in your own porch, for I have two or three here that can make as close and
even work with a sword as a tailor does with his needle. They said
something about her being a Jewess. Very likely she may be, for they swam
across Tiber since we have lost Nero. And the lad might as well be a Jew
as a Briton for that matter. Are you satisfied now, tribune? By the belly
of Bacchus, I must wash my mouth out with Falernian! All this talking
makes a man as thirsty as a camel.”

Satisfied! and after what he had just learnt! Chariot! White horses!
Jewess! There could be no doubt of it. These gladiators must have
blundered on her, thought the tribune, and slain my freedman, and rescued
her from my people, and handed her over to the man whom most I hate and
fear on earth. Satisfied! Perhaps I shall be better satisfied when I have
captured her, and humbled Valeria, and put you out of the way, my gallant
cut‐throat, and seen the slave scourged to death at my own doorpost! Then,
and not till then, shall I be able to drink my wine without a heartburn,
and lay my head on the pillow with some chance of sleep. In the meantime,
to‐night’s work must be done. To‐night’s work, that puts Vespasian
virtually on the throne (for this boy(15) of his shall only keep the
cushion warm till his father takes his seat), that makes Placidus the
first man in the empire. Nay, that might even open a path to the purple
itself. The general is well advanced in years; already somewhat broken and
worn with his campaigns. Titus, indeed, is the darling of the legions, but
all the heart black‐browed Berenice has left him, is wrapped up in war. He
loves it, I verily believe—the daring fool!—for the mere braying of
trumpets, and the clash of steel. Not a centurion exposes himself half so
freely, nor so often. Well, a Zealot’s javelin, or a stone from the
ramparts of some nameless town in Judæa, may dispose of him at any time.
Then there is but Domitian—a clever youth indeed, and an unscrupulous. So
much the worse for him! A mushroom is not the only dish that may be fatal
to an emperor, and if the knot be so secure as to baffle all dexterity,
why, it must be cut with steel. Ay, the Macedonian knew well how the great
game should be played. Satisfied! Like him, I shall never be satisfied
while there is anything more to win! These being the tribune’s thoughts,
it is needless to say that he assumed a manner of the utmost frankness and
carelessness.

“Thirsty!” he repeated, in a loud voice, clapping Hippias on the shoulder.
“Thirsty—I could empty an aqueduct! Welcome again, and heartily, my heroes
all! See, the supper waits. Let us go in and drink out the old Falernian!”

                               CHAPTER XVI

                                “MORITURI”

Knowing well with whom he was to deal, Placidus had ordered a repast to be
prepared for his guests on a scale of magnificence unusual even in his
luxurious dwelling. It was advisable, not only to impose on these rude
natures with unaccustomed pomp and parade, but also to excite their
cupidity by the display of gold and jewels while their fiercer passions
were inflamed with wine. The more reckless and desperate they could be
rendered, the more fit would they be for his purpose. There were the
tools, sharp and ready for use, but he thought they would admit of a yet
finer edge, and prepared to put it on accordingly. Therefore, he had
ordered the supper to be laid in an inner apartment, reserved for
occasions of especial state, and in which it was whispered that Vitellius
himself had more than once partaken of his subject’s hospitality; nay, had
even expressed gratification with his entertainment; and which, while
blazing with as much of ornament and decoration as could be crowded into a
supper‐room, was of such moderate dimensions as to bring all the costly
objects it contained within notice of the guests. The tesselated pavement
was of the richest and gaudiest squares, laid together as smooth and
bright as glass. The walls were of polished citron‐wood, heavily gilded
round the skirting and edges, while the panels were covered in the florid
and gradually deteriorating taste of the period, with paintings, brilliant
in colour, and beautiful in execution. These represented mythological
subjects not of the purest nature, but fauns, nymphs, and satyrs were to
be found in the majority, while Bacchus himself was more than once
repeated in all the glory of his swaying paunch; his garland of vine‐
leaves, his ivy‐covered wand, and surrounding clusters of rich, ripe,
purple grapes. To fill the niches between these panels, the goat—an animal
always associated in the Roman mind with wine, perhaps because he drinks
no water—was imitated in precious metals, and in every attitude. Here they
butted, there they browsed, in another corner a pair of them frisked and
gambolled in living kid‐like glee, while yonder, horned and bearded, a
venerable sage in silver gazed upon the guests with a wise Arcadian
simplicity that was almost ludicrous. The tables, which were removed with
every change of dishes, were of cedar, supported on grotesque claws of
bronze, heavily gilt; the couches, framed of ivory and gold, were draped
in various coloured shawls of the softest Asiatic texture, and strewed
with cushions of so rich a crimson as to border nearly on imperial purple.
No dish was of a meaner metal than gold, and the drinking‐cups, in which
Falernian blushed, or Chian sparkled, were studded with rubies, emeralds,
pearls, and other precious stones. The sharp nail of a gladiator might at
any moment have picked out, unobserved, that which would have purchased
his freedom and his life, but the men were honest, as they understood the
term, and the gems were as safe here, and indeed a good deal safer, than
they would have been in the temple of Vesta, or of the Capitoline Jove
himself. In a recess at one end of the apartment, reared like an altar
upon three wide low carpeted steps, from each of which censers exhaled
aromatic odours, stood the sideboard of polished walnut, carved in
exquisite imitation of birds, insects, reptiles, flowers, and fruit. This
was covered by a snowy cloth, and on it glittered, richly chased and
burnished, the tribune’s store of golden cups and vases, which men quoted
at every supper‐table in Rome.

Lutorius, reclining opposite this blaze of magnificence, shaded his eyes
with his hand.

“What is it, my bold Gaul?” asked his host, raising himself on his elbow
to pledge him, and signing to a slave to fill the swordsman’s cup. “Hast
thou got thy guard up already to save thy face?”

“They dazzle me, most illustrious!” answered the ready Gaul. “I had rather
blink at the sunrise flashing on the blue waters from Ostia. I did not
think there had been so much gold in Rome.”

“He has not seen the palace yet,” said Placidus, laughing, as he emptied
his cup and turned to the other guests. “Some of us will indeed be dazzled
to‐night, if I mistake not. What think ye, my friends, must be the plates
and drinking‐vessels where the very shields and helmets of the guards are
solid gold? Meantime, let us wash our eyes with Falernian, lest we mistake
our way and intrude on the privacy of Cæsar in the dark.”

So appropriate a sentiment met with universal approval. The gladiators
laughed loudly, and proffered their cups to be filled. There was no
question now of secrecy or disguise; there was even no further affectation
of ignoring the purpose for which they had met, or the probable result of
the night’s enterprise. Eumolpus, indeed, and one or two more of the
thicker‐witted, satisfied to know that the present moment brought a
magnificent reception and an abundance of good cheer, were willing to
remain in uncertainty about the future, resolving simply to obey the
orders of their captain, and to ask no questions; but even these could not
help learning by degrees that they had before them no work of ordinary
bloodshed, but that they were involved in a conspiracy which was to
determine the empire of the world. It did not destroy their appetite,
though it may have increased their thirst.

In proportion as the wine flowed faster the guests lost their diffidence
and found their tongues. Their host exerted himself to win golden opinions
from all, and entered with ready tact into the characteristics and
peculiarities of each.

“Eumolpus!” said he, as a slave entered bearing an enormous turbot on a
yet larger dish, “fear not to encounter him. He is a worthy foe, and a
countryman of thine own. He left Ravenna but yesterday. In truth, that
fair‐built town sends us the widest turbots and the broadest shoulders in
the empire. Taste him, man, with a cup of Chian, and say if the trainer’s
rations have spoiled thy palate for native food.”

Half‐brutalised as he was by nature and education, the gladiator had still
a kindly feeling for his birthplace. Even now a memory of his boyhood
would sometimes steal across him like a dream. The stretch of sand, the
breezy Adriatic, the waves dashing against the harbour‐walls, and a vision
of curly‐headed, black‐eyed children, of whom he was one, tumbling and
playing on the shore. He felt more human when he thought of such things.
While the tribune spoke he rose in his own esteem; for his host treated
him like a man rather than a beast; and those few careless words gained a
champion for Placidus who was ready to follow him to the death.

So was it with the rest. To Rufus he enlarged on the happiness of a
country life, and the liberty—none the less dear for being
imaginary—enjoyed by a Roman citizen, who, within easy distance of the
capital, could sit beneath his own porch to watch the sunset crimsoning
the Apennines, and tread into home‐made wine the grapes of his own
vineyard. He talked of pruning the elms and training the vines, of
shearing sheep and goading oxen, as though he had been a rustic all his
life, seasoning such glowing descriptions, to suit his listener’s palate,
with the charms even of winter in the snow amongst the hills—the boar
driven through the leafless copse, the wild‐fowl lured from the half‐
frozen lake, the snug and homely roof, the crackling fire, and the
children playing on the hearth.

“’Tis but another night‐watch,” said he cordially, “and it will be my turn
to sup with thee in thy mountain‐home. Half a dozen such strokes as I have
seen thee deal in mere sport, my hero! and thou wilt never need to meddle
with steel again, save in the form of a ploughshare or a hunting‐spear. By
the fillet of Ceres! my friends, there is a golden harvest to‐night, only
waiting for the sickle!”

And Rufus, for whom a few acres of Italian soil, and liberty to cultivate
them in peace, with his wife and children, comprised all of happiness that
life could give, contemplated the prospect thus offered with an
imagination heated by wine, and a determination, truly formidable in a man
of his quiet, dogged resolution, if hard fighting was to count for
anything, not to fail in at least deserving his reward.

“Hirpinus!” exclaimed the host, turning to the veteran, who was a sworn
lover of good cheer, and had already consumed supper enough for two
ordinary men, washed down by proportionate draughts of wine, “thy
favourite morsel is even now leaving the spit. Pledge me in Falernian ere
it comes. Nay, spoil it not with honey, which I hold to be a mistake
unworthy of a gladiator. We will pour a libation to Diana down our
throats, in her capacity of huntress only, my friend; I care not for the
goddess in any other. Ho! slaves! bring here some wild boars!”

As he spoke the domestics reappeared, in pairs, carrying between them as
many wild boars, roasted whole, as there were guests. One of these huge
dishes was set aside for each man, and the carvers proceeded to their
duty, unmoved by the ejaculations of amazement that broke from the
gladiators at such prodigal magnificence.

Their attention was, however, somewhat distracted at this stage of the
feast by the entrance of Euchenor, who slunk to the place reserved for him
with a shade of sullen disappointment lowering on his brow. The host,
however, had resolved that nothing should occur to mar the success of his
entertainment, so refrained from asking any questions as to his absence,
and motioned him courteously to a couch, with as frank a greeting as
though he had been aware of its cause. He suspected treachery
notwithstanding, none the less that Euchenor hastened to explain his tardy
arrival. “He had heard a tumult in the neighbourhood,” he said, “whilst
the guests were entering the house, and had visited the nearest post of
his comrades to ascertain that they had not been attacked. It was some
distance to the palace‐gardens, and he could not avoid missing the earlier
stages of the banquet.”

“You must make up for lost time,” observed Placidus, signing to the slaves
to heap the new‐comer’s plate and fill his cup to the brim. “The later,
the warmer welcome; the earlier, the better cheer;” and whilst he spoke
the friendly words he was resolving that the Greek should be placed in
front that whole night, under his immediate supervision. At the slightest
symptom of treachery or wavering he would slay him with his own hand.

And now the gigantic hunger of these champions seemed to be appeased at
last. Dish had succeeded dish in endless variety, and they had applied
themselves to each as it came with an undiminished energy that astonished
the domestics accustomed to the palled appetites of jaded men of pleasure
like their lord. Even the latter—though he tried hard, for he especially
prided himself on his capacity of eating and drinking—found it impossible
to keep pace with his guests. Their great bodily powers, indeed, increased
by severe and habitual training, enabled them to consume vast quantities
of food, without experiencing those sensations of lassitude and repletion
which overcome weaker frames. It seemed as though most of what they ate
went at once to supply the waste created by years of toil, and as soon as
swallowed, fed the muscles instead of burdening the stomach. It was
equally so with wine. Such men can drink draught after draught, and
partake freely in the questionable pleasures of intoxication, whilst they
pay none of its penalties. A breath of fresh air, a few minutes’ exercise,
and their brains are cool, their eyes clear, their whole system
strengthened for the time, and stimulated, rather than stupefied, by their
excess.

