romans, the Prefect
Marcus, who now stood before him, and at the end of the parley
challenged him to single combat. As Marcus refused the encounter and
tried to run away, he struck him on the back with the back of his
sword. Thereon a fight ensued in which he, the witness, had the
advantage. Being wounded, the accused let fall his sword, sank to his
knees and asked for mercy. The fray having now become general he,
Caleb, dragged his prisoner into the Old Tower and returned to the
battle.

When he went back to the Tower it was to find that the captive had
vanished, leaving in his place a lady who was known to the Romans as
Pearl-Maiden, and who was afterwards taken by them and exposed for sale
in the Forum, where she was purchased by an old woman whom he
recognised as her nurse. He followed the maiden, having bid for her and
being curious as to her destination, to a house in the Via Agrippa,
which he afterwards learned was the palace of the accused Marcus. That
was all he knew of the matter.

Then the prosecutor called a soldier, who stated that he had been under
the command of Marcus on the day in question. There he saw the Jew
leader, whom he identified with Caleb, at the conclusion of a parley
strike the accused, Marcus, on the back with the flat of his sword.
After this ensued a fight, in which the Romans were repulsed. At the
end of it, he saw their captain, Marcus, being led away prisoner. His
sword had gone and blood was running from the side of his head.

The evidence being concluded, Marcus was asked if he had anything to
say in defence.

“Much,” he answered proudly, “when I am given a fair trial. I desire to
call the men of my legion who were with me, none of whom I see here
to-day except that man who has given evidence against me, a rogue whom,
I remember, I caused to be scourged for theft, and dismissed his
company. But they are in Egypt, so how can I summon them? As for the
Jew, he is an old enemy of mine, who was guilty of murder in his youth,
and whom once I overcame in a duel in Judæa, sparing his life. It is
true that when my back was turned he struck me with his sword, and as I
flew at him smote me a blow upon the head, from the effects of which I
became senseless. In this state I was taken prisoner and lay for weeks
sick in a vault, in the care of some people of the Jews, who nursed me.
From them I escaped to Rome, desiring to report myself to Titus Cæsar,
my master. I appeal to Titus Cæsar.”

“He is absent and I represent him,” said Domitian.

“Then,” answered Marcus, “I appeal to Vespasian Cæsar, to whom I will
tell all. I am a Roman noble of no mean rank, and I have a right to be
tried by Cæsar, not by a packed court, whose president has a grudge
against me for private matters.”

“Insolent!” shouted Domitian. “Your appeal shall be laid before Cæsar,
as it must—that is, if he will hear it. Tell us now, where is that
woman whom you bought in the Forum, for we desire her testimony?”

“Prince, I do not know,” answered Marcus. “It is true that she came to
my house, but then and there I gave her freedom and she departed from
it with her nurse, nor can I tell whither she went.”

“I thought that you were only a coward, but it seems that you are a
liar as well,” sneered Domitian. Then he consulted with the officers
and added, “We judge the case to be proved against you, and for having
disgraced the Roman arms, when, rather than be taken prisoner, many a
meaner man died by his own hand, you are worthy of whatever punishment
it pleases Cæsar to inflict. Meanwhile, till his pleasure is known, I
command that you shall be confined in the private rooms of the military
prison near the Temple of Mars, and that if you attempt to escape
thence you shall be put to death. You have liberty to draw up your case
in writing, that it may be transmitted to Cæsar, my father, together
with a transcript of the evidence against you.”

“Now,” replied Marcus bitterly, “I am tempted to do what you say I
should have done before, die by my own hand, rather than endure such
shameful words and this indignity. But that my honour will not suffer.
When Cæsar has heard my case and when Titus, my general, also gives his
verdict against me, I will die, but not before. You, Prince, and you,
Captains, who have never drawn sword outside the streets of Rome, you
call me coward, me, who have served with honour through five campaigns,
who, from my youth till now have been in arms, and this upon the
evidence of a renegade Jew who, for years, has been my private enemy,
and of a soldier whom I scourged as a thief. Look now upon this breast
and say if it is that of a coward!” and rending his robes asunder,
Marcus exposed his bosom, scarred with four white wounds. “Call my
comrades, those with whom I have fought in Gaul, in Sicily, in Egypt
and in Judæa, and ask them if Marcus is a coward? Ask that Jew even, to
whom I gave his life, whether Marcus is a coward?”

“Have done with your boasting,” said Domitian, “and hide those
scratches. You were taken prisoner by the Jews—it is enough. You have
your prayer, your case shall go to Cæsar. If the tale you tell is true
you would produce that woman who is said to have rescued you from the
Jews and whom you purchased as a slave. When you do this we will take
her evidence. Till then to your prison with you. Guards, remove the man
Marcus, called the Fortunate, once a Prefect of Horse in the army of
Judæa.”




CHAPTER XXVII
THE BISHOP CYRIL


On the morning following the day of the Triumph Julia, the wife of
Gallus, was seated in her bed-chamber looking out at the yellow waters
of the Tiber that ran almost beneath its window. She had risen at dawn
and attended to the affairs of her household, and now retired to rest
and pray. Mingled with the Roman crowd on the yesterday she had seen
Miriam, whom she loved, marching wearily through the streets of Rome.
Then, able to bear no more, she went home, leaving Gallus to follow the
last acts of the drama. About nine o’clock that night he joined her and
told her the story of the sale of Miriam for a vast sum of money,
since, standing in the shadow beyond the light of the torches, he had
been a witness of the scene at the slave-market. Domitian had been
outbid, and their Pearl-Maiden was knocked down to an old woman with a
basket on her back who looked like a witch, after which she vanished
with her purchaser. That was all he knew for certain. Julia thought it
little enough, and reproached her husband for his stupidity in not
learning more. Still, although she seemed to be vexed, at heart she
rejoiced. Into whoever’s hand the maid had fallen, for a while at least
she had escaped the vile Domitian.

Now, as she sat and prayed, Gallus being abroad to gather more tidings
if he could, she heard the courtyard door open, but took no notice of
it, thinking that it was but the servant who returned from market.
Presently, however, as she knelt, a shadow fell upon her and Julia
looked up to see Miriam, none other than Miriam, and with her a
dark-skinned, aged woman, whom she did not know.

“How come you here?” she gasped.

“Oh! mother,” answered the girl in a low and thrilling voice, “mother,
by the mercy of God and by the help of this Nehushta, of whom I have
often told you, and—of another, I am escaped from Domitian, and return
to you free and unharmed.”

“Tell me that story,” said Julia, “for I do not understand. The thing
sounds incredible.”

So Miriam told her tale. When it was done, Julia said:

“Heathen though he is, this Marcus must be a noble-hearted man, whom
may Heaven reward.”

“Yes,” answered Miriam with a sigh, “may Heaven reward him, as I wish I
might.”

“As you would have done had I not stayed you,” put in Nehushta. Her
voice was severe, but as she spoke something that Julia took to be a
smile was seen for an instant on her grim features.

“Well, friend, well,” said Julia, “we have all of us fallen into
temptation from time to time.”

“Pardon me, lady,” answered Nehushta, “but speak for yourself. I never
fell into any temptation—from a man. I know too much of men.”

“Then, friend,” replied Julia, “return thanks for the good armour of
your wisdom. For my part, I say that, like the lord Marcus, this maid
has acted well, and my prayer is that she also may not lose her
reward.”

“Mine is,” commented Nehushta, “that Marcus may escape the payment
which he will doubtless receive from the hand of Domitian if he can
hunt him out,” a remark at which the face of Miriam grew very troubled.

Just then Gallus returned, and to him the whole history had to be told
anew.

“It is wonderful,” he said, “wonderful! I never heard the like of it.
Two people who love each other and who, when their hour comes, separate
over some question of faith, or rather in obedience to a command laid
upon one of them by a lady who died years and years ago. Wonderful—and
I hope wise, though had I been the man concerned I should have taken
another counsel.”

“What counsel, husband?” asked Julia.

“Well—to get away from Rome with the lady as far as possible, and
without more delay than was necessary. It seems to me that under the
circumstances it would have been best for her to consider her scruples
in another land. You see Domitian is not a Christian any more than
Marcus is, and our maid here does not like Domitian and does like
Marcus. No, it is no good arguing the thing is done, but I think that
you Christians might very well add two new saints to your calendar. And
now to breakfast, which we all need after so much night duty.”