The gladiators lay back on their couches in extreme bodily content. The
cups were still quickly filled and emptied, but more in compliance with
the customs of conviviality than the demands of thirst. They were all
talking at once, and every man saw both present and future through the
rosy medium of the wine he had imbibed.

There were two, however, of the party who had not suffered their real
inmost attention to stray for an instant from the actual business of the
night, who calculated the time exactly as it passed—who watched the men
through the succeeding phases of satisfaction, good‐humour, conviviality,
and recklessness, stopping just short of inebriety, and seized the very
moment at which the iron was hot enough to strike. The same thought was in
the brain of each, when their eyes met; the same words were springing to
their lips, but Hippias spoke first.

“No more wine to‐night, tribune, if work is to be done! The circus is
full; the arena swept; the show paid for. When the prætor takes his seat
we are ready to begin.”

Placidus glanced significantly in his face, and rose, holding a brimming
goblet in his hand. The suddenness of the movement arrested immediate
attention. The men were all silent, and looking towards their host.

“Good friends!” said he. “Trusty swordsmen! Welcome guests! Listen to me.
To‐night we burn the palace—we overthrow the empire—we hurl Cæsar from his
throne. All this you know, but there is something more you do not know.
One has escaped who is acquainted with the plot. In an hour it may be too
late. We are fast friends; we are in the same galley—the land is not a
bowshot off. But the wind is rising—the water rushing in beneath her keel.
Will you bend your backs forthwith and row the galley safe home with me?”

The project was a favourite one, the metaphor suited to their tastes. As
the tribune paused, acclamations greeted him on all sides, and “We will!
We will!” “Through storm and sunshine!” “Against wind and weather!” sprang
from many an eager lip. It was obvious the men were ready for anything.
“One libation to Pluto!” added the host, emptying his cup, and the guests
leaping to their feet followed his example with a mad cheer. Then they
formed in pairs, as they were accustomed in the amphitheatre, and Euchenor
with a malicious laugh exclaimed—_Morituri te salutant_.

It was enough! The ominous words were caught up and repeated in wild
defiance and derision, boding small scruples of mercy or remorse. Twice
they marched round the supper‐room to the burden of that ghastly chant,
and when shaking off the fumes of wine they snatched eagerly at their
arms, Placidus put himself at their head with a triumphant conviction
that, come what might, they would not fail him in his last desperate throw
for the great game.

                              CHAPTER XVII

                             THE GERMAN GUARD

                               [Initial A]

All was in confusion at the palace of the Cæsars. The civil war that had
now been raging for several hours in the capital, the tumults that
pervaded every quarter of the city, had roused the alarm, and to a certain
extent the vigilance of such troops as still owned allegiance to
Vitellius. But late events had much slackened the discipline for which
Roman soldiers were so famous, and that could be but a spurious loyalty
which depended on amount of pay and opportunities for plunder, which was
accustomed moreover to see the diadem transferred from one successful
general to another at a few months’ interval. Perhaps his German guards
were the only soldiers of Vitellius on whom he could place any reliance;
but even these had been reduced to a mere handful by slaughter and
desertion, while the few who remained, though unimpeachable in their
fidelity, were wanting in every quality that constitutes military
efficiency, except the physical strength and desperate courage they
brought with them from the north.

They were, however, the Emperor’s last hope. They occupied palace‐gardens
to‐night, feeding their bivouac‐fires with branches from its stately
cedars, or uprooting its exotic shrubs to hurl them crackling in the
blaze. The Roman citizens looking on their gigantic forms moving to and
fro in the glare, shuddered and whispered, and pointed them out to each
other as being half men, half demons, while a passing soldier would raise
his eagle crest more proudly, relating how those were the foes over whom
the legions had triumphed, and would turn forthwith into a wineshop to
celebrate his prowess at the expense of some admiring citizen in the
crowd.

One of these German mercenaries may be taken as a sample of the rest. He
was standing sentry over a narrow wicket that afforded entrance to the
palace‐gardens, and was the first obstacle encountered by Esca, after the
latter had hastened from the Esquiline to give intelligence of the design
against Cæsar’s life. Leaning on his spear, with his tall frame and large
muscles thrown into strong relief by the light of the bivouac‐fire behind
him, he brought to the Briton’s mind many a stirring memory of his own
warlike boyhood, when by the side of just such champions, armed in such a
manner, he had struggled, though in vain, against the discipline and the
strategy of the invader. Scarcely older than himself, the sentry possessed
the comely features and the bright colouring of youth, with a depth of
chest and squareness of shoulder that denoted all the power of mature
manhood. He seemed indeed a formidable antagonist for any single foe, and
able to keep at bay half a score of the finest men who stood in the front
rank of the legions. He was clad in a long white garment of linen,
reaching below the knee, and fastened at the neck by a single clasp of
gold; his shield and helmet too, although this was no state occasion, but
one on which he would probably be massacred before morning, were of the
same metal, his spear‐head and sword of the finest‐tempered steel. The
latter, especially, was a formidable weapon. Considerably longer than the
Roman’s, which was only used for the thrust at close quarters, it could
deal sweeping blows that would cleave a headpiece or lop a limb, and
managed lightly as a riding‐wand by the German’s powerful arm, would hew
fearful gaps in the ranks of an enemy, if their line wavered, or their
order was in any degree destroyed.

Notwithstanding the warlike nature of his arms and bearing, the sentry’s
face was fair and smooth as a woman’s; the flaxen down was scarcely
springing on his chin, and the golden locks escaped beneath his helmet,
and clustered in curls upon his neck. His light blue eye, too, had a mild
and rather vacant expression as it roved carelessly around; but the Romans
had long ago learned that those light blue eyes could kindle into sparks
of fire when steel was crossed, could glare with invincible hatred and
defiance even when fixed in death.

Esca’s heart warmed to the barbarian guardsman with a feeling of sympathy
and kindred. The latter sentiment may have suggested the plan by which he
obtained entrance to the palace, for the difficulty of so doing had
presented itself to him in brighter colours every moment as he approached.
Pausing, therefore, at a few paces from the sentry, who levelled his spear
and challenged when he heard footsteps, the Briton unbuckled his sword and
cast it down between them, to indicate that he claimed protection and had
no intention of offence. The other muttered some unintelligible words in
his own language. It was obvious that he knew no Latin and that their
conversation must be carried on by signs. This, however, rather smoothed
than enhanced the difficulty; and it was a relief to Esca that the first
impulse of the German had not been to alarm his comrades and resort to
violence. The latter seemed to entertain no apprehension from any single
individual, whether friend or foe, and looked, moreover, with favourable
eyes on Esca’s appearance, which bore a certain family likeness to that of
his own countrymen. He suffered him therefore to approach his post,
questioning him by signs, to which the Briton replied in the same manner,
perfectly ignorant of their meaning, but with a fervent hope that the
result of these mysterious gestures might be his admission within the
wall.

Under such circumstances the two were not likely to arrive at a clear
understanding. After a while the German looked completely puzzled, and
passed the word in his own language to a comrade within hearing,
apparently for assistance. Esca heard the sound repeated in more than one
voice, till it died away under the trees; there was obviously a strong
chain of sentries round Cæsar’s palace. In the meantime the German would
not permit Esca to approach within spear’s‐length of his post, though he
kept him back good‐humouredly with the butt‐end of that weapon, nor would
he suffer him to pick his sword up and gird it round his waist
again—making nevertheless, all the while, signs of cordiality and
friendship; but though Esca responded to these with equal warmth, he was
no nearer the inside than at first.

Presently the heavy tramp of armed men smote his ear, and a centurion,
accompanied by half a dozen soldiers, approached the wicket. These bore a
strong resemblance, both in form and features, to the sentry who had
summoned them; but their officer spoke Latin, and Esca, who had gained a
little time to mature his plan, answered the German centurion’s questions
without hesitation.

“I belong to your own division,” said he, “though I come from farther
north than your troop, and speak a different dialect. We were disbanded
but yesterday, by a written order from Cæsar. It has turned out to be a
forgery. We have been scattered through half the wineshops in Rome, and a
herald came round and found me drinking, and bade me return to my duty
without delay. He said we were to muster somewhere hereabouts, that we
should find a post at the palace, and could join it till our own officers
came back. I am but a barbarian, I know little of Rome, but this is the
palace, is it not? and you are a centurion of the German guard?”

He drew himself up as he spoke with military respect, and the officer had
no hesitation in believing his tale, the more so that certain of Cæsar’s
troops had lately been disbanded at a time when their services seemed to
be most in requisition. Taking charge of Esca’s weapon, he spoke a few
words in his own language to the sentry, and then addressed the Briton.

“You may come to the main‐guard,” said he. “I should not mind a few more
of the same maniple. We are likely to want all we can get to‐night.”

As he conducted him through the gardens, he asked several questions
concerning the strength of the opposing party, the state of the town, and
the general feeling of the citizens towards Vitellius, all which Esca
parried to the best of his abilities, hazarding a guess where he could,
and accounting for his ignorance where he could not, on the plea that he
had spent his whole time since his dismissal in the wineshops—an excuse
which the centurion’s knowledge of the tastes and habits of his division
caused him to accept without suspicion of its truth.

Arrived at the watch‐fire, Esca’s military experience, slight as it had
been, was enough to apprise him of the imminent dangers that threatened
the palace in the event of an attack. The huge Germans lounged and lay
about in the glare of the burning logs, as though feast, and song, and
revelry were the objects for which they were mustered. Wine was flowing
freely in large flagons, commensurate to the noble thirst of these
Scandinavian warriors; and even the sentries leaving their posts at
intervals, as caprice or indolence prompted, strode up to the watch‐fire,
laughed a loud laugh, drained a full beaker, and walked quietly back
again, none the worse, to their beat. All hailed a new comrade with the
utmost glee, as a further incentive to drink; and although Esca was
pleased to find that none but their centurion was familiar with Latin, and
that he was consequently free from much inconvenient cross‐examination, it
was obvious that there was no intention of letting him depart without
pledging them in deep draughts of the rough and potent Sabine wine.

With youth, health, and a fixed resolve to keep his wits about him, the
Briton managed to perform this part of a soldier’s duty to the
satisfaction of his entertainers. The moments seemed very long, but whilst
the Germans were singing, drinking, and making their remarks upon him in
their own language, he had time to think of his plans. To have declared at
once that he knew of a plot against Cæsar, and to call upon the centurion
to obtain his admittance to the person of the Emperor, would, he was well
aware, only defeat his own object, by throwing suspicion on himself as a
probable assassin and confederate of the conspirators. To put the officer
on the alert, would cause him, perhaps, to double his sentries, and to
stop the allowance of wine in course of consumption; but Esca saw plainly
that no resistance from within the palace could be made to the large force
his late master would bring to bear upon it. The only chance for the
Emperor was to escape. If he could himself reach his presence, and warn
him personally, he thought he could prevail upon him to fly. This was the
difficulty. A monarch in his palace is not visible to everyone who may
wish to see him, even when his own safety is concerned; but Esca had
already gained the interior of the gardens, and that success encouraged
him to proceed.

The Germans, though believing themselves more vigilant than usual (to such
a low state the boasted discipline of Cæsar’s body‐guard had fallen), were
confused and careless under the influence of wine, and their attention to
the new‐comer was soon distracted by a fresh chorus and a fresh flagon.
Esca, under pretence that he required repose, managed to withdraw himself
from the glare of the firelight, and borrowing a cloak from a ruddy
comrade with a stentorian voice, lay down in the shadow of an arbutus, and
affected profound repose. By degrees, coiling himself along the sward like
a snake, he slipped out of sight, leaving his cloak so arranged as to
resemble a sleeping form, and sped off in the direction of the palace, to
which he was guided by numerous distant lights.