So they went and ate, but during that meal Gallus was very silent, as
was his custom when he set his brain to work. Presently he asked:

“Tell me, Miriam, did any see you or your companion enter here?”

“No, I think not,” she answered, “for as it chanced the door of the
courtyard was ajar and the servant has not yet returned.”

“Good,” he said. “When she does return I will meet her and send her out
on a long errand.”

“Why?” asked his wife.

“Because it is as well that none should know what guests we have till
they are gone again.”

“Until they are gone again!” repeated Julia, astonished. “Surely you
would not drive this maid, who has become to us as our daughter, from
your door?”

“Yes, I would, wife, for that dear maid’s sake,” and he took Miriam’s
little hand in his great palm and pressed it. “Listen now,” he went on,
“Miriam, the Jewish captive, has dwelt in our care these many months,
has she not, as is known to all, is it not? Well, if any one wants to
find her, where will they begin by looking?”

“Aye! where?” echoed Nehushta.

“Why should any one wish to find her?” asked Julia. “She was bought in
the slave-market for a great price by the lord Marcus, who, of his own
will, has set her at liberty. Now, therefore, she is a free woman whom
none can touch.”

“A free woman!” answered Gallus with scorn. “Is any woman free in Rome
upon whom Domitian has set his mind? Surely, you Christians are too
innocent for this world. Peace now, for there is no time to lose.
Julia, do you cloak yourself and go seek that high-priest of yours,
Cyril, who also loves this maid. Tell the tale to him, and say that if
he would save her from great dangers he had best find some secret
hiding-place among the Christians, for her and her companion, until
means can be found to ship them far from Rome. What think you of that
plan, my Libyan friend?”

“I think that it is good, but not good enough,” answered Nehushta. “I
think that we had best depart with the lady, your wife, this very hour,
for who can tell how soon the dogs will be laid upon our slot?”

“And what say you, maid Miriam?” asked Gallus.

“I? Oh! I thank you for your thought, and I say—let us hide in any
place you will, even a drain or a stable, if it will save me from
Domitian.”

Two hours later, in a humble and densely peopled quarter of the city,
such as in our own day we should call a slum, where folk were employed
making those articles which ministered to the comfort or the luxury of
the more fortunate, a certain master-carpenter known as Septimus was
seated at his mid-day meal in a little chamber above his workshop. His
hands were rough with toil, and the dust of his trade was upon his
garments and even powdered over his long gray beard, so that at first
sight it would not have been easy to recognise in him that Cyril who
was a bishop among the Christians. Yet it was he, one of the foremost
of the Faith in Rome.

A woman entered the room and spoke with him in a low voice.

“The dame Julia, the wife of Gallus, and two others with her?” he said.
“Well, we need fear none whom she brings; lead them hither.”

Presently the door opened and Julia appeared, followed by two veiled
figures. He raised his hands to bless her, then checked himself.

“Daughter, who are these?” he said.

“Declare yourselves,” said Julia, and at her bidding Miriam and
Nehushta unveiled.

At the sight of Miriam’s face the bishop started, then turned to study
that of her companion.

“Who vouches for this woman?” he asked.

“I vouch for myself,” answered Nehushta, “seeing that I am a Christian
who received baptism a generation since at the hands of the holy John,
and who stood to pay the price of faith in the arena at Cæsarea.”

“Is this so?” asked the bishop of Miriam.

“It is so,” she answered. “This Libyan was the servant of my
grandmother. She nursed both my mother and myself, and many a time has
saved my life. Have no fear, she is faithful.”

“Your pardon,” said the bishop with a grave smile and addressing
Nehushta, “but you who are old will know that the Christian who
entertains strangers sometimes entertains a devil.” Then he lifted up
his hands and blessed them, greeting them in the name of their Master.

“So, maid Miriam,” he said, still smiling, “it would seem that I was no
false prophet, and though you walked in the Triumph and were sold in
the slave-ring—for this much I have heard—still the Angel of the Lord
went with you.”

“Father, he went with me,” she answered, “and he leads me here.”

Then they told him all the tale, and how Miriam sought a refuge from
Domitian. He looked at her, stroking his long beard.

“Is there anything you can do?” he asked. “Anything useful, I mean? But
perhaps that is a foolish question, seeing that women—especially those
who are well-favoured—do not learn a trade.”

“I have learnt a trade,” answered Miriam, flushing a little. “Once I
was held of some account as a sculptor; indeed I have heard that your
Emperor Nero decreed divine honours to a bust from my hand.”

The bishop laughed outright. “The Emperor Nero! Well, the poor madman
has gone to his own place, so let us say no more of him. But I heard of
that bust; indeed I saw it; it was a likeness of Marcus Fortunatus, was
it not, and in its fashion a great work? But our people do not make
such things; we are artisans, not artists.”

“The artisan should be an artist,” said Miriam, setting her mouth.

“Perhaps, but as a rule he isn’t. Do you think that you could mould
lamps?”

“There is nothing I should like better, that is if I am not forced to
copy one pattern,” she added as an afterthought.

“Then,” said the bishop, “I think, daughter, that I can show you how to
earn a living, where none are likely to seek for you.”

Not a hundred paces away from the carpenter’s shop where the master
craftsman, Septimus, worked, was another manufactory, in which vases,
basins, lamps, and all such articles were designed, moulded and baked.
The customers who frequented the place, wholesale merchants for the
most part, noted from and after the day of this interview a new
workwoman, who, so far as her rough blouse permitted them to judge,
seemed to be young and pretty, seated in a corner apart, beneath a
window by the light of which she laboured. Later on they observed also,
those of them who had any taste, that among the lamps produced by the
factory appeared some of singular and charming design, so good, indeed,
that although the makers reaped little extra benefit, the middlemen
found no difficulty in disposing of these pieces at a high price. All
day long Miriam sat fashioning them, while old Nehushta, who had learnt
something of the task years ago by Jordan, prepared and tempered the
clay and carried the finished work to the furnace.

Now, though none would have guessed it, in this workshop all the
labourers were Christians, and the product of their toil was cast into
a common treasury on the proceeds of which they lived, taking, each of
them, such share as their elders might decree, and giving the surplus
to brethren who had need, or to the sick. Connected with these shops
were lodging houses, mean enough to look at, but clean within. At the
top of one of them, up three flights of narrow stairs, Miriam and
Nehushta dwelt in a large attic that was very hot when the sun shone on
the roof, and very cold in the bitter winds and rains of winter. In
other respects, however, the room was not unpleasant, since being so
high there were few smells and little noise; also the air that blew in
at the windows was fresh and odorous of the open lands beyond the city.

So there they dwelt in peace, for none came to search for the costly
and beautiful Pearl-Maiden in those squalid courts, occupied by working
folk of the meaner sort. By day they laboured, and at night they
rested, ministering and ministered to in the community of Christian
brotherhood, and, notwithstanding their fears and anxieties for
themselves and another, were happier than they had been for years. So
the weeks went by.

Very soon tidings came to them, for these Christians knew of all that
passed in the great city; also, when they met in the catacombs at
night, as was their custom, especially upon the Lord’s Day, Julia gave
them news. From her they learned that they had done wisely to flee her
house. Within three hours of their departure, indeed before Julia had
returned there, officers arrived to inquire whether they had seen
anything of the Jewish captive named Pearl-Maiden, who had been sold in
the Forum on the previous night, and, as they said, escaped from her
purchaser, on whose behalf they searched. Gallus received them, and,
not being a Christian, lied boldly, vowing that he had seen nothing of
the girl since he gave her over into the charge of the servants of
Cæsar upon the morning of the Triumph. So suspecting no guile they
departed and troubled his household no more.

From the palace of Domitian Marcus was taken to his prison near the
Temple of Mars. Here, because of his wealth and rank, because also he
made appeal to Cæsar and was therefore as yet uncondemned of any crime,
he found himself well treated. Two good rooms were given him to live
in, and his own steward, Stephanus, was allowed to attend him and
provide him with food and all he needed. Also upon giving his word that
he would attempt no escape, he was allowed to walk in the gardens
between the prison and the Temple, and to receive his friends at any
hour of the day. His first visitor was the chamberlain, Saturius, who
began by condoling with him over his misfortune and most undeserved
position. Marcus cut him short.

“Why am I here?” he asked.

“Because, most noble Marcus, you have been so unlucky as to incur the
displeasure of a very powerful man.”

“Why does Domitian persecute me?” he asked again.

“How innocent are you soldiers!” said the chamberlain. “I will answer
your question by another. Why do you buy beautiful captives upon whom
royalty chances to have set its heart?”

Marcus thought a moment, then said, “Is there any way out of this
trouble?”

“My lord Marcus, I came to show you one. Nobody really believes that
you of all men failed in your duty out there in Jerusalem. Why, the
thing is absurd, as even those carpet-captains before whom you were
tried knew well. Still, your position is most awkward. There is
evidence against you—of a sort. Vespasian will not interfere, for he is
aware that this is some private matter of Domitian’s, and having had
one quarrel with his son over the captive, Pearl-Maiden, he does not
wish for another over the man who bought her. No, he will say—this
prefect was one of the friends and officers of Titus, let Titus settle
the affair as it may please him when he returns.”

“At least Titus will do me justice,” said Marcus.

“Yes, without doubt, but what will that justice be? Titus issued an
edict. Have you ever known him to go back upon his edicts, even to save
a friend? Titus declared throughout his own camps those Romans who were
taken prisoner by the Jews to be worthy of death or disgrace, and two
of them, common men and cowards, have been publicly disgraced in the
eyes of Rome. You were taken prisoner by the Jews and have returned
alive, unfortunately for yourself, to incur the dislike of Domitian,
who has raked up a matter that otherwise never would have been mooted.”

“Now,” he says to Titus—“Show justice and no favour, as you showed in
the case of the captive Pearl-Maiden, whom you refused to the prayer of
your only brother, saying that she must be sold according to your
decree. Even if he loves you dearly, as I believe he does, what, my
lord Marcus, can Titus answer to that argument, especially as he also
seeks no further quarrel with Domitian?”

“You said you came to show me a way to safety—yet you tell me that my
feet are set in the path of disgrace and death. Must this way of yours,
then, be paved with gold?”

“No,” answered Saturius drily, “with pearls. Oh! I will be plain. Give
up that necklace—and its wearer. What do you answer?”

Now Marcus understood, and a saying that he heard on the lips of Miriam
arose in his mind, though he knew not whence it came.

“I answer,” he said with set face and flashing eyes, “that I will not
cast pearls before swine.”

“A pretty message from a prisoner to his judge,” replied the
chamberlain with a curious smile. “But have no fear, noble Marcus, it
shall not be delivered. I am not paid to tell my royal master the
truth. Think again.”

“I have thought,” answered Marcus. “I do not know where the maiden is
and therefore cannot deliver her to Domitian, nor would I if I could.
Rather will I be disgraced and perish.”

“I suppose,” mused Saturius, “that this is what they call true love,
and to speak plainly,” he added with a burst of candour, “I find it
admirable and worthy of a noble Roman. My lord Marcus, my mission has
failed, yet I pray that the Fates may order your deliverance from your
enemies, and, in reward for these persecutions, bring back to you
unharmed that maiden whom you desire, but whom I go to seek. Farewell.”

Two days later Stephanus, the steward of Marcus who waited upon him in
his prison, announced that a man who said his name was Septimus wished
speech with him, but would say nothing of his business.

“Admit him,” said Marcus, “for I grow weary of my own company,” and
letting his head fall upon his hand he stared through the bars of his
prison window.

Presently he heard a sound behind him, and looked round to see an old
man clad in the robe of a master-workman, whose pure and noble face
seemed in a strange contrast to his rough garments and toil-scarred
hands.

“Be seated and tell me your business,” said Marcus courteously, and
with a bow his visitor obeyed.

“My business, my lord Marcus,” he said in an educated and refined
voice, “is to minister to those who are in trouble.”

“Then, sir, your feet have led you aright,” answered Marcus with a sad
laugh, “for this is the house of trouble and you see I am its
inhabitant.”

“I know, and I know the cause.”

Marcus looked at him curiously. “Are you a Christian, sir?” he asked.
“Nay, do not fear to answer; I have friends who are Christians,” and he
sighed, “nor could I harm you if I would, who wish to harm none, least
of all a Christian.”

“My lord Marcus, I fear hurt at no man’s hand; also the days of Nero
have gone by and Vespasian reigns, who molests us not. I am Cyril, a
bishop of the Christians in Rome, and if you will hear me I am come to
preach to you my faith, which, I trust, may yet be yours.”

Marcus stared at the man; it was to him a matter of amazement that this
priest should take so much trouble for a stranger. Then a thought
struck him and he asked:

“What fee do you charge for these lessons in a new religion?”

The bishop’s pale face flushed.

“Sir,” he answered, “if you wish to reject my message, do it without
insult. I do not sell the grace of God for lucre.”

Again Marcus was impressed.

“Your pardon,” he said, “yet I have known priests take money, though it
is true they were never of your faith. Who told you about me?”

“One, my lord Marcus, to whom you have behaved well,” answered Cyril
gravely.

Marcus sprang from his seat.

“Do you mean—do you mean—?” he began and paused, looking round him
fearfully.

“Yes,” replied the bishop in a whisper, “I mean Miriam. Fear not, she
and her companions are in my charge, and for the present, safe. Seek to
know no more, lest perchance their secret should be wrung from you. I
and her brethren in the Lord will protect her to the last.”

Marcus began to pour out his thanks.

“Thank me not,” interrupted Cyril, “for what is at once my duty and my
joy.”

“Friend Cyril,” said Marcus, “the maid is in great danger. I have just
learned that Domitian’s spies hunt through Rome to find her, who, when
she is found, will be spirited to his palace and a fate that you can
guess. She must escape from Rome. Let her fly to Tyre, where she has
friends and property. There, if she lies hid a while, she will be
molested by none.”

The bishop shook his head.

“I have thought of it,” he said, “but it is scarcely possible. The
officers at every port have orders to search all ships that sail with
passengers, and detain any woman on them who answers to the description
of her who was called Pearl-Maiden. This I know for certain, for I also
have my officers, more faithful perhaps than those of Cæsar,” and he
smiled.

“Is there then no means to get her out of Rome and across the sea?”

“I can think of only one, which would cost more money than we poor
Christians can command. It is that a ship be bought in the name of some
merchant and manned with sailors who can be trusted, such as I know how
to find. Then she could be taken aboard at night, for on such a vessel
there would be no right of search nor any to betray.”

“Find the ship and trusty men and I will find the money,” said Marcus,
“for I still have gold at hand and the means of raising more.”

“I will make inquiries,” answered Cyril, “and speak with you further on
the matter. Indeed it is not necessary that you should give this money,
since such a ship and her cargo, if she comes there safely, should sell
at a great profit in the Eastern ports. Meanwhile have no fear; in the
protection of God and her brethren the maid is safe.”

“I hope so,” said Marcus devoutly. “Now, if you have the time to spare,
tell me of this God of whom you Christians speak so much but who seems
so far away from man.”

“But who, in the words of the great apostle, my master, in truth is not
far from any one of us,” answered Cyril. “Now hearken, and may your
heart be opened.”

Then he began his labour of conversion, reasoning till the sun sank and
it was time for the prison gates to close.

“Come to me again,” said Marcus as they parted, “I would hear more.”

“Of Miriam or of my message?” asked Cyril with a smile.

“Of both,” answered Marcus.

Four days went by before Cyril returned. They were heavy days for
Marcus, since on the morrow of the bishop’s visit he had learned that
as Saturius had foretold, Vespasian refused to consider his case,
saying that it must abide the decision of Titus when he came back to
Rome. Meanwhile, he commanded that the accused officer should remain in
prison, but that no judgment should issue against him. Here, then,
Marcus was doomed to lie, fretting out his heart like a lion in a cage.

From Cyril Marcus learned that Miriam was well and sent him her
greetings, since she dared neither visit him nor write. The bishop told
him also that he had found a certain Grecian mariner, Hector by name, a
Roman citizen, who was a Christian and faithful. This man desired to
sail for the coasts of Syria and was competent to steer a vessel
thither. Also he thought that he could collect a crew of Christians and
Jews who might be trusted. Lastly, he knew of several small galleys
that were for sale, one of which, named the _Luna_, was a very good
ship and almost new. Cyril told him, moreover, that he had seen Gallus
and his wife Julia, and that these good people, having no more ties in
Rome, partly because they desired to leave the city, and partly for
love of Miriam, though more the second reason than the first, were
willing to sell their house and goods and to sail with her to Syria.