Some alarm had evidently preceded him even here. Crowds of slaves, both
male and female, chiefly Greeks and Asiatics, were pouring from its
egresses and hurrying through the gardens in obvious dismay. The Briton
could not but remark that none were empty‐handed, and the value of their
burdens denoted that those who now fled had no intention ever to return.
They took little notice of him when they passed, save that a few of the
more timid, glancing at his stalwart figure, turned aside and ran the
swifter; while others, perceiving that he was unarmed, for he had left his
sword with the Germans, shot at him some contemptuous gesture or ribald
jest, which they thought the barbarian would not understand in time to
resent.

Thus he reached the spacious front of the palace, and here, indeed, the
trumpets were sounding, and the German guard forming, evidently for
resistance to an attack. There was no mistaking the expression of the
men’s faces, nor the clang of their heavy weapons. Though they filled the
main court, however, a stream of fugitives still poured from the side‐
doors, and through one of these, the Briton determined he would find no
difficulty in effecting an entrance. Glancing at the fine men getting
under arms with such business‐like rapidity, he thought how even that
handful might make such a defence as would give Cæsar time to escape,
either at the back of the palace, or, if that were invested, disguised as
one of the slaves who were still hurrying off in motley crowds; and
notwithstanding his new‐born feelings, he could not help, from old
association, wishing that he might strike a blow by the side of these
stalwart guardsmen, even for such a cause as theirs.

Observing a door opening on a terrace which had been left completely
undefended, Esca entered the palace unopposed, and roamed through hall
after hall without meeting a living creature. Much of value had already
been cleared away, but enough remained to have excited the cupidity of the
richest subject in Rome. Shawls, arms, jewels, vases, statues, caskets,
and drinking‐cups were scattered about in a waste of magnificent
confusion, while in many instances rapacious ignorance had carried off
that which was comparatively the dross, and left the more precious
articles behind. Esca had never even dreamed of such gorgeous luxury as he
now beheld. For a few minutes his mind was no less stupefied than his eye
was dazzled, and he almost forgot his object in sheer wonder and
admiration; but there was no time to be lost, and he looked about in vain
for some clue to guide him through this glittering wilderness to the
presence of the Emperor.

The rooms seemed endless, opening one into another, and each more splendid
than the last. At length he heard the sound of voices, and darting eagerly
forward, found himself in the midst of half a dozen persons clad in robes
of state, with garlands on their heads, reclining round the fragments of a
feast, a flagon or two of wine, and a golden cornucopia of fruit and
flowers. As he entered, these started to their feet, exclaiming, “They are
upon us!” and huddled together in a corner, like a flock of sheep when
terrified by a dog. Observing, however, that the Briton was alone and
unarmed, they seemed to take courage, and a fat figure thrusting itself
forward, exclaimed in one breath, “He is not to be disturbed! Cæsar is
busy. Are the Germans firm?”

His voice shook and his whole frame quivered with fear, nevertheless Esca
recognised the speaker. It was his old antagonist Spado, a favourite
eunuch of the household, in dire terror for his life, yet showing the one
redeeming quality of fidelity to the hand that fed him. His comrades kept
behind him, taking their cue from his conduct as the bellwether of the
flock, yet trusting fervently his wisdom would counsel immediate flight.

“I know you,” said Esca hurriedly. “I struck you that night in anger. It
is all over now. I have come to save your lives, all of you, and to rescue
Cæsar.”

“How?” said Spado, ignoring his previous injuries in the alarm of the
hour. “You can save us? You can rescue Cæsar? Then it _is_ true. The
tumult is grown to a rebellion! The Germans are driven in, and the game is
lost!”

The others caught up their mantles, girded themselves, and prepared for
instant flight.

“The guard can hold the palace for half an hour yet,” replied Esca coolly.
“But the Emperor must escape. Julius Placidus will be here forthwith, at
the head of two hundred gladiators, and the tribune means to murder his
master as surely as you stand trembling there.”

Ere he had done speaking, he was left alone in the room with Spado. The
tribune’s character was correctly appreciated, even by the eunuchs of the
palace, and they stayed to hear no more; but Spado only looked blankly in
the Briton’s face, wringing his fat hands, and answered to the other’s
urgent appeals, “His orders were explicit. Cæsar is busy. He must not be
disturbed. He said so himself. Cæsar is busy!”

                              CHAPTER XVIII

                          THE BUSINESS OF CÆSAR

Thrusting Spado aside without ceremony, and disregarding the eunuch’s
expostulations in obedience to the orders he had received, Esca burst
through a narrow door, tore down a velvet curtain, and found himself in
the private apartment of the Emperor. Cæsar’s business was at that moment
scarcely of an urgency to weigh against the consideration of Cæsar’s life.
Vitellius was reclining on a couch, his dress disordered and ungirt, a
garland of roses at his feet, his heavy face, of which the swollen
features had lost all their early comeliness, expressing nothing but
sullen torpid calm; his eye fixed on vacancy, his weak nerveless hands
crossed in front of his unwieldy person, and his whole attitude that of
one who had little to occupy his attention, save his own personal
indulgence and comfort. Yet for all this, the mind was busy within that
bloated form. There are moments in existence, when the past comes back to
us day by day, and incident by incident, shining out in colours vivid and
lifelike as the present. On the eve of an important crisis, during the
crisis itself if we are not permitted to take an active part in it but
compelled to remain passive, the mere sport of its contingencies, for the
few minutes that succeed a complete demolition of the fabric we have been
building all our lives, we become possessed of this faculty, and seem, in
a strange dream‐like sense, to live our time over again.

For the last few days, even Vitellius had awoke to the conviction that his
diadem was in danger, for the last few hours he had seen cause to tremble
for his life; nevertheless, none of the usual habits of the palace had
been altered; and even when Primus, the successful general of his
dangerous rival, Vespasian, occupied the suburbs, his reverses did but
elicit from the Emperor a call for more wine and a heartless jest. To‐day
he must have seen clearly that all was lost, yet the supper to which he
sat down with half a dozen favourite eunuchs, was no less elaborate than
usual, the wine flowed as freely, the Emperor ate as enormously, and when
he could eat no more, retired to pass his customary half‐hour in perfect
silence and repose, nor suffered the important process of digestion to be
disturbed by the fact that his very gates must ere midnight be in
possession of the enemy.

Nevertheless, as if in warning of what was to come, the pageant of his
life seemed to move past his half‐closed eyes; and who shall say how vain
and empty such a pageant may have appeared even to the besotted glutton,
who, though he had the address to catch the diadem of the Cæsars, when it
was thrown to him by chance, knew but too well that he had no power to
retain it on his head when wrested by the grasp of force. Though feeble
and worn out, he was not old, far short of threescore years, yet what a
life of change and turmoil and vicissitudes his had been! Proconsul of
Africa, favourite of four emperors, it must have been a certain
versatility of talent that enabled him to rule such an important province
with tolerable credit, and yet retain the good graces of successive
tyrants, resembling each other in nothing save incessant caprice. An
informer with Tiberius; a pander to the crimes, and a proselyte to the
divinity of mad Caligula; a screen for Messalina’s vices, and an easy
adviser to her easy and timid lord; lastly, everything in turn with
Nero—chariot‐driver, singer, parasite, buffoon, and in all these various
parts, preserving the one unfailing characteristic of a consummate and
systematic debauchee. It seemed but yesterday that he had thrown the dice
with Claudius, staking land and villas as freely as jewels and gold,
losing heavily to his imperial master; and, though he had to borrow the
money at high usury, quick‐witted enough to perceive the noble reversion
he had thus a chance of purchasing. It seemed but yesterday that he flew
round the dusky circus, grazing the goal with practised skill, and, by a
happy dexterity, suffering Caligula to win the race so narrowly, as to
enchance the pleasure of imperial triumph. It seemed but yesterday that he
sang with Nero, and flattered the monster by comparing him with the
sirens, whose voices charmed mariners to their destruction.

And now was it all over? Must he indeed give up the imperial purple and
the throne of blazing gold?—the luxurious banquets and the luscious wines?
He shuddered and sickened while he thought of a crust of brown bread and a
pitcher of water. Nay, worse than this, was he sure his life was safe? He
had seen death often—what Roman had not? But at his best, in the field,
clad in corselet and headpiece, and covered with a buckler, he had thought
him an ugly and unwelcome visitor. Even at Bedriacum, when he told his
generals as he rode over the slain, putrefying on the ground, that “a dead
enemy smelt sweet, and the sweeter for being a citizen,” he remembered now
that his gorge had risen while he spoke. He remembered, too, the German
body‐guard that had accompanied him, and the faithful courage with which
his German levies fought. There were a few of them in the palace yet. It
gave him confidence to recollect this. For a moment the soldier‐spirit
kindled up within, and he felt as though he could put himself at the head
of those blue‐eyed giants, lead them into the very centre of the enemy,
and die there like a man. He rose to his feet, and snatched at one of the
weapons hanging for ornament against the wall, but the weak limbs failed,
the pampered body asserted itself, and he sank back helpless on the couch.

It was at this moment that Esca burst so unceremoniously into the
Emperor’s presence.

Vitellius did not rise again, less alarmed, perhaps, than astonished. The
Briton threw himself upon his knees, and touched the broad crimson binding
of the imperial gown.

“There is not a moment to lose!” said he. “They are forcing the gates. The
guard has been driven back. It is too late for resistance; but Cæsar may
yet escape if he will trust himself to me.”

Vitellius looked about him, bewildered. At that moment a shout was heard
from the palace‐gardens, accompanied by a rush of many feet, and the
ominous clash of steel. Esca knew that the assailants were gladiators. If
they came in with their blood up, they would give no quarter.

“Cæsar must disguise himself,” he insisted earnestly. “The slaves have
been leaving the palace in hundreds. If the Emperor would put on a coarse
garment and come with me, I can show him the way to safety; and Placidus,
hastening to this apartment, will find it empty.”

With all his sensual vices, there was yet something left of the old Roman
spirit in Vitellius, which sparkled out in an emergency. After the first
sudden surprise of Esca’s entrance, he became cooler every moment. At the
mention of the tribune’s name he seemed to reflect.

“Who are you?” said he, after a pause; “and how came you here?”

Short as had been his reign he had acquired the tone of royalty; and could
even assume a certain dignity, notwithstanding the urgency of his present
distress. In a few words Esca explained to him his danger, and his
enemies.

“Placidus,” repeated the Emperor thoughtfully, and as if more concerned
than surprised; “then there is no chance of the design failing; no hope of
mercy when it has succeeded. Good friend! I will take your advice. I will
trust you, and go with you, where you will. If I am an Emperor to‐morrow,
you will be the greatest man in Rome.”

Hitherto he had been leaning indolently back on the couch. Now he seemed
to rouse himself for action, and stripped the crimson‐bordered gown from
his shoulders, the signet‐ring from his hand.

“They will make a gallant defence,” said he, “but if I know Julius
Placidus, he will outnumber them ten to one. Nevertheless they may hold
him at bay with their long swords till we get clear of the palace. The
gardens are dark and spacious; we can hide there for a time, and take an
opportunity of reaching my wife’s house on Mount Aventine; Galeria will
not betray me, and they will never think of looking for me there.”

Speaking thus coolly and deliberately, but more to himself than his
companion, Cæsar, divested of all marks of splendour in his dress and
ornaments, stripped to a plain linen garment, turning up his sleeves and
girding himself the while, like a slave busied in some household work
requiring activity and despatch, suffered the Briton to lead him into the
next apartment, where, deserted by his comrades, and sorely perplexed
between a vague sense of duty and a strong inclination to run away, Spado
was pacing to and fro in a ludicrous state of perturbation and dismay.
Already the noise of fighting was plainly distinguished in the outer
court. The gladiators, commanded by Hippias and guided by the treacherous
tribune, had overpowered the main body of the Germans who occupied the
imperial gardens, and were now engaged with the remnant of these faithful
barbarians at the very doors of the palace.