Marcus asked how much money would be needed, and when Cyril named the
sum, sent for Stephanus and commanded him to raise it and to pay it
over to the craftsman Septimus, taking his receipt in discharge. This
Stephanus promised to do readily enough by a certain day, believing
that the gold was needed for his master’s ransom. Then having settled
all as well as might be, Cyril took up his tale and preached to Marcus
of the Saviour of the world with great earnestness and power.

Thus the days went on, and twice or thrice in every week Cyril visited
Marcus, giving him tidings and instructing him in the Faith. Now the
ship _Luna_ was bought and the most of her crew hired; also a cargo of
such goods as would be salable in Syria was being laid into her hold at
Ostia, the Greek, Hector, giving it out that this was a private venture
of his own and some other merchants. As the man was well known for a
bold trader who had bought and sold in many lands his tale caused
neither wonder nor suspicion, none knowing that the capital was
furnished by the steward of the prisoner Marcus through him who passed
as the master craftsman and contractor Septimus. Indeed, until the
after days Miriam did not know this herself, for it was kept from her
by the special command of Marcus, and if Nehushta guessed the truth she
held her tongue.

Two full months had gone by. Marcus still languished in prison, for
Titus had not yet returned to Rome, but as he learned from Cyril,
Domitian wearied somewhat of his fruitless search for Miriam, although
he still vowed vengeance against the rival who had robbed him. The ship
_Luna_ was laden and ready for sea; indeed, if the wind and weather
were favourable, she was to sail within a week. Gallus and Julia,
having wound up their affairs, had removed to Ostia, whither Miriam was
to be brought secretly on the night of the sailing of the _Luna_.
Marcus was now at heart a Christian, but as yet had refused to accept
baptism. Thus matters stood when Cyril visited the prison bringing with
him Miriam’s farewell message to her lover. It was very short.

“Tell Marcus,” she said, “that I go because he bids me, and that I know
not whether we shall meet again. Say that perhaps it is best that we
should not meet, since for reasons which he knows, even if he should
still wish it, we may not marry. Say that in life or death I am his,
and his only, and that until my last hour my thought and prayer will be
for him. May he be delivered from all those troubles which, as I fear,
I have brought upon him, through no will of mine. May he forgive me for
them and let my love and gratitude make some amends for all that I have
done amiss.”

To this Marcus answered: “Tell Miriam that from my heart I thank her
for her message, and that my desire is that she should be gone from
Rome so soon as may be, since here danger dogs her steps. Tell her that
although it is true that mine has brought me shame and sorrow, still I
give her love for love, and that if I come living from my prison I will
follow her to Tyre and speak further of these matters. If I die, I pray
that good fortune may attend her and that from time to time she will
make the offering of an hour’s thought to the spirit which once was
Marcus.”




CHAPTER XXVIII
THE LAMP


If Domitian at length slackened in his fruitless search for Miriam,
Caleb, whose whole heart was in the hunt, proved more diligent. Still,
he could find no trace of her. At first he made sure that if she was in
Rome she would return to visit her friends and protectors, Gallus and
his wife, and in the hope of thus discovering her, Caleb caused a
constant watch to be kept on their abode. But Miriam never came there,
nor, although their footsteps were dogged from day to day, did they
lead him to her, since in truth Julia and Miriam met only in the
catacombs, where he and his spies dared not venture. Soon, however,
Gallus discovered that his home was kept under observation and its
inmates tracked from place to place. It was this knowledge indeed
which, more than any other circumstance, brought him to make up his
mind to depart from Rome and dwell in Syria, since he said that he
would no longer live in a city where night by night he and his were
hunted like jackals. But when he left for Ostia, to wait there till the
ship _Luna_ was ready, Caleb followed him, and in that small town soon
found out all his plans, learning that he meant to sail with his wife
in the vessel. Then, as he could hear nothing of Miriam, he returned to
Rome.

After all it was by chance that he discovered her and not through his
own cleverness. Needing a lamp for his chamber he entered a shop where
such things were sold, and examined those that the merchant offered to
him. Presently he perceived one of the strange design of two palms with
intertwining trunks and feathery heads nodding apart, having a lamp
hanging by a little chain from the topmost frond of each of them. The
shape of the trees struck him as familiar, and he let his eye run down
their stems until it reached the base, which, to support so tall a
piece, was large. Yes, the palms grew upon a little bank, and there
beneath the water rippled, while between bank and water was a long,
smooth stone, pointed at one end. Then in a flash Caleb recognised the
place, as well he might, seeing that on many and many an evening had he
and Miriam sat side by side upon that stone, angling for fish in the
muddy stream of Jordan. There was no doubt about it, and, look! half
hidden in the shadow of the stone lay a great fish, the biggest that
ever he had caught—he could swear to it, for its back fin was split.

A mist came before Caleb’s eyes and in it across the years he saw
himself a boy again. There he stood, his rod of reed bent double and
the thin line strained almost to breaking, while on the waters of
Jordan a great fish splashed and rolled.

“I cannot pull him in,” he cried. “The line will never bear it and the
bank is steep. Oh! Miriam, we shall lose him!”

Then there was a splash, and, behold! the girl at his side had sprung
into the swiftly running river. Though its waters, reaching to her
neck, washed her down the stream, she hugged to her young breast that
great, slippery fish, yes, and gripped its back fin between her teeth,
till with the aid of his reed rod he drew them both to land.

“I will buy that lamp,” said Caleb presently. “The design pleases me.
What artist made it?”

The merchant shrugged his shoulders.

“Sir, I do not know,” he answered. “These goods are supplied to us with
many others, such as joinery and carving, by one Septimus, who is a
contractor and, they say, a head priest among the Christians, employing
many hands at his shops in the poor streets yonder. One or more of them
must be designers of taste, since of late we have received from him
some lamps of great beauty.”

Then the man was called away to attend to another customer and Caleb
paid for his lamp.

That evening at dusk Caleb, bearing the lamp in his hand, found his way
to the workshop of Septimus, only to discover that the part of the
factory where lamps were moulded was already closed. A girl who had
just shut the door, seeing him stand perplexed before it, asked civilly
if she could help him.

“Maiden,” he answered, “I am in trouble who wish to find her who
moulded this lamp, so that I may order others, but am told that she has
left her work for the day.”

“Yes,” said the maiden, looking at the lamp, which evidently she
recognised. “It is pretty, is it not? Well, cannot you return
to-morrow?”

“Alas! no, I expect to be leaving Rome for a while, so I fear that I
must go elsewhere.”

The girl reflected to herself that it would be a pity if the order were
lost, and with it the commission which she might divide with the maker
of the lamp. “It is against the rules, but I will show you where she
lives,” she said, “and if she is there, which is probable, for I have
never seen her or her companion go out at night, you can tell her your
wishes.”

Caleb thanked the girl and followed her through sundry tortuous lanes
to a court surrounded by old houses.

“If you go in there,” she said, pointing to a certain doorway, “and
climb to the top of the stairs, I forget whether there are three or
four flights, you will find the makers of the lamp in the
roof-rooms—oh! sir, I thank you, but I expected nothing. Good-night.”

At length Caleb stood at the head of the stairs, which were both steep,
narrow, and in the dark hard to climb. Before him, at the end of a
rickety landing, a small ill-fitting door stood ajar. There was light
within the room beyond, and from it came a sound of voices. Caleb crept
up to the door and listened, for as the floor below was untenanted he
knew that none could see him. Bending down he looked through the space
between the door and its framework and his heart stood still. There,
standing full in the lamplight, clothed in a pure white robe, for her
rough working dress lay upon a stool beside her, was Miriam herself,
her elbow leaning on the curtained window-place. She was talking to
Nehushta, who, her back bent almost double over a little charcoal fire,
was engaged in cooking their supper.

“Think,” she was saying, “only think, Nou, our last night in this
hateful city, and then, instead of that stifling workshop and the
terror of Domitian, the open sea and the fresh salt wind and nobody to
fear but God. _Luna!_ Is it not a beautiful name for a ship? I can see
her, all silver——”

“Peace,” said Nehushta. “Are you mad, girl, to talk so loud? I thought
I heard a sound upon the stairs just now.”

“It is only the rats,” answered Miriam cheerfully, “no one ever comes
up here. I tell you that were it not for Marcus I could weep with joy.”

Caleb crept back to the head of the stairs and down several steps,
which he began to re-ascend noisily, grumbling at their gloom and
steepness. Then, before the women even had time to shut the door, he
thrust it wide and walked straight into the room.

“Your pardon,” he began, then added quietly, “Why, Miriam, when we
parted on the gate Nicanor, who could have foretold that we should live
to meet again here in a Roman attic? And you, Nehushta. Why, we were
separated in the fray outside the Temple walls, though, indeed, I think
that I saw you in a strange place some months ago, namely, the
slave-ring on the Forum.”

“Caleb,” asked Miriam in a hollow voice, “what is your business here?”

“Well, Miriam, it began with a desire for a replica of this lamp, which
reminds me of a spot familiar to my childhood. Do you remember it? Now
that I have found who is the lamp’s maker——”

“Cease fooling,” broke in Nehushta. “Bird of ill-omen, you have come to
drag your prey back to the shame and ruin which she has escaped.”

“I was not always called thus,” answered Caleb, flushing, “when I
rescued you from the house at Tyre for instance, or when I risked my
life, Miriam, to throw you food upon the gate Nicanor. Nay, I come to
save you from Domitian——”

“And to take her for yourself,” answered Nehushta. “Oh! we Christians
also have eyes to see and ears to hear, and, black-hearted traitor that
you are, we know all your shame. We know of your bargain with the
chamberlain of Domitian, by which the body of the slave was to be the
price of the life of her buyer. We know how you swore away the honour
of your rival, Marcus, with false testimony, and how from week to week
you have quartered Rome as a vulture quarters the sky till at length
you have smelt out the quarry. Well, she is helpless, but One is
strong, and may His vengeance fall upon your life and soul.”

Suddenly Nehushta’s voice, that had risen to a scream, died away, and
she stood before him threatening him with her bony fists, and searching
his face with her burning eyes, a vengeance incarnate.

“Peace, woman, peace,” said Caleb, shrinking back before her. “Spare
your reproaches; if I have sinned much it is because I have loved
more——”

“And hate most of all,” added Nehushta.

“Oh! Caleb,” broke in Miriam, “if as you say you love me, why should
you deal thus with me? You know well that I do not love you after this
sort, no, and never can, and even if you keep me from Domitian, who
does but make a tool of you, what would it advantage you to take a
woman who leaves her heart elsewhere? Also I may never marry you for
that same reason that I may not marry Marcus, because my faith is and
must remain apart from yours. Would you make a base slave of your old
playmate, Caleb? Would you bring her to the level of a dancing-girl?
Oh! let me go in peace.”

“Upon the ship _Luna_,” said Caleb sullenly.

Miriam gasped! So he knew their plans.

“Yes,” she replied desperately, “upon the ship _Luna_, to find such a
fate as Heaven may give me; at least to be at peace and free. For your
soul’s sake, Caleb, let me go. Once years ago you swore that you would
not force yourself upon me against my will. Will you break that oath
to-day?”

“I swore also, Miriam, that it should go ill with any man who came
between you and me. Shall I break that oath to-day? Give yourself to me
of your own will and save Marcus. Refuse and I will bring him to his
death. Choose now between me and your lover’s life.”

“Are you a coward that you should lay such a choice upon me, Caleb?”

“Call me what you will. Choose.”

Miriam clasped her hands and for a moment stood looking upwards. Then a
light of purpose grew upon her face and she answered:

“Caleb, I have chosen. Do your worst. The fate of Marcus is not in my
hands, or your hands, but in the hands of God; nor, unless He wills it,
can one hair of his head be harmed by you or by Domitian. For is it not
written in the book of your own Law that ‘the King’s heart is in the
hand of the Lord, he turneth it whithersoever he will.’ But my honour
is my own, and to stain it would be a sin for which I alone must answer
to Heaven and to Marcus, dead or living—Marcus, who would curse and
spit upon me did I attempt to buy his safety at such a price.”

“Is that your last word, Miriam?”

“It is. If it pleases you by false witness and by murder to destroy the
man who once spared you, then if such a thing be suffered, have your
will and reap its fruits. I make no bargain with you, for myself or for
him—do your worst to both of us.”

“So be it,” said Caleb with a bitter laugh, “but I think that the ship
_Luna_ will lack her fairest passenger.”

Miriam sank down upon a seat and covered her face with her hands, a
piteous sight in her misery and the terror which, notwithstanding her
bold words, she could not conceal. Caleb walked to the door and paused
there, while the white-haired Nehushta stood by the brazier of charcoal
and watched them both with her fierce eyes. Presently Caleb glanced
round at Miriam crouched by the window and a strange new look came into
his face.

“I cannot do it,” he said slowly, each word falling heavily from his
lips like single rain-drops from a cloud, or the slow blood from a
mortal wound.

Miriam let her hands slip from her face and stared at him.

“Miriam,” he said, “you are right; I have sinned against you and this
man Marcus. Now I will expiate my sin. Your secret is safe with me, and
since you hate me I will never see you more. Miriam, we look upon each
other for the last time. Further, if I can, I will work for the
deliverance of Marcus and help him to join you in Tyre, whither the
_Luna_ is bound—is she not? Farewell?”

Once again he turned to go, but it would seem that his eyes were
blinded, or his brain was dulled by the agony that worked within. At
least Caleb caught his foot in the ancient uneven boards, stumbled, and
fell heavily upon his face. Instantly, with a low hiss of hate and a
spring like that of a cat, Nehushta was upon him. Thrusting her knees
upon his back she seized the nape of his neck with her left hand and
with her right drew a dagger from her bosom.

“Forbear!” said Miriam. “Touch him with that knife and we part forever.
Nay, I mean it. I myself will hand you to the officer, even if he hales
me to Domitian.”

Then Nehushta rose to her feet.

“Fool!” she said, “fool, to trust to that man of double moods, whose
mercy to-night will be vengeance to-morrow. Oh! you are undone! Alas!
you are undone!”

Regaining his feet Caleb looked at her contemptuously.

“Had you stabbed she might have been undone indeed,” he said. “Now, as
of old, there is little wisdom in that gray head of yours, Nehushta;
nor can your hate suffer you to understand the intermingled good and
evil of my heart.” Then he advanced to Miriam, lifted her hand and
kissed it. With a sudden movement she proffered him her brow.

“Nay,” he said, “tempt me not, it is not for me. Farewell.”

Another instant and he was gone.

It would seem that Caleb kept his word, for three days later the vessel
_Luna_ sailed unmolested from the port of Ostia in the charge of the
Greek captain Hector, having on board Miriam, Nehushta, Julia, and
Gallus.

Within a week of this sailing Titus at length returned to Rome. Here in
due course the case of Marcus was brought before him by the prisoner’s
friends, together with a demand that he should be granted a new and
open trial for the clearing of his honour. Titus, who for his own
reasons refused to see Marcus, listened patiently, then gave his
decision.

He rejoiced, he said, to learn that his close friend and trusted
officer was still alive, since he had long mourned him as dead. He
grieved that in his absence he should have been put upon his trial on
the charge of having been taken captive, living, by the Jews, which, if
Marcus upon his arrival in Rome had at once reported himself to him,
would not have happened. He dismissed all accusations against his
military honour and courage as mere idle talk, since he had a hundred
times proved him to be the bravest of men, and knew, moreover,
something of the circumstances under which he was captured. But,
however willing he might be to do so, he was unable for public reasons
to disregard the fact that he had been duly convicted by a
court-martial, under the Prince Domitian, of having broken the command
of his general and suffered himself to be taken prisoner alive. To do
so would be to proclaim himself, Titus, unjust, who had caused others
to suffer for this same offence, and to offer insult to the prince, his
brother, who in the exercise of his discretion as commander in his
absence, had thought fit to order the trial. Still, his punishment
should be of the lightest possible. He commanded that on leaving his
prison Marcus should go straight to his own house by night, so that
there might be no public talk or demonstration among his friends, and
there make such arrangement of his affairs as seemed good to him.
Further, he commanded that within ten days he should leave Italy, to
dwell or travel abroad for a period of three years, unless the time
should be shortened by some special decree. After the lapse of these
three years he would be free to return to Rome. This was his judgment
and it could not be altered.