The latter, though outnumbered, fought with the desperate courage of their
race. The Roman soldier in his cool methodical discipline, was sometimes
puzzled to account for that frantic energy, which acknowledged no
superiority either of position or numbers, which seemed to gather a
fresher and more stubborn courage from defeat; and even the gladiators,
men whose very livelihood was slaughter, and whose weapons were never out
of their hands, found themselves no match for these large savage warriors
in the struggle of a hand‐to‐hand combat, recoiled more than once in
baffled rage and astonishment from the long swords, and the blue eyes, and
the tall forms that seemed to tower and dilate in the fierce revelry of
battle.

The military skill of Placidus, exercised before many a Jewish rampart,
and on many a Syrian plain, had worsted the main body of the Germans by
taking them in flank. Favoured by the darkness of the shrubberies, he had
contrived to throw a hundred practised swordsmen unexpectedly on their
most defenceless point. Surprised and outnumbered, they retreated
nevertheless in good order, though sadly diminished, upon their comrades
at the gate. Here the remaining handful made a desperate stand, and here
Placidus, wiping his bloody sword upon his tunic, whispered to Hippias—

“We must put Hirpinus and the supper‐party in front! If we can but carry
the gate, there are a score of entrances into the palace. Remember! we
give no quarter, and we recognise no one.”

Whilst the chosen band who had left the tribune’s table were held in check
by the guard, there was a moment’s respite, during which Cæsar might
possibly escape. Esca, rapidly calculating the difficulties in his own
mind, had resolved to hurry him through the most secluded part of the
gardens into the streets, and so running the chance of recognition which
in the darkness of night, and under the coarse garb of a household slave,
was but a remote contingency, to convey him by a circuitous route to
Galeria’s house, of which he knew the situation, and where he might be
concealed for a time without danger of detection. The great obstacle was
to get him out of the palace without being seen. The private door by which
he had himself entered, he knew must be defended, or the assailants would
have taken advantage of it ere this, and he dared not risk recognition, to
say nothing of the chances of war, by endeavouring to escape through the
midst of the conflict at the main gate. He appealed to Spado for
assistance.

“There is a terrace at the back here,” stammered the eunuch; “if Cæsar can
reach it, a pathway leads directly down to the summer‐house in the
thickest part of the gardens; thence he can go between the fish‐ponds
straight to the wicket that opens on the Appian Way.”

“Idiot!” exclaimed the Emperor angrily, “how am I to reach the terrace?
There is no door, and the window must be a man’s height at least from the
ground.”

“It is your only chance of life, illustrious!” observed Esca impatiently.
“Guide us to the window, friend,” he added, turning to Spado, who looked
from one to the other in helpless astonishment, “and tear that shawl from
the couch; we may want it for a rope to let the Emperor down.”

A fresh shout from the combatants at the gate, while it completely
paralysed the eunuch, seemed to determine Vitellius. He moved resolutely
forward, followed by his two companions, Spado whispering to the Briton,
“You are a brave young man. We will all escape together, I—I will stand by
you to the last!”

They needed but to cross a passage and traverse another room. Cæsar peered
over the window‐sill into the darkness below, and drew back.

“It is a long way down,” said he. “What if I were to break a limb?”

Esca produced the shawl he had brought with him from the adjoining
apartment, and offered to place it under his arms and round his body.

“Shall I go first?” said Spado. “It is not five cubits from the ground.”

But the Emperor thought of his brother Lucius and the cohorts at
Terracina. Could he but gain the camp there he would be safe, nay more, he
could make head against his rival; he would return to Rome with a
victorious army; he would retrieve the diadem and the purple, and the
suppers at the palace once more.

“Stay where you are!” he commanded Spado, who was looking with an eager
eye at the window. “I will risk it. One draught of Falernian, and I will
risk it and be gone.”

He turned back towards the banqueting‐room, and while he did so another
shout warned him that the gate was carried, and the palace in possession
of the conspirators.

Esca followed the Emperor, vainly imploring him to fly. Spado, taking one
more look from the window ere he risked his bones, heard the ring of
armour and the tramp of feet coming round the corner of the palace, on the
very terrace he desired to reach. White and trembling, he tore the garland
from his head and gnawed its roses with his teeth in the inpotence of his
despair. He knew the last chance was gone now, and they must die.

The Emperor returned to the room where he had supped; seized a flagon of
Falernian, filled himself a large goblet which he half‐emptied at a
draught, and set it down on the board with a deep sigh of satisfaction.
The courtyard had been taken at last, and the palace surrounded.
Resistance was hopeless, and escape impossible. The Germans were still
fighting, indeed, within the rooms, disputing inch by inch the glittering
corridors, and the carved doorways, and the shining polished floors, now
more slippery than ever with blood. Pictures and statues seemed to look
down in calm amazement at thrust and blow and death‐grapple, and all the
reeling confusion of mortal strife. But the noise came nearer and nearer;
the Germans, falling man by man, were rapidly giving ground. Esca knew the
game was lost at last, and he turned to his companions in peril with a
grave and clouded brow.

“There is nothing for it left,” said he, “but to die like men. Yet if
there be any corner in which Cæsar can hide,” he added, with something of
contempt in his tone, “I will gain him five minutes more of life, if this
glittering toy holds together so long.”

Then he snatched from the wall an Asiatic javelin, all lacquered and
ornamented with gold, cast one look at the others, as if to bid them
farewell, and hurried from the room. Spado, a mass of shaking flesh, and
tumbled garments and festive ornaments strangely out of keeping with his
attitude, cowered down against the wall, hiding his face in his hands; but
Vitellius, with something akin even to gratification on his countenance,
returned to the half‐emptied cup, and raising it to his lips, deliberately
finished his Falernian.

                               CHAPTER XIX

                                  AT BAY

It was not in Esca’s nature to be within hearing of shrewd blows and yet
abstain from taking part in the fray. His recent sentiments had indeed
undergone a change that would produce timely fruit; and neither the words
of the preacher in the Esquiline, nor the example of Calchas, nor the
sweet influence of Mariamne, had been without their effect. But it was
engrained in his very character to love the stir and tumult of a fight.
From a boy his blood leaped and tingled at the clash of steel. His was the
courage which is scarcely exercised in the tide of personal conflict, and
must be proved rather in endurance than in action—so naturally does it
force itself to the front when men are dealing blow for blow. His youth,
too, had been spent in warfare, and in that most ennobling of all warfare
which defends home from the aggression of an invader. He had long ago
learned to love danger for its own sake, and now he experienced besides a
morbid desire to have his hand on the tribune’s throat, so he felt the
point and tried the shaft of his javelin with a thrill of savage joy,
while, guided by the sounds of combat he hurried along the corridor to
join the remnant of the faithful German guard. Not a score of them were
left, and of these scarce one but bled from some grievous wound. Their
white garments were stained with crimson, their gaudy golden armour was
hacked and dinted, their strength was nearly spent, and every hope of
safety gone; but their courage was still unquenched, and as man after man
went down, the survivors closed in and fought on, striking desperately
with their faces to the foe. The tribune and his chosen band, supported by
a numerous body of inferior gladiators, were pressing them sore. Placidus,
an expert swordsman, and in no way wanting physical courage, was
conspicuous in the front. Hippias alone seemed to vie with the tribune in
reckless daring, though Hirpinus, Eumolpus, Lutorius, and the others, were
all earning their wages with scrupulous fidelity, and bearing themselves
according to custom, as if fighting were the one business of their lives.

When Esca reached the scene of conflict the tribune had just closed with a
gigantic adversary. For a minute they reeled in the death‐grapple, then
parted as suddenly as they met, the German falling backward with a groan,
the tribune’s blade as he brandished it aloft dripping with blood to the
very hilt.

“_Euge!_” shouted Hippias, who was at his side, parrying at the same
moment, with consummate address, a sweeping sword‐cut dealt at him from
the dead man’s comrade. “That was prettily done, tribune, and like an
artist!”

Esca, catching sight of his enemy’s hated face, dashed in with the bound
of a tiger, and taking him unawares, delivered at him so fierce and rapid
a thrust as would have settled accounts between them, had Placidus
possessed no other means of defence than his own skilful swordsmanship;
but the fencing‐master, whose eye seemed to take in all the combatants at
once, cut through the curved shaft of the Briton’s weapon with one turn of
his short sword, and its head fell harmless on the floor. His hand was up
for a deadly thrust when Esca found himself felled to the ground by some
powerful fist, while a ponderous form holding him down with its whole
weight, made it impossible for him to rise.

“Keep quiet, lad,” whispered a friendly voice in his ear; “I was forced to
strike hard to get thee down in time. Faith! the master gives short
warning with his thrusts. Here thou’rt safe, and here I’ll take care thou
shalt remain till the tide has rolled over us, and I can pass thee out
unseen. Keep quiet! I tell thee, lest I have to strike thee senseless for
thine own good.”

In vain the Briton struggled to regain his feet; Hirpinus kept him down by
main force. No sooner had the gladiator caught sight of his friend, than
he resolved to save him from the fate which too surely threatened all who
were found in the palace, and with characteristic promptitude, used the
only means at his disposal for the fulfilment of his object. A moment’s
reflection satisfied Esca of his old comrade’s good faith. Life is sweet,
and with the hope of its preservation came back the thought of Mariamne.
He lay still for a few minutes, and by that time the tide of fight had
rolled on, and they were left alone. Hirpinus rose first with a jovial
laugh.

“Why, you went down, man,” said he, “like an ox at an altar. I would have
held my hand a little—in faith I would—had there been time. Well, I must
help thee up, I suppose, seeing that I put thee down. Take my advice, lad,
get outside as quick as thou canst. Keep the first turning to the right of
the great gate, stick to the darkest part of the gardens, and run for thy
life!”

So speaking, the gladiator helped Esca to his feet, and pointed down the
corridor where the way was now clear. The Briton would have made one more
effort to save the Emperor, but Hirpinus interposed his burly form, and
finding his friend so refractory, half‐led, half‐pushed him to the door of
the palace. Here he bade him farewell, looking wistfully out into the
night, as though he would fain accompany him.

“I have little taste for the job here, and that’s the truth,” said he, in
the tone of a man who has been unfairly deprived of some expected
pleasure. “The Germans made a pretty good stand for a time, but I thought
there were more of them, and that the fight would have lasted twice as
long. Good luck go with thee, lad; I shall perhaps never see thee again.
Well, well, it can’t be helped. I have been bought and paid for, and must
go back to my work.”

So, while Esca, hopeless of doing any more good, went his way into the
gardens, Hirpinus re‐entered the palace to follow his comrades, and assist
in the search for the Emperor. He was somewhat surprised to hear loud
shouts of laughter echoing from the end of the corridor. Hastening on to
learn the cause of such strangely‐timed mirth, he came upon Rufus lying
across the prostrate body of a German, and trying hard to stanch the blood
that welled from a fatal gash inflicted by his dead enemy, ere he went
down. Hirpinus raised his friend’s head, and knew it was all over.

“I have got it,” said Rufus, in a faint voice; “my foot slipped and the
clumsy barbarian lunged in over my guard. Farewell, old comrade! Bid the
wife keep heart. There is a home for her at Picenum, and—the boys—keep
them out of the Family. When you close with these Germans—disengage—at
half distance, and turn your wrist down with the—old—thrust, so as to”—

Weaker and weaker came the gladiator’s last syllables, his head sank, his
jaw dropped, and Hirpinus, turning for a farewell look at the comrade with
whom he had trained, and toiled, and drank, and fought, for half a score
of years, dashed his hand angrily to his shaggy eyelashes, for he saw him
through a mist of tears.

Another shout of laughter, louder still and nearer, roused him to action.
Turning into the room whence it proceeded, he came upon a scene of combat,
nearly as ludicrous as the last was pitiful. Surrounded by a circle of
gladiators, roaring out their applause and holding their sides with mirth,
two most unwilling adversaries were pitted against each other. They
seemed, indeed, very loth to come to close quarters, and stood face to
face with excessive watchfulness and caution.

In searching for the Emperor, Placidus and his myrmidons had scoured
several apartments without success. Finding the palace thus unoccupied,
and now in their own hands, the men had commenced loading themselves with
valuables, and prepared to decamp with their plunder, each to his home, as
having fulfilled their engagement, and earned their reward. But the
tribune well knew that if Vitellius survived the night, his own head would
be no longer safe on his shoulders, and that it was indispensable to find
the Emperor at all hazards; so gathering a handful of gladiators round
him, persuading some and threatening others, he instituted a strict search
in one apartment after another, leaving no hole nor corner untried,
persuaded that Cæsar must be still inside the palace, and consequently
within his grasp. He entertained, nevertheless, a lurking mistrust of
treachery roused by the late appearance of Euchenor at supper, which was
rather strengthened than destroyed by the Greek’s unwillingness to engage
in personal combat with the Germans. Whilst he was able to do so, the
tribune had kept a wary eye upon the pugilist, and had indeed prevented
him more than once from slipping out of the conflict altogether. Now that
the Germans were finally disposed of, and the palace in his power, he kept
the Greek close at hand with less difficulty, jeering him, half in jest
and half in earnest, on the great care he had taken of his own person in
the fray. Thus, with Euchenor at his side, followed by Hippias, and some
half‐dozen gladiators, the tribune entered the room in which the Emperor
had supped, and from which a door, concealed by a heavy curtain, led into
a dark recess originally intended for a bath. At the foot of this curtain,
half‐lying, half‐sitting, grovelled an obese unwieldy figure, clad in
white, which moaned and shook and rocked itself to and fro, in a paroxysm
of abject fear. The tribune leapt forward with a gleam of diabolical
triumph in his eyes. The next instant his face fell, as the figure,
looking up, presented the scared features of the bewildered Spado. But
even in his wrath and disappointment Placidus could indulge himself with a
brutal jest.

“Euchenor,” said he, “thou hast hardly been well blooded to‐night. Drive
thy sword through this carrion, and draw it out of our way.”

The Greek was only averse to cruelty when it involved personal danger. He
rushed in willingly enough, his blade up, and his eyes glaring like a
tiger’s; but the action roused whatever was left of manhood in the victim,
and Spado sprang to his feet with the desperate courage of one who has no
escape left. Close at his hand lay a Parthian bow, one of the many
curiosities in arms that were scattered about the room, together with a
sandal‐wood quiver of puny painted arrows.

“Their points are poisoned,” he shouted; “and a touch is death!”

  [Illustration: “‘Their points are poisoned’, he shouted”]

Then he drew the bow to its full compass, and glared about him like some
hunted beast brought to bay. Euchenor, checked in his spring, stood rigid
as if turned to stone. His beautiful form indeed, motionless in that
lifelike attitude, would have been a fit study for one of his own
country’s sculptors; but the surrounding gladiators, influenced only by
the ludicrous points of the situation, laughed till their sides shook, at
the two cowards thus confronting each other.

“To him, Euchenor!” said they, with the voice and action by which a man
encourages his dog at its prey. “To him, lad! Here’s old Hirpinus come to
back thee. He always voted thee a cur. Show him some of thy mettle now!”

Goaded by their taunts, Euchenor made a rapid feint, and crouched for
another dash. Terrified and confused, the eunuch let the bowstring escape
from his nerveless fingers, and the light gaudy arrow, grazing the Greek’s
arm and scarcely drawing blood, fell, as it seemed, harmless to the floor
between his feet. Again there was a loud shout of derision, for Euchenor,
dropping his weapon, applied this trifling scratch to his mouth; ere the
laugh subsided, however, the Greek’s face contracted and turned pale. With
a wild yell he sprang bolt upright, raising his arms above his head, and
fell forward on his breast, dead.

The gladiators leaping in, passed half a dozen swords through the eunuch’s
body, almost ere their comrade touched the floor. Then Lutorius and
Eumolpus tearing down the curtain disappeared in the dark recess behind.
There was an exclamation of surprise, a cry for mercy, a scuffling of
feet, the fall of some heavy piece of furniture, and the two emerged
again, dragging between them, pale and gasping, a bloated and infirm old
man.

“Cæsar is fled!” said he, looking wildly round. “You seek Cæsar?” then
perceiving the dark smile on the tribune’s face, and abandoning all hope
of disguise, he folded his arms with a certain dignity that his coarse
garments and disordered state could not wholly neutralise, and added—

“I am Cæsar! Strike! since there is no mercy and no escape!”

The tribune paused an instant and pondered. Already the dawn was stealing
through the palace, and the dead upturned face of Spado looked grey and
ghastly in the pale cold light. Master of the situation, he did but
deliberate whether he should slay Cæsar with his own hand, thus bidding
high for the gratitude of his successor, or whether, by delivering him
over to an infuriated soldiery, who would surely massacre him on the spot,
he should make his death appear an act of popular justice, in the
furtherance of which he was himself a mere dutiful instrument. A few
moments’ reflection on the character of Vespasian, decided him to pursue
the latter course. He turned to the gladiators, and bade them secure their
prisoner.

Loud shouts and the tramp of many thousand armed feet announced that the
disaffected legions were converging on the palace, and had already filled
its courtyard with masses of disciplined men, ranged under their eagles in
all the imposing precision and the glittering pomp of war. The increasing
daylight showed their serried files, extending far beyond the gate, over
the spacious gardens of the palace, and the cold morning breeze unfurled a
banner here and there, on which were already emblazoned the initials of
the new emperor, “Titus Flavius Vespasian Cæsar.” As Vitellius with his
hands bound, led between two gladiators, passed out of the gate which at
midnight had been his own, one of these gaudy devices glittered in the
rising sun before his eyes. Then his whole frame seemed to collapse, and
his head sank upon his breast, for he knew that the bitterness of death
had indeed come at last.

But it was no part of the tribune’s scheme that his victim’s lineaments
should escape observation. He put his own sword beneath the Emperor’s
chin, and forced him to hold his head up while the soldiers hooted and
reviled, and ridiculed their former lord.

“Let them see thy face,” said the tribune brutally. “Even now thou art
still the most notorious man in Rome.”

Obese in person, lame in gait, pale, bloated, dishevelled, and a captive,
there was yet a certain dignity about the fallen emperor, while he drew
himself up, and thus answered his enemy—

“Thou hast eaten of my bread and drunk from my cup. I have loaded thee
with riches and honours. Yesterday I was thine emperor and thy host. To‐
day I am thy captive and thy victim. But here, in the jaws of death, I
tell thee that not to have my life and mine empire back again, would I
change places with Julius Placidus the tribune!”

They were the last words he ever spoke, for while they paraded him along
the Sacred Way, the legions gathered in and struck him down, and hewed him
in pieces, casting the fragments of his body into the stream of Father
Tiber, stealing calm and noiseless by the walls of Rome. And though the
faithful Galeria collected them for decent interment, few cared to mourn
the memory of Vitellius the glutton; for the good and temperate Vespasian
reigned in his stead.

                               CHAPTER XX

                              THE FAIR HAVEN

In a land‐locked bay sheltered by wooded hills, under a calm cloudless
sky, and motionless as some sleeping seabird, a galley lay at anchor on
the glistening surface of the Mediterranean. Far out at sea, against a
clear horizon the breeze just stirred the waters to a purer deeper blue,
but here, behind the sharp black point, that shot boldly from the shore,
long sheets of light, unshadowed by a single ripple traversed the bay,
basking warm and still in the glaring sunshine. The very gulls that
usually flit so restless to and fro, had folded their wings for an
interval of repose, and the hush of the hot southern noon lay drowsily on
the burnished surface of the deep.

The galley had obviously encountered her share of wind and weather. Spars
were broken and tackle strained. Her large square sail, rent and patched,
was under process of repair; heaped up, neglected for the present, and
half unfurled upon the deck, while the double‐banked seats of her rowers
were unoccupied, and the long oars shipped idly in her sides. Like the
seabird she resembled, and whose destiny she shared, it seemed as though
she also had folded her wings, and gone peacefully to sleep.

Two figures were on the deck of the galley, drinking in the beauty that
surrounded them, with the avidity of youth, and health, and love. They
thought not of the dangers they had so narrowly escaped—of the perils by
sea and perils by land that were in store for them yet, of the sorrows
they must undergo, the difficulties they must encounter, the frail thread
on which their present happiness depended. It was enough for them that
they were gazing on the loveliness of one of the fairest isles in the
Ægean, and that they were together.

Surely there is a Fair Haven in the voyage of each of us, to which we
reach perhaps once in a lifetime, where we pause and furl the sail and
ship the oar, not that we are weary indeed, nor unseaworthy, but that we
cannot resist, even the strongest and bravest of us, the longing of poor
humanity for rest. Such seasons as these come to remind us of our noble
destiny, and our inherent unworthiness—of our capacity for happiness, and
our failure in attaining it—of the sordid casket, and the priceless jewel
we are sure that it contains. At such seasons shall we not rejoice and
revel in the happiness they bring? Shall we not bathe in the glorious
sunshine, and snatch at the glowing fruit, and empty the golden cup, ay to
the very dregs? What though there be a cloud behind the hill, a bitter
morsel at the fruit’s core, a drop of wormwood in the sparkling draught?—a
consciousness of insecurity, a foresight of sorrow, a craving for the
infinite and the eternal, which goads and guides us at once on the upward
way? Would we be without it if we could? We cannot be more than human; we
would not willingly be less. Is not failure the teacher of humility? Is
not humility the first step to wisdom? Where is least of self‐dependence,
there is surely most of faith; and are not pain and sorrow the title‐deeds
of our inheritance hereafter?

It is a false moral, it is a morbid and unreal sentiment, beautifully as
it is expressed, which teaches us that “a sorrow’s crown of sorrows, is
remembering happier things.” All true happiness is of spiritual origin.
When we have been brushed, though never so lightly by the angel’s wing, we
cannot afterwards entirely divest ourselves of the fragrance breathed by
that celestial presence. Even in those blissful moments, something warned
us they would pass away; now that they have faded here, something assures
us that they will come again, hereafter. Hope is the birthright of
immortality. Without winter there would be no spring. In decay is the very
germ of life, and while suffering is transitory, mercy is infinite, and
joy eternal.

The sailors were taking their noonday rest below, to escape the heat.
Eleazar, the Jew, sat at the stern of the vessel, deep in meditation,
pondering on his country’s resources and his nation’s wrongs—the
dissensions that paralysed the Lion of Judah, and the formidable qualities
of the princely hunter who was bringing him warily and gradually to bay.
It would be hard enough to resist Titus with both hands free, how hopeless
a task when one neutralised the efforts of the other! Eleazar’s outward
eye, indeed, took in the groves of olives, and the dazzling porches, the
jagged rocks and the glancing water; but his spirit was gazing the while
upon a very different scene. He saw his tumultuous countrymen armed with
sword and spear, brave, impetuous, full of the headlong courage which made
their race irresistible for attack, but lacking the cool methodical
discipline, the stern habitual self‐reliance so indispensable for a
wearing and protracted defence; and he saw also the long even lines under
the eagles, the impregnable array of the legions; their fortified camp,
their mechanical discipline, their exact manœuvres, and the calm confident
strength that was converging day by day for the downfall and destruction
of his people. Then he moved restlessly, like a man impatient of actual
fetters about his limbs, for he would fain be amongst them again, with his
armour on and his spear in his hand. Calchas, too, was on board the
anchored galley. He looked on the fair scene around as those look who see
good in everything. And then his eye wandered from the glowing land, and
the cloudless heaven, and the sparkling sea, to the stately form of Esca,
and Mariamne with her gentle loving face, ere it sought his task again,
the perusal of his treasured Syriac scroll; for the old man, who took his
share of all the labours and hardships incidental to a sea‐voyage, spent
in sacred study many of the hours devoted by others to rest; his lips
moved in prayer, and he called down a blessing on the head of the
proselyte he had gained over, and the kinsman he loved.