As it chanced, it was the chamberlain Saturius who first communicated
the Imperial decree to Marcus. Hurrying straight from the palace to the
prison he was admitted into the prisoner’s chamber.

“Well,” said Marcus, looking up, “what evil tidings have you now?”

“None, none,” answered Saturius. “I have very good tidings, and that is
why I run so fast. You are only banished for three years, thanks to my
secret efforts,” and he smiled craftily. “Even your property is left to
you, a fact which will, I trust, enable you to reward your friends for
their labours on your behalf.”

“Tell me all,” and the rogue obeyed, while Marcus listened with a face
of stone.

“Why did Titus decide thus?” he asked when it was finished. “Speak
frankly, man, if you wish for a reward.”

“Because, noble Marcus, Domitian had been with him beforehand and told
him that if he reversed his public judgment it would be a cause of open
quarrel between them. This, Cæsar, who fears his brother, does not
seek. That is why he would not see you, lest his love for his friend
should overcome his reason.”

“So the prince is still my enemy?”

“Yes, and more bitter than before, since he cannot find the
Pearl-Maiden, and is sure that you have spirited her away. Be advised
by me and leave Rome quickly, lest worse things befall you.”

“Aye,” said Marcus, “I will leave Rome quickly, for how shall I abide
here who have lost my honour. Yet first it may please your master to
know that by now the lady whom he seeks is far across the sea. Now get
you gone, you fox, for I desire to be alone.”

The face of Saturius became evil.

“Is that all you have to say?” he asked. “Am I to win no reward?”

“If you stay longer,” said Marcus, “you will win one which you do not
desire.”

Then Saturius went, but without the door he turned and shook his fist
towards the chamber he had left.

“Fox,” he muttered. “He called me fox and gave me nothing. Well, foxes
may find some pickings on his bones.”

The chamberlain’s road to the palace ran past the place of business of
the merchant Demetrius. He stopped and looked at it. “Perhaps this one
will be more liberal,” he said to himself, and entered.

In his private office he found Caleb alone, his face buried in his
hands. Seating himself he plunged into his tale, ending it with an
apology to Caleb for the lightness of the sentence inflicted upon
Marcus.

“Titus would do no more,” he said; “indeed, were it not for the fear of
Domitian, he could have not have been brought to do so much, for he
loves the man, who has been a prefect of his bodyguard, and was deeply
grieved that he must disgrace him. Still, disgraced he is, aye, and he
feels it; therefore I trust that you, most generous Demetrius, who hate
him, will remember the service of your servant in this matter.”

“Yes,” said Caleb quietly, “fear not, you shall be well paid, for you
have done your best.”

“I thank you, friend,” answered Saturius, rubbing his hands, “and,
after all, things may be better than they seem. That insolent fool let
out just now that the girl about whom there is all this bother has been
smuggled away somewhere across the seas. When Domitian learns that he
will be so mad with anger that he may be worked up to take a little
vengeance of his own upon the person of the noble Marcus, who has thus
contrived to trick him. Also Marcus shall not get the Pearl-Maiden, for
the prince will cause her to be followed and brought back—to you,
worthy Demetrius.”

“Then,” answered Caleb, slowly, “he must seek for her, not across the
sea, but in its depths.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I have tidings that Pearl-Maiden escaped in the ship
_Luna_ hard upon a month ago. This morning the captain and some
mariners of the galley _Imperatrix_ arrived in Rome. They report that
they met a great gale off Rhegium, and towards the end of it saw a
vessel sink. Afterwards they picked up a sailor clinging to a piece of
wood, who told them that the ship’s name was _Luna_ and that she
foundered with all hands.”

“Have you seen this sailor?”

“No; he died of exhaustion soon after he was rescued; but I have seen
the men of the galley, who brought me note of certain goods consigned
to me in her hold. They repeated this story to me with their own lips.”

“So, after all, she whom so many sought was destined to the arms of
Neptune, as became a pearl,” reflected Saturius. “Well, well, as
Domitian cannot be revenged upon Neptune he will be the more wroth with
the man who sent her to that god. Now I go to tell him all these
tidings and learn his mind.”

“You will return and acquaint me with it, will you not?” asked Caleb,
looking up.

“Certainly, and at once. Our account is not yet balanced, most generous
Demetrius.”

“No,” answered Caleb, “our accounts are not yet balanced.”

Two hours later the chamberlain reappeared in the office.

“Well,” said Caleb, “how does it go?”

“Ill, very ill for Marcus, and well, very well for those who hate him,
as you and I do, friend. Oh! never have I seen my Imperial master so
enraged. Indeed, when he learned that Pearl-Maiden had escaped and was
drowned, so that he could have no hope of her this side the Styx, it
was almost dangerous to be near to him. He cursed Titus for the
lightness of his sentence; he cursed you; he cursed _me_. But I turned
his wrath into the right channel. I showed him that for all these ills
Marcus, and Marcus alone, is to blame, Marcus who is to pay the price
of them with a three years’ pleasant banishment from Rome, which
doubtless, will be remitted presently. I tell you that Domitian wept
and gnashed his teeth at the thought of it, until I showed him a better
plan—knowing that it would please you, friend Demetrius.”

“What plan?”

Saturius rose, and having looked round to see that the door was
fastened, came and whispered into Caleb’s ear.

“Look you, after sunset to-night, that is within two hours, Marcus is
to be put out of his prison and conducted to the side door of his own
house, that beneath the archway, where he is ordered to remain until he
leaves Rome. In this house is no one except an old man, the steward
Stephanus, and a slave woman. Well, before he gets there, certain
trusty fellows, such as Domitian knows how to lay his hands upon, will
have entered the house, and having secured the steward and the woman,
will await the coming of Marcus beneath the archway. You can guess the
rest. Is it not well conceived?”

“Very well,” answered Caleb. “But may there not be suspicion?”

“None, none. Who would dare to suspect Domitian? A private crime,
doubtless! The rich have so many enemies.”

What Saturius did not add was that nobody would suspect Domitian
because the masked bravoes were instructed to inform the steward and
the slave when they had bound and gagged them, that they were hired to
do the deed of blood by a certain merchant named Demetrius, otherwise
Caleb the Jew, who had an ancient quarrel against Marcus, which,
already, he had tried to satisfy by giving false evidence before the
court-martial.

“Now,” went on Saturius, “I must be going, for there are one or two
little things which need attention, and time presses. Shall we balance
that account, friend Demetrius?”

“Certainly,” said Caleb, and taking a roll of gold from a drawer he
pushed it across the table.

Saturius shook his head sadly. “I laid it at twice as much,” he said.
“Think how you hate him and how richly your hate will be fed. First
disgraced unjustly, he, one of the best soldiers and bravest captains
in the army, and then hacked to death by cutthroats in the doorway of
his own house. What more could you want?”

“Nothing,” answered Caleb. “Only the man isn’t dead yet. Sometimes the
Fates have strange surprises for us mortals, friend Saturius.”

“Dead? He will be dead soon enough.”

“Good. You shall have the rest of the money when I have seen his body.
No, I don’t want any bungling and that’s the best way to make certain.”

“I wonder,” thought Saturius, as he departed out of the office and this
history, “I wonder how I shall manage to get the balance of my fee
before they have my Jewish friend by the heels. But it can be
arranged—doubtless it can be arranged.”

When he had gone, Caleb, who, it would seem, also had things which
needed attention and felt that time pressed, took pen and wrote a short
letter. Next he summoned a clerk and gave orders that it was to be
delivered two hours after sunset—not before.

Meanwhile, he enclosed it in an outer wrapping so that the address was
not seen. This done, he sat still for a time, his lips moving, almost
as though he were engaged in prayer. Then, seeing that it was the hour
of sunset, he rose, wrapped himself in a long dark cloak, such as was
worn by Roman officers, and went out.




CHAPTER XXIX
HOW MARCUS CHANGED HIS FAITH


Caleb was not the only one who heard the evil tidings of the ship
_Luna_; it came to the ears of the bishop Cyril also, since little of
any moment passed within the city of Rome which the Christians did not
know.

Like Caleb, he satisfied himself of the truth of the matter by an
interview with the captain of the _Imperatrix_. Then with a sorrowful
heart he departed to the prison near the Temple of Mars. Here the
warden told him that Marcus wished to see no one, but answering
“Friend, my business will not wait,” he pushed past the man and entered
the room beyond. Marcus was standing up in the centre of it, in his
hand a drawn sword of the short Roman pattern, which, on catching sight
of his visitor, he cast upon the table with an exclamation of
impatience. It fell beside a letter addressed to “The Lady Miriam in
Tyre. To be given into her own hand.”

“Peace be with you,” said the bishop, searching his face with his quiet
eyes.

“I thank you, friend,” answered Marcus, smiling strangely, “I need
peace, and—seek it.”

“Son,” asked the bishop, “what were you about to do?”

“Friend,” answered Marcus, “If you desire to know, I was about to fall
upon my sword. One more minute and I should have been dead. They
brought it me with the cloak and other things. It was thoughtful of
them, and I guessed their meaning.”

Cyril lifted the sword from the table and cast it into a corner of the
room.

“God be thanked,” he said, “Who led my feet here in time to save you
from this sin. Why, because it has pleased Him to take her life, should
you seek to take your own?”

“Her life?” said Marcus. “What dreadful words are these. Her life!
Whose life?”

“The life of Miriam. I came to tell you. She is drowned upon the seas
with all her company.”

For a moment Marcus stood swaying to and fro like a drunken man. Then
he said:

“Is it so indeed? Well, the more reason that I should make haste to
follow her. Begone and leave me to do the deed alone,” and he stepped
towards the sword.

Cyril set his foot upon the shining blade.

“What is this madness?” he asked. “If you did not know of Miriam’s
death, why do you desire to kill yourself?”

“Because I have lost more than Miriam. Man, they have robbed me of my
honour. By the decree of Titus, I, Marcus, am branded as a coward. Yes,
Titus, at whose side I have fought a score of battles—Titus, from whom
I have warded many a blow—has banished me from Rome.”

“Tell me of this thing,” said Cyril.

So Marcus told him all. Cyril listened in silence, then said sternly:

“Is it for this that you would kill yourself? Is your honour lessened
by a decree based upon false evidence, and given for reasons of policy?
Do you cease to be honourable because others are dishonourable, and
would you—a soldier—fly from the battle? Now, indeed, Marcus, you show
yourself a coward.”

“How can I live on who am so shamed?” he asked passionately. “My
friends knew that I could not live, and that is why they wrapped a
sword in yonder cloak and sent it me. Also Miriam, you say, is dead.”

“Satan sent it to you, Marcus, desiring to fashion of your foolish
pride a ladder down which you might climb to hell. Cast aside this base
temptation which wears the mask of false honour; face your trouble like
a man, and conquer it by innocence—and faith.”

“Miriam! What of Miriam?”

“Yes, what of Miriam? How would she welcome you yonder, who come to
greet her with your blood upon your hands? Oh! son, do you not
understand that this is the trial laid upon you? You have been brought
low that you might rise high. Once the world gave you all it had to
give. You were rich, you were a captain among captains; you were
high-born; men called you ‘The Fortunate.’ Then Christ appealed to you
in vain, you put Him by. What had you to do with the crucified
carpenter of Galilee? Now by the plotting of your foes you have fallen.
No longer do you rank high in your trade of blood. You are dismissed
its service and an exile. The lesson of life has come home to you,
therefore you seek to escape from life rather than bide in it to do
your duty through good and ill, heedless of what men may say, and
finding peace in the verdict of your own conscience. Let Him Whom you
put by in your hours of pomp come to you now. Carry your cross with
your shame as He carried His in His shame. In His light find light, in
His peace find peace, and at the end her who has been taken from you
awhile. Has my spirit spoken in vain with your spirit during all these
many weeks, son Marcus? Already you have told me that you believe, and
now at the first breath of trouble will you go back upon that which you
know to be the Truth? Oh! once more listen to me, that your eyes may be
opened before it is too late.”

“Speak on, I hear you,” said Marcus with a sigh.

So Cyril pleaded with him in the passion of one inspired, and as Marcus
hearkened his heart was softened and his purpose turned.

“I knew it all before, I believed it all before,” he said at length,
“but I would not accept your baptism and become a member of your
Church.”

“Why not, son?”

“Because had I done so she would have thought and you might have
thought, and perhaps I myself should have thought that I did it, as
once I offered to do, to win her whom I desired above all things on
earth. Now she is dead and it is otherwise. Shrive me, father, and do
your office.”

So there in the prison cell the bishop Cyril took water and baptised
the Roman Marcus into the body of the Christian Church.

“What shall I do now?” Marcus asked as he rose from his knees. “Once
Cæsar was my master, now you speak with the voice of Cæsar. Command
me.”

“I do not speak, Christ speaks. Listen. I am called by the Church to go
to Alexandria in Egypt, whither I sail within three days. Will you who
are exiled from Rome come with me? There I can find you work to do.”

“I have said that you are Cæsar,” answered Marcus. “Now it is sunset
and I am free; accompany me to my house, I pray you, for there much
business waits me in which I need counsel, who am overborne.”

So presently the gates were opened as Titus had commanded, and they
went forth, attended only by a guard of two men, walking unnoted
through the streets to the palace in the Via Agrippa.

“There is the door,” said the sergeant of the guard, pointing to the
side entrance of the house. “Enter with your friend and, noble Marcus,
fare you well.”

So they went to the archway, and finding the door ajar, passed through
and shut it behind them.

“For a house where there is much to steal this is ill guarded, son. In
Rome an open gate ought to have a watchman,” said Cyril as he groped
his way through the darkness of the arch.

“My steward Stephanus should be at hand, for the jailer advised him of
my coming—who never thought to come,” began Marcus, then of a sudden
stumbled heavily and was silent.

“What is it?” asked Cyril.

“By the feel one who is drunken—or dead. Some beggar, perhaps, who
sleeps off his liquor here.”

By now Cyril was through the archway and in the little courtyard
beyond.

“A light burns in that window,” he said. “Come, you know the path,
guide me to it. We can return to this sleeper.”

“Who seems hard to wake,” added Marcus, as he led the way across the
courtyard to the door of the offices. This also proved to be open and
by it they entered the room where the steward kept his books and slept.
Upon the table a lamp was burning, that which they had seen through the
casement. Its light showed them a strange sight. An iron-bound box that
was chained to the wall had been broken open and its contents rifled,
for papers were strewn here and there, and on them lay an empty
leathern money-bag. The furniture also was overturned as though in some
struggle, while among it, one in the corner of the room and one beneath
the marble table, which was too heavy to be moved, lay two figures,
those of a man and a woman.

“Murderers have been here,” said Cyril with a groan.

Marcus snatched the lamp from the table and held it to the face of the
man in the corner.

“It is Stephanus,” he said, “Stephanus bound and gagged, but living,
and the other is the slave woman. Hold the lamp while I loose them,”
and drawing his short sword, he cut away the bonds, first of the one
and then of the other. “Speak, man, speak!” he said, as Stephanus
struggled to his feet. “What has chanced here?”

For some moments the old steward stared at him with round, frightened
eyes. Then he gasped:

“Oh! my lord, I thought you dead. They said that they had come to kill
you by command of the Jew Caleb, he who gave the evidence.”

“They! Who?” asked Marcus.

“I know not, four men whose faces were masked. They said also that
though you must die, they were commanded to do me and this woman no
harm, only to bind and silence us. This they did, then, having taken
what money they could find, went out to waylay you. Afterwards I heard
a scuffle in the arch and well-nigh died of sorrow, for I who could
neither warn nor help you, was sure that you were perishing beneath
their knives.”

“For this deliverance, thank God,” said Cyril, lifting up his hands.

“Presently, presently,” answered Marcus. “First follow me,” and taking
the lamp in his hand, he ran back to the archway.

Beneath it a man lay upon his face—he across whom Marcus had stumbled,
and about him blood flowed from many wounds. In silence they turned him
over so that the light fell upon his features. Then Marcus staggered
back amazed, for, behold! they were Caleb’s, notwithstanding the blood
and wounds that marred them, still dark and handsome in his death
sleep.

“Why,” he said to Stephanus, “this is that very man whose bloody work,
as they told us, the murderers came to do. It would seem that he has
fallen into his own snare.”

“Are you certain, son?” asked Cyril. “Does not this gashed and gory
cheek deceive you?”

“Draw that hand of his from beneath the cloak,” answered Marcus. “If I
am right the first finger will lack a joint.”