After the success of the tribune’s plot, and the escape of Esca from the
imperial palace, Rome was no longer a place in which the Briton might
remain in safety. Julius Placidus, although, from the prominent part taken
by Domitian in public affairs, he had not attained such power as he
anticipated, was yet sufficiently formidable to be a fatal enemy, and it
was obvious that the only chance of life was immediately to leave the
neighbourhood of so implacable an adversary. The murder, too, of
Vitellius, and the accession of Vespasian, rendered Eleazar’s further stay
at Rome unnecessary, and even impolitic, while the services rendered to
Mariamne by her champion and lover, had given him a claim to the
protection of the Jewish household, and the intimacy of its members. On
condition of his conforming to certain fasts and observances, Eleazar
therefore willingly gave Esca the shelter of his roof, concealed him
whilst he himself made preparations for a hasty departure, and suffered
him to accompany the other two members that constituted his family, on
their voyage home to Jerusalem. After many storms and casualties, half of
that voyage was completed, and the attachment between Esca and Mariamne
which sprang up so unexpectedly at the corner of a street in Rome, had now
grown to the engrossing and abiding affection which lasts for life,
perhaps for eternity. Floating in that fair haven, with the glow of love
enhancing the beauty of an earthly paradise, they quaffed at the cup of
happiness without remorse or misgiving, thankful for the present and
trusting for the future. As shipwreck had threatened them but yesterday,
as to‐morrow they might again be destined to weather stormy skies, and
ride through raging seas, so, although they had suffered great dangers and
hardships in life, greater were yet probably in store. Nevertheless, to‐
day all was calm and sunshine, contentment, security, and repose. They
took it as it came, and standing together on the galley’s deck, the beauty
of those two young creatures seemed god‐like, in the halo of their great
joy.

“We shall never be parted here,” whispered Esca, while they stooped over
the bulwark, and his hand stealing to his companion’s, pressed it in a
gentle timid clasp.

With her large loving eyes full of tears, she leaned towards him, nearer,
nearer, till her cheek touched his shoulder, and, pointing upward, she
answered in the low earnest tones that acknowledge neither doubt nor fear:
“Esca, we shall never be parted hereafter.”

                                 *MOIRA*

                                CHAPTER I

                      A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF

                               [Initial T]

The Feast of the Passover was at hand; the feast that was wont to call the
children of Israel out of all parts of Syria to worship in the Holy City;
the feast that had celebrated their deliverance from the relentless grasp
of Pharaoh: that was ordained to mark the fulfilment of prophecy in the
downfall of the chosen people, and their national extinction under the
imperial might of Rome. Nevertheless, even this, the last Passover held in
that Temple of which Solomon was the founder, and in the destruction of
which, notwithstanding its sacred character, not one stone was permitted
to remain upon another, had collected vast multitudes of the descendants
of Abraham from all parts of Judæa, Samaria, Galilee, Perea, and other
regions, to increase the sufferings of famine, and enhance the horrors of
a siege. True to the character of their religion, rigidly observant of
outward ceremonies, and admitting no exemptions from the requirements of
the law, they swarmed in thousands and tens of thousands to their devoted
city, round which even now Titus was drawing closer and closer the iron
band of blockade, over which the Roman eagles were hovering, ere they
swooped down irresistible on their prey.

There was the hush of coming destruction in the very stillness of the
Syrian noon, as it glowed on the white carved pinnacles of the temple, and
flashed from its golden roof. There was a menace in the tall black
cypresses, pointing as it were with warning gesture towards the sky. There
was a loathsome reality of carnage about the frequent vulture, poised on
his wide wings over every open space, or flapping heavily away with loaded
gorge and dripping beak, from his hideous meal. Jerusalem lay like some
royal lady in her death‐pang; the fair face changed and livid in its
ghastly beauty, the queenly brow warped beneath its diadem, and the wasted
limbs quivering with agony under their robe of scarlet and gold.

Inside the walls, splendour and misery, unholy mirth and abject despair,
the pomp of war and the pressure of starvation, were mingled in frightful
contrast. Beneath the shadow of princely edifices dead bodies lay unburied
and uncared‐for in the streets. Wherever was a foot or two of shelter from
the sun, there some poor wretch seemed to have dragged himself to die.
Marble pillars, lofty porches, white terraces, and luxuriant gardens
denoted the wealth of the city, and the pride of its inhabitants; yet
squalid figures crawling about, bent low towards the ground, sought
eagerly here and there for every substance that could be converted into
nourishment, and the absence of all offal and refuse on the pavement
denoted the sad scarcity even of such loathsome food.

The city of Jerusalem, built upon two opposite hills, of which the plan of
the streets running from top to bottom in each, and separated only by a
narrow valley, exactly corresponded, was admirably adapted to purposes of
defence. The higher hill, on which was situated the upper town and the
holy Temple, might, from the very nature of its position, be considered
impregnable; and even the lower offered on its outside so steep and
precipitous an ascent as to be almost inaccessible by regular troops. In
addition to its natural strength, the city was further defended by walls
of enormous height and solidity, protected by large square towers, each
capable of containing a formidable garrison, and supplied with reservoirs
of water and all other necessaries of war. Herod the Great, who,
notwithstanding his vices, his crimes, and his occasional fits of passion
amounting to madness, possessed the qualities both of a statesman and a
soldier, had not neglected the means at his disposal for the security of
his capital. He had himself superintended the raising of one of these
walls at great care and expense, and had added to it three lofty towers,
which he named after his friend, his brother, and his ill‐fated wife.(16)
These were constructed of huge blocks of marble, fitted to each other with
such nicety, and afterwards wrought out by the workman’s hand with such
skill, that the whole edifice appeared to be cut from one gigantic mass of
stone. In the days, too, of that magnificent monarch, these towers were
nothing less than palaces within, containing guest‐chambers, banqueting‐
rooms, porticoes, nay, even fountains, gardens, and cisterns, with great
store of precious stones, gold and silver vessels, and all the barbaric
wealth of Judæa’s fierce and powerful king. Defended by Herod, even a
Roman army might have turned away discomfited from before Jerusalem.

Agrippa, too, the first of that name, who was afterwards stricken with a
loathsome disease, and “eaten of worms,” like a mere mortal, while he
affected the attributes of a god, commenced a system of fortification to
surround the city, which would have laughed to scorn the efforts of an
enemy; but the Jewish monarch was too dependent on his imperial master at
Rome to brave his suspicion by proceeding with it; and although a wall of
magnificent design was begun, and even raised to a considerable height, it
was never finished in the stupendous proportions originally intended. The
Jews, indeed, after the death of its founder, strengthened it
considerably, and completed it for purposes of defence, but not to the
extent by which Agrippa proposed to render the town impregnable.

And even had Jerusalem been entered and invested by an enemy, the Temple,
which was also the citadel of the place, had yet to be taken. This
magnificent building, the very stronghold of the wealth and devotion of
Judæa, the very symbol of that nationality which was still so prized by
the posterity of Jacob, was situated on the summit of the higher hill,
from which it looked down and commanded both the upper and lower cities.
On three sides it was artificially fortified with extreme caution, while
on the fourth, it was so precipitous as to defy even the chances of a
surprise. To possess the Temple was to hold the whole town as it were in
hand; nor was its position less a matter of importance to the assailed
than its splendour rendered it an object of cupidity to the assailants.
Every ornament of architecture was lavished upon its cloisters, its
pillars, its porticoes, and its walls. Its outward gates even, according
to their respective positions, were brass, silver, and gold; its beams
were of cedar, and other choice woods inlaid with the precious metal,
which was also thickly spread over doorposts, candlesticks,
cornices—everything that would admit of such costly decoration. The
fifteen steps that led from the Court of the Women to the great Corinthian
gate, with its double doors of forty cubits high, were worth as many
talents of gold as they numbered.(17)

To those who entered far enough to behold what was termed the Inner
Temple, a sight was presented which dazzled eyes accustomed to the
splendour of the greatest monarchs on earth. Its whole front was covered
with plates of beaten gold; vines bearing clusters of grapes the size of a
man’s finger, all of solid gold, were twined about and around its gates,
of which the spikes were pointed sharp, that birds might not pollute them
by perching there. Within were golden doors of fifty‐five cubits in
height; and before this entrance hung the celebrated veil of the Temple.
It consisted of a curtain embroidered with blue, fine linen, scarlet and
purple, signifying by mystical interpretation, a figure of the universe,
wherein the flax typified earth; the blue, air; the scarlet, fire; and the
purple, water. Within this sumptuous shrine were contained the
candlestick, the table of shew‐bread, and the altar of incense: the seven
lamps of the first denoting the seven planets of heaven; the twelve loaves
on the second representing the circle of the zodiac and the year; while
the thirteen sweet‐smelling spices on the third, reminded men of the Great
Giver of all good things in the whole world. In the inmost part, again, of
this Inner Temple was that sacred space, into which mortal eye might not
look, nor mortal step enter. Secluded, awful, invisible, divested of all
material object, it typified forcibly to the Jew the nature of that
spiritual worship which was taught him through Abraham and the Patriarchs,
direct from heaven.

All men, however, of all creeds and nations, might gaze upon the outward
front of the Temple, and judge by the magnificence of the covering the
costly splendour of the shrine it contained. While a dome of pure white
marble rose above it like a mountain of snow, the front itself of the
Temple was overlaid with massive plates of gold, so that when it flashed
in the sunrise men could no more look upon it than on the god of day
himself. Far off in his camp, watching the beleaguered city, how often may
the Roman soldier have pondered in covetous admiration, speculating on the
strength of its defenders and the value of his prey!

The Temple of Jerusalem then was celebrated through all the known earth
for its size, its splendour, and its untold wealth. The town, strong in
its natural position and its artificial defences, garrisoned, moreover, by
a fierce and warlike people, whose impetuous valour could be gauged by no
calculations of military experience, was justly esteemed so impregnable a
fortress, as might mock the attack of a Roman army even under such a
leader as the son of Vespasian. Had it been assailed by none other than
the enemy outside the walls, the Holy Place need never have been
desecrated and despoiled by the legions, the baffled eagles would have
been driven westward, balked of their glorious prey. But here was a “house
divided against itself.” The dissension within the walls was far more
terrible than the foe without. Blood flowed faster in the streets than on
the ramparts. Many causes originating in his past history, had combined to
shake the loyalty and undermine the nationality of the Jew. Perhaps, for
the wisest purposes, it seems ordained that true religion should be
especially prone to schism. Humanity, however high its aspirations, cannot
be wholly refined from its earthly dross; and those who are the most in
earnest are sometimes the most captious and unforgiving. While worship for
his Maker appears to be a natural instinct of man, it needed a teacher
direct from heaven to inculcate forbearance and brotherly love. The Jews
were sufficiently ill‐disposed to those of their own faith, who differed
with them on unimportant points of doctrine, or minute observance of
outward ceremonies; but where the heresy extended to fundamental tenets of
their creed, they seemed to have hated each other honestly, rancorously,
and mercilessly, as only brethren can.

Now for many generations they have been divided into three principal
sects, differing widely in belief, principle, and practice. These were
distinguished by the names of Pharisees, Sadducees, and Essenes. The
first, as is well known, were rigid observers of the traditional law,
handed down to them from their fathers, attaching fully as much importance
to its letter as to its spirit. With a vague belief in what is understood
by the term predestination, they yet allowed to mankind the choice between
good and evil, confounding, perhaps, the foreknowledge of the Creator with
the freewill of the creature, and believed in the immortality of souls,
and the doctrine of eternal punishment. Their failings seem to have been
inordinate religious pride, and undue exaltation of outward forms to the
neglect of that which they symbolised; a grasping ambition of priestly
power, and an utter want of charity for those who differed in opinion with
themselves.

The Sadducees, though professing belief in the Deity, argued an entire
absence of influence from above on the conduct of the human race. Limiting
the dispensation of reward and punishment to this world, they esteemed it
a matter of choice with mankind to earn the one or incur the other; and as
they utterly ignored the life to come, were content to enjoy temporal
blessings, and to deprecate physical evil alone. Though wanting a certain
genial philosophy on which the heathen prided himself, the Sadducee, both
in principles and practice, seems closely to have resembled the Epicurean
of ancient Greece and Rome.

But there was also a third sect which numbered many votaries throughout
Judæa, in whose tenets we discover several points of similarity with our
own, and whose ranks, it is not unfair to suppose, furnished numbers of
the early converts to Christianity. These were the Essenes, a persuasion
that rejected pleasure as a positive evil, and with whom a community of
goods was the prevailing and fundamental rule of the order. These men,
while they affected celibacy, chose out the children of others to provide
for and educate. While they neither bought nor sold, they never wanted the
necessaries of life, for each gave and received ungrudgingly, according to
his own and his neighbour’s need. While they despised riches, they
practised a strict economy, appointing stewards to care for and dispense
that common patrimony which was raised by the joint subscription of all.
Scattered over the whole country, in every city they were sure of finding
a home, and none took on a journey either money, food, or raiment, because
he was provided by his brethren with all he required wherever he stopped
to rest. Their piety, too, was exemplary. Before sunrise not a word was
spoken referring to earthly concerns, but public prayer was offered,
imploring the blessing of light day by day before it came. Then they
dispersed to their different handicrafts, by which they earned wages for
the general purse. Meeting together once more, they bathed in cold water
and sat down in white garments to their temperate meal, in which a
sufficiency and no more was provided for each person, and again separated
to labour till the evening, when they assembled for supper in the same
manner before going to rest.

The vows taken by all who were admitted into their society, and that only
after a two years’ probation, sufficiently indicated the purity and
benevolence of their code. These swore to observe piety towards God, and
justice towards men; to do no one an injury, either voluntarily or by
command of others; to avoid the evil, and to aid the good; to obey legal
authority as coming from above; to love truth, and openly reprove a lie;
to keep the hands clean from theft, and the heart from unfair gain;
neither to conceal anything from their own sect, nor to discover their
secrets to others, but to guard them with life; also to impart these
doctrines to a proselyte literally and exactly as each had received them
himself. If one of the order committed any grievous sin, he was cast out
of their society for a time; a sentence which implied starvation, as he
had previously sworn never to eat save in the presence of his brethren.
When in the last stage of exhaustion he was received again, as having
suffered a punishment commensurate with his crime, and which, by the
maceration of the body, should purify and save the soul.

With such tenets and such training, the Essenes were conspicuous for their
confidence in danger, their endurance of privation, and their contempt for
death. The flesh they despised as the mere corruptible covering of the
spirit, that imperishable essence, of which the aspiration was ever
upwards, and which, when released from prison, in obedience to the
dictates of its very nature, flew direct to heaven. Undoubtedly such
doctrines as these, scattered here and there throughout the land,
partially redeemed the Jewish character from the fierce unnatural stage of
fanaticism, to which it had arrived at the period of the Christian
era—afforded, it may be, a leavening which preserved the whole people from
utter reprobation; and helped, perhaps, to smooth the way for those
pioneers, who carried the good tidings first heard beneath the star of
Bethlehem, westward through the world.

But at the period when Jerusalem lay beleaguered by Titus and his legions,
three political parties raged within her walls, to whose furious
fanaticism her three religious sects could offer no comparison. The first
and most moderate of these, though men who scrupled not to enforce their
opinions with violence, had considerable influence with the great bulk of
the populace, and were, indeed, more than either of the others, free from
selfish motives, and sincere in their desire for the common good. They
affected a great concern for the safety and credit of their religion,
making no small outcry at the fact that certain stones and timber,
provided formerly by Agrippa for the decoration of the Temple, had been
desecrated by being applied to the repair of the defences and the
construction of engines of war. They observed, also, how the rivalry of
faction, in which, nevertheless, they took a prominent part, devastated
the city more than any efforts of the enemy; and they did not scruple to
paralyse the energies of the besieged, by averring that the military rule
of the Romans, wise and temperate, though despotic, was preferable to the
alternations of tyranny and anarchy under which they lived.

This numerous party was especially displeasing to Eleazar, whose restless
force of character and fanatical courage were impatient of any attempt at
capitulation, who was determined on resistance to the death, and the utter
destruction of the Holy City rather than its surrender. He was now living
in the element of storm and strife, which seemed most congenial to his
nature. No longer a foreign intriguer, disguised in poor attire, and
hiding his head in a back street of Rome, the Jew seemed to put on fresh
valour every day with his breastplate, and walked abroad in the streets or
directed operations from the ramparts; a mark for friend and foe, in his
splendid armour, with the port of a warrior, a patriarch and a king. He
was avowedly at the head of a numerous section of the seditious, who had
adopted the title of Zealots; and who, affecting the warmest enthusiasm in
the cause of patriotism and religion, were utterly unscrupulous as to the
means by which they furthered their own objects and aggrandisement. Their
practice was indeed much opposed to the principles they professed, and to
that zeal for religion from which they took their name. They had not
scrupled to cast lots for the priesthood, and to confer the highest and
holiest office of the nation on an illiterate rustic, whose only claim to
the sacerdotal dignity consisted in his relationship with one of the
pontifical tribes. Oppression, insult, and rapine inflicted on their
countrymen, had rendered the very name of Zealot hateful to the mass of
the people; but they numbered in their ranks many desperate and determined
men, skilled in the use of arms, and ready to perpetrate any act of
violence on friend or foe. In the hands of a bold unscrupulous leader,
they were sharp and efficient weapons. As such Eleazar considered them,
keeping them under his own control and fit for immediate use.

The third of these factions, which was also perhaps the most numerous,
excited the apprehensions of the more peaceably disposed no less than the
hatred of the last‐mentioned party who had put Eleazar at their head. It
was led by a man distinguished alike for consummate duplicity and reckless
daring—John of Gischala, so called from a small town in Judæa, the
inhabitants of which he had influenced to hold out against the Romans, and
whence he had himself escaped by a stratagem, redounding as much to the
clemency of Titus as to his own dishonour.

Gischala being inhabited by a rural and unwarlike population, unprovided
besides with defences against regular troops, would have fallen an easy
prey to the prince with his handful of horsemen, had it not been for that
disposition to clemency which Titus, in common with other great warriors,
seems to have indulged when occasion offered. Knowing that if the place
were carried by storm it would be impossible to restrain his soldiers from
putting the inhabitants to the sword, he rode in person within earshot of
the wall, and exhorted the defenders to open their gates and trust to his
forbearance, a proposal to which John, who with his adherents completely
overmastered and dominated the population, took upon himself to reply. He
reminded the Roman commander that it was the Sabbath, a day on which not
only was it unlawful for the Jews to undertake any matters of war, policy,
or business, but even to treat of such, and therefore they could not so
much as entertain the present proposals of peace; but that if the Romans
would give them four‐and‐twenty hours’ respite, during which period they
could surround the city with their camp, so that none could escape from
it, the keys of the gate should be given up to him on the following day,
when he might enter in triumph and take possession of the place. Titus
withdrew accordingly, probably for want of forage, to a village at some
distance, and John with his followers, accompanied by a multitude of women
and children, whom he afterwards abandoned, made his escape in the night
and fled to Jerusalem.

After such a breach of faith, he could expect nothing from the clemency of
the Roman general; so that John of Gischala, like many others of the
besieged, might be said to fight with a rope round his neck.

Within the city there had now been a fierce struggle for power between the
Zealots under Eleazar, and the reckless party called by different
opprobrious terms, of which “Robbers” was the mildest, who followed the
fortunes of John. The peaceful section, unable to make head against these
two, looked anxiously for the entrance of the eagles, many indeed of the
wealthier deserting when practicable to the camp of the enemy. Meanwhile
the Romans pushed the siege vigorously. Their army now consisted of
Vespasian’s choicest legions, commanded by his son in person. Their
engines of war were numerous and powerful. Skilful, scientific, exact in
discipline, and unimpeachable in courage, they were gradually but surely
converging, in all their strength, for one conclusive effort on the
devoted city. Already the second wall had been taken, retaken in a
desperate struggle by the besieged, and once more stormed and carried by
the legions. Famine, too, with her cruel hand, was withering the strongest
arms and chilling the bravest hearts in the city. It was time to forget
self‐interest, faction, fanaticism, everything but the nationality of
Judæa, and the enemy at the gate.

                               CHAPTER II

                            THE LION OF JUDAH

Eleazar had resolved to obtain supreme command. In a crisis like the
present, no divided authority could be expected to offer a successful
resistance. John of Gischala must be ruined by any means and at any
sacrifice. His unscrupulous rival, regardless of honour, truth, every
consideration but the rescue of his country, laid his plans accordingly.
With a plausible pretence of being reconciled, and thus amalgamating two
formidable armies for the common good, he proposed to hold a conference
with John in the Outer Court of the Temple, where, in presence of the
elders and chief men of the city, they should arrange their past
differences and enter into a compact of alliance for the future. The Great
Council of the nation, ostensibly the rulers of public affairs, and
influenced alternately by the two antagonists, were to be present. Eleazar
thought it would go hard, but that, with his own persuasive powers and
public services, he should gain some signal advantage over his adversary
ere they separated.

He appeared, accordingly, at the place of conference, splendidly armed
indeed in his own person, but accompanied by a small retinue of adherents
all attired in long peaceful robes, as though inviting the confidence of
his enemy. Observant eyes, it is true, and attentive ears, caught the
occasional clank and glitter of steel under these innocent linen mantles,
and the friends, if few in number, were of tried valour and fidelity,
while a mob of warlike men outside, who had gathered ostensibly to look
idly on, belonged obviously to the party of the Zealots. Nevertheless,
Eleazar had so contrived matters that, while he guarded against surprise,
he should appear before the Council as a suppliant imploring justice
rather than a leader dictating terms. He took up his position,
accordingly, at the lower end of the court, and after a deep obeisance to
the assembled elders, stood, as it were, in the background, assuming an
air of humility somewhat at variance with his noble and warlike exterior.

His rival, on the contrary, whose followers completely blocked up the
entrance from the Temple, through which he had thought it becoming to
arrive, strode into the midst with a proud and insolent bearing, scarcely
deigning to acknowledge the salutations he received, and glancing from
time to time back amongst his adherents, with scornful smiles, that seemed
to express a fierce contempt for the whole proceeding. He was a man who,
though scarcely past his youth, wore in his face the traces of his vicious
and disorderly career. His features were flushed and swollen with
intemperance; and the deep lines about his mouth, only half concealed by
the long moustache and beard, denoted the existence of violent passions,
indulged habitually to excess. His large stature and powerful frame set
off the magnificence of his dress and armour, nor was his eye without a
flash of daring and defiance that boded evil to an enemy; but his bearing,
bold as it was, smacked rather of the outlaw than the soldier, and his
rude, abrupt gestures contrasted disadvantageously with the cool self‐
possession of his rival. The latter, asking permission, as it were, of the
Senate by another respectful obeisance, walked frankly into the middle of
the court to meet his foe. John changed colour visibly, and his hand stole
to the dagger at his belt. He seemed to expect the treachery of which he
felt himself capable; but Eleazar, halting a full pace off, looked him
steadily in the face, and held out his right hand in token of amity and
reconciliation. A murmur of approval ran through the Senate, which
increased John’s uncertainty how to act; but after a moment’s hesitation,
unwillingly and with a bad grace, he gave his own in return.

Eleazar’s action, though apparently so frank and spontaneous, was the
result of calculation. He had now made the impression he desired on the
Senate, and secured the favourable hearing which he believed was alone
necessary for his triumph.

“We have been enemies,” said he, releasing the other’s hand and turning to
the assembly, while his full voice rang through the whole court, and every
syllable reached the listeners outside. “We have been fair and open
enemies, in the belief that each was opposed to the interests of his
country; but the privations we have now undergone in the same cause, the
perils we have confronted side by side on the same ramparts, must have
convinced us that however we may differ in our political tenets, nay, in
our religious practices, we are equally sincere in a determination to shed
our last drop of blood in the defence of the Holy City from the pollution
of the heathen. This is no time for any consideration but one—Jerusalem is
invested, the Temple is threatened, and the enemy at the gate. I give up
all claim to authority, save as a leader of armed men. I yield precedence
in rank, in council, in everything but danger. I devote my sword and my
life to the salvation of Judæa! Who is on my side?”

Loud acclamations followed this generous avowal; and it was obvious that
Eleazar’s influence was more than ever in the ascendant. It was no time
for John to stem the torrent of popular feeling, and he wisely floated
with the stream. Putting a strong control upon his wrath, he expressed to
the Senate in a few hesitating words, his consent to act in unison with
his rival, under their orders as Supreme Council of the nation; a
concession which elicited groans and murmurs from his own partisans, many
of whom forced their way with insolent threats and angry gestures into the
court. Eleazar did not suffer the opportunity to escape without a fresh
effort for the downfall of his adversary.

“There are men,” said he, pointing to the disaffected, and raising his
voice in full clear tones, “who had better have swelled the ranks of the
enemy than stood side by side with Judah on the ramparts of Agrippa’s
wall. They may be brave in battle, but it is with a fierce undisciplined
courage more dangerous to friend than foe. Their very leader, bold and
skilful soldier as he is, cannot restrain such mutineers even in the
august presence of the Council. Their excesses are laid to his charge; and
a worthy and patriotic commander becomes the scapegoat of a few ruffians
whose crimes he is powerless to prevent. John of Gischala, we have this
day exchanged the right hand of fellowship. We are friends, nay, we are
brothers‐in‐arms once more. I call upon thee, as a brother, to dismiss
these robbers, these paid cut‐throats, whom our very enemies stigmatise as
‘Sicarii,’ and to cast in thy lot with thine own people, and with thy
father’s house!”

John shot an eager glance from his rival to his followers. The latter were
bending angry brows upon the speaker, and seemed sufficiently discontented
with their own leader that he should listen tamely to such a proposal.
Swords, too, were drawn by those in the rear, and brandished fiercely over
the heads of the seething mass. For an instant the thought crossed his
mind, that he had force enough to put the opposing assemblage, Senate and
all, to the sword; but his quick practised glance taught him at the same
time, that Eleazar’s party gathered quietly towards their chief, with a
confidence unusual in men really without arms, and a methodical precision
that denoted previous arrangement; also that certain signals passed from
them to the crowd, and that the court was filling rapidly from the
multitude without. He determined then to dissemble for a time, and turned
to the Senate with a far more deferential air than he had yet assumed.

“I appeal to the elders of Judah,” said he, repressing at the same time by
a gesture the turbulence of his followers—“I am content to abide by the
decision of the National Council. Is to‐day a fitting season for the
reduction of our armament? Shall I choose the present occasion to disband
a body of disciplined soldiers, and turn a host of outraged and revengeful
men loose into the city with swords in their hands? Have we not already
enough idle mouths to feed, or can we spare a single javelin from the
walls? My _brother_”—he laid great stress upon the word, and gripped the
haft of his dagger under his mantle while he spoke it—“My brother gives
strange counsel, but I am willing to believe it sincere. I too, though the
words drop not like honey from my beard as from his, have a right to be
heard. Did I not leave Gischala and my father’s vineyard for a prey to the
enemy? Did I not fool the whole Roman army, and mock Titus to his face,
that I might join in the defence of Jerusalem? and shall I be schooled
like an infant, or impeached for a traitor to‐day? Judge me by the result.
I was on the walls this morning; I saw not my brother there. The enemy
were preparing for an assault. The engine they call Victory had been moved
yet nearer by a hundred cubits. While we prate here the eagles are
advancing. To the walls! To the walls, I say! Every man who calls himself
a Jew; be he Priest or Levite, Pharisee or Sadducee, Zealot or Essene. Let
us see whether John and his Sicarii are not as forward in the ranks of the
enemy as this _brother_ of mine, Eleazar, and the bravest he can bring!”

Thus speaking, and regardless of the presence in which he stood, John drew
his sword and placed himself at the head of his adherents, who with loud
shouts demanded to be led instantly to the ramparts. The enthusiasm spread
like wildfire, and even communicated itself to the Council. Eleazar’s own
friends caught the contagion, and the whole mass poured out of the Temple,
and, forming into bands in the streets, hurried tumultuously to the walls.

What John had stated to the Council was indeed true. The Romans, who had
previously demolished the outer wall and a considerable portion of the
suburbs, had now for the second time obtained possession of the second
wall, and of the high flanking tower called Antonia, which John, to do him
justice, had defended with great gallantry after he had retaken it once
from the assailants. It was from this point of vantage that an attack was
now organised by the flower of the Roman army, having for its object the
overthrow of her last defences and complete reduction of the city. When
Eleazar and his rival appeared with their respective bands they proved a
welcome reinforcement to the defenders, who, despite of their stubborn
resistance, were hardly pressed by the enemy.

Every able‐bodied Jew was a soldier on occasion. Troops thus composed are
invariably more formidable in attack than defence. They have usually
undaunted courage and a blind headlong valour that sometimes defies the
calculations of military science or experience; but they are also
susceptible of panic under reverses, and lack the cohesion and solidity
which is only found in those who make warfare the profession of a
lifetime. The Jew armed with spear and sword, uttering wild cries as he
leaped to the assault, was nearly irresistible; but once repulsed, his
final discomfiture was imminent. The Roman, on the contrary, never
suffered himself to be drawn out of his ranks by unforeseen successes, and
preserved the same methodical order in the advance as the retreat. He was
not, therefore, to be lured into an ambush however well disguised; and
even when outnumbered by a superior force, could retire without defeat.

The constitution of the legion, too, was especially adapted to enhance the
self‐reliance of well‐drilled troops. Every Roman legion was a small army
in itself, containing its proportion of infantry, cavalry, engines of war,
and means for conveyance of baggage. A legion finding itself never so
unexpectedly detached from the main body, was at no loss for those
necessaries without which an army melts away like snow in the sunshine,
and was capable of independent action, in any country and under any
circumstances. Each man too had perfect confidence in himself and his
comrades; and while it was esteemed so high a disgrace to be taken
prisoner that many soldiers have been known rather to die by their own
hands than submit to such dishonour, it is not surprising that the
imperial armies were often found to extricate themselves with credit from
positions which would have ensured the destruction of any other troops in
the world.

The internal arrangement, too, of every cohort, a title perhaps answering
to the modern word regiment, as does the legion to that of division, was
calculated to promote individual intelligence and energy in the ranks.
Every soldier not only fought, but fed, slept, marched, and toiled, under
the immediate eye of his _decurion_ or captain of ten, who again was
directly responsible for those under his orders to his centurion, or
captain of a hundred. A certain number of these centuries or companies,
varying according to circumstances, constituted a maniple, two of which
made up the cohort. Every legion consisted of ten cohorts, under the
charge of but six tribunes, who seem to have entered on their onerous
office in rotation. These were again subservient to the general, who,
under the different titles of prætor, consul, etc., commanded the whole
legion. The private soldiers were armed with shield, breastplate, helmet,
spear, sword, and dagger; but in addition to his weapons every man carried
a set of intrenching tools, and on occasion two or more strong stakes, for
the rapid erection of palisades. All were, indeed, robust labourers and
skilful mechanics, as well as invincible combatants.

The Jews, therefore, though a fierce and warlike nation, had but little
chance against the conquerors of the world. It was but their
characteristic self‐devotion that enabled them to hold Titus and his
legions so long in check. Their desperate sallies were occasionally
crowned with success, and the generous Roman seems to have respected the
valour and the misfortunes of his foe; but it must have been obvious to so
skilful a leader, that his reduction of Jerusalem and eventual possession
of all Judæa was a question only of time.

At an earlier period of the siege the Romans had made a wide and shallow
cutting capable of sheltering infantry, for the purpose of advancing their
engines closer to the wall, but from the nature of the soil this work had
been afterwards discontinued. It now formed a moderately‐secure covered‐
way, enabling the besieged to reach within a short distance of the Tower
of Antonia, the retaking of which was of the last importance—none the less
that from its summit Titus himself was directing the operations of his
army. There was a breach in this tower on its inner side, which the Romans
strove in vain to repair, harassed as they were by showers of darts and
javelins from the enemy on the wall. More than once, in attempting to make
it good at night, their materials had been burnt and themselves driven
back upon their works with great loss, by the valour of the besieged. The
Tower of Antonia was indeed the key to the possession of the second wall.
Could it but be retaken, as it had already been, the Jews might find
themselves once more with two strong lines of defence between the upper
city and the foe.

When Eleazar and John, at the head of their respective parties, now
mingled indiscriminately together, reached the summit of the inner wall,
they witnessed a fierce and desperate struggle in the open space below.

Esca, no longer in the position of a mere household slave, but the friend
and client of the most influential man in Jerusalem, who had admitted him,
men said, as a proselyte to his faith, and was about to bestow on him his
daughter in marriage, had already so distinguished himself by various
feats of arms in the defence of the city, as to be esteemed one of the
boldest leaders in the Jewish army. Panting to achieve a high reputation,
which he sometimes dared to hope might gain him all he wished for on
earth—the hand of Mariamne—and sharing to a great extent with the besieged
their veneration for the Temple and abhorrence of a foreign yoke, the
Briton lost no opportunity of adding a leaf to the laurels he had gained,
and thrust himself prominently forward in every enterprise demanding an
unusual amount of strength and courage. His lofty stature and waving
golden hair, so conspicuous amongst the swarthy warriors who surrounded
him, were soon well known in the ranks of the Romans, who bestowed on him
the title of the Yellow Hostage, as inferring from his appearance that he
must have lately been a stranger in Jerusalem; and many a stout legionary
closed in more firmly on his comrade, and raised his shield more warily to
the level of his eyes, when he saw those bright locks waving above the
press of battle, and the long sword flashing with deadly strokes around
that fair young head. He was now leading a party of chosen warriors, along
the covered‐way that has been mentioned, to attack the Tower of Antonia.
For this purpose, the trench had been deepened during the night by the
Jews themselves, who had for some days meditated a bold stroke of this
nature; and the chosen band had good reason to believe that their
movements were unseen and unsuspected by the enemy.

As they deployed into the open space, but a few furlongs from the base of
the tower, the Jews caught sight of Titus on the summit, his golden armour
flashing in the sun, and, with a wild yell of triumph, they made one of
their fierce, rushing, disorderly charges to the attack. They had reached
within twenty paces of the breach, when swooping round the angle of the
tower, like a falcon on his prey, came Placidus, at the head of a thousand
horsemen, dashing forward with lifted shields and levelled spears amongst
the disorganised mass of the Jews, broken by the very impetus of their own
advance.

The tribune had but lately joined the Roman army, having been employed in
the subjugation of a remote province of Judæa—a task for which his
character made him a peculiarly fit instrument. Enriched by a few months
of extortion and rapine, he had taken care to rejoin his commander in time
to share with him the crowning triumphs of the siege. Julius Placidus was
a consummate soldier. His vigilance had detected the meditated attack, and
his science was prepared to meet it in the most effectual manner. Titus,
from the summit of his tower, could not but admire the boldness and
rapidity with which the tribune dashed from his concealment, and launched
his cavalry on the astonished foe.

But he had to do with one, who, though his inferior in skill and
experience