Cyril obeyed and held up the stiffening hand. It was as Marcus had
said.

“Caught in his own snare!” repeated Marcus. “Well, though I knew he
hated me, and more than once we have striven to slay each other in
battle and private fight, never would I have believed that Caleb the
Jew would sink to murder. He is well repaid, the treacherous dog!”

“Judge not, that ye be not judged,” answered Cyril. “What do you know
of how or why this man came by his death? He may have been hurrying
here to warn you.”

“Against his own paid assassins! No, father, I know Caleb better, only
he was viler than I thought.”

Then they carried the body into the house and took counsel what they
should do. While they reasoned together, for every path seemed full of
danger, there came a knock upon the archway door. They hesitated, not
knowing whether it would be safe to open, till the knock was repeated
more loudly.

“I will go, lord,” said Stephanus, “for why need I fear, who am of no
account to any one?”

So he went, presently to return.

“What was it?” asked Marcus.

“Only a young man, who said that he had been strictly charged by his
master, Demetrius the Alexandrian merchant, to deliver a letter at this
hour. Here is the letter.”

“Demetrius, the Alexandrian merchant,” said Marcus as he took it. “Why,
under that name Caleb who lies there dead passed in Rome.”

“Read the letter,” said Cyril.

So Marcus cut the silk, broke the seal, and read:

“To the noble Marcus,

“In the past I have worked you evil and often striven to take your
life. Now it has come to my ears that Domitian, who hates you even
worse than I do, if for less reason, has laid a plot to murder you on
the threshold of your own house. Therefore, by way of amends for that
evidence which I gave against you that stained the truth, since no
braver man ever breathed than you are, Marcus, it has come into my mind
to visit the Palace Fortunate wrapped in such a cloak as you Roman
captains wear. There, before you read this letter, perhaps we shall
meet again. Still, mourn me not, Marcus, nor speak of me as generous,
or noble, since Miriam is dead, and I who have followed her through
life desire to follow her through death, hoping that there I may find a
kinder fortune at her hands, or if not, forgetfulness. You who will
live long, must drink deep of memory—a bitterer cup. Marcus, farewell.
Since die I must, I would that it had been in open fight beneath your
sword, but Fate, who has given me fortune, but no true favour, appoints
me to the daggers of assassins that seek another heart. So be it. You
tarry here, but I travel to Miriam. Why should I grumble at the road?

“Caleb.

“Written at Rome upon the night of my death.”

“A brave man and a bitter,” said Marcus when he had finished reading.
“Know, my father, that I am more jealous of him now than ever I was in
his life’s days. Had it not been for you and your preaching,” he added
angrily, “when he came to seek Miriam, he would have found me at her
side. But now, how can I tell?”

“Peace to your heathen talk!” answered the bishop. “Is the land of
spirits then such as your poets picture, and do the dead turn to each
other with eyes of earthly passion? Yet,” he added more gently, “I
should not blame you who, like this poor Jew, from childhood have been
steeped in superstitions. Have no fear of his rivalry in the heavenly
fields, friend Marcus, where neither do they marry or are given in
marriage, nor think that self-murder can help a man. What the end of
all this tale may be does not yet appear; still I am certain that
yonder Caleb will take no gain in hurrying down to death, unless indeed
he did it from a nobler motive than he says, as I for one believe.”

“I trust that it may be so,” answered Marcus, “although in truth that
another man should die for me gives me no comfort. Rather would I that
he had left me to my doom.”

“As God has willed so it has befallen, for ‘man’s goings are of the
Lord; how then can a man understand his own way?’” replied Cyril with a
sigh. “Now let us to other matters, for time is short and it comes upon
me that you will do well to be clear of Rome before Domitian finds that
Caleb fell in place of Marcus.”

Nearly three more months had gone when, at length, one night as the sun
vanished, a galley crept wearily into the harbour of Alexandria and
cast anchor just as the light of Pharos began to shine across the sea.
Her passage through the winter gales had been hard, and for weeks at a
time she had been obliged to shelter in harbours by the way. Now, short
of food and water, she had come safely to her haven, for which mercy
the bishop Cyril with the Roman Marcus and such other Christians as
were aboard of her gave thanks to Heaven upon their knees in their
little cabin near the forecastle, for it was too late to attempt to
land that night. Then they went on deck and, as all their food was gone
and they had no drink except some stinking water, leaned upon the
bulwarks and looked hungrily towards the shore, where gleamed the
thousand lights of the mighty city. Near to them, not a bowshot away
indeed, lay another ship. Presently, as they stared at her black
outline, the sound of singing floated from her decks across the still,
starlit waters of the harbour. They listened to it idly enough at
first, till at length some words of that song reached their ears,
causing them to look at each other.

“That is no sailor’s ditty,” said Marcus.

“No,” answered Cyril, “it is a Christian hymn, and one that I know
well. Listen. Each verse ends, ‘Peace, be still!’”

“Then,” said Marcus, “yonder must be a Christian ship, else they would
not dare to sing that hymn. The night is calm, let us beg the boat and
visit it. I am thirsty, and those good folk may have fresh water.”

“If you wish,” answered Cyril. “There too we may get tidings as well as
water.”

A while later the little boat rowed to the side of the strange ship and
asked leave to board of the watchman.

“What sign do you give?” asked the officer.

“The sign of the Cross,” answered Cyril. “We have heard your hymn who
are of the brotherhood of Rome.”

Then a rope ladder was thrown down to them and the officer bade them
make fast and be welcome.

They climbed upon the deck and went to seek the captain, who was in the
afterpart of the ship, where an awning was stretched. In the space
enclosed by this awning, which was lit with lanterns, stood a woman in
a white robe, who sang the refrain of the hymn in a very sweet voice,
others of the company, from time to time, joining in its choruses.

“From the dead am I arisen”


sang the voice, and there was something in the thrilling notes that
went straight to the heart of Marcus, some tone and quality which were
familiar.

Side by side with Cyril he climbed onwards across the rowing benches,
and the noise of their stumbling footsteps reaching the singer’s ears,
caused her to pause in her song. Then stepping forward a little, as
though to look, she came under the lantern so that its light fell full
upon her face, and, seeing nothing, once more took up her chant:

“Oh ye faithless, from the dead am I arisen.”


“Look, look!” gasped Marcus, clutching Cyril by the arm. “Look! It is
Miriam, or her spirit.”

Another instant and he, too, had come into the circle of the lamplight,
so that his eyes met the eyes of the singer. Now she saw him and, with
a little cry, sank senseless to the deck.

So the long story ended. Afterwards they learned that the tale which
had been brought to Rome of the loss of the ship _Luna_ was false. She
had met the great gale, indeed, but had sheltered from it in a harbour,
where the skill of her captain, Hector, brought her safely. Then she
made her way to Sicily, where she refitted, and so on to one of the
Grecian ports, in which she lay for eight weeks waiting for better
weather, till a favouring wind brought her somewhat slowly to
Alexandria, a port she won only two days before the galley of Marcus.
It would seem, therefore, that the vessel that had foundered in sight
of the _Imperatrix_ was either another ship also called the _Luna_, no
uncommon name, or that the mariners of the _Imperatrix_ had not heard
her title rightly. It may have been even that the dying sailor who told
it to them wandered in his mind, and forgetting how his last ship was
called, gave her some name with which he was familiar. At the least,
through the good workings of Providence, that _Luna_ which bore Miriam
and her company escaped the perils of the deep and in due time reached
the haven of Alexandria.

Before they parted that happy night all their tale was told. Miriam
learned how Caleb had kept the promise that he made to her, although
when he thought her dead his fierce and jealous heart would suffer him
to tell nothing of it to Marcus. She learned also how it came about
that Marcus had been saved from death at his own hand by Cyril and
entered the company of the Christian brotherhood. Very glad were both
of them to think in the after years that he had done this believing her
to be lost to him in death. Now none could say that he had changed his
faith to win a woman, nor could their own consciences whisper to them
that this was possible, though even at the time he knew it not.

So they understood how through their many trials, dangers, and
temptations all things had worked together for good to them.

On the morrow, there in the ship _Luna_, Marcus and Miriam, whom the
Romans called Pearl-Maiden, were wedded by the bishop Cyril, the
Captain Gallus giving the bride in marriage, while the white-haired,
fierce-eyed Nehushta stood at their side and blessed them in the name
of that dead mother whose command had not been broken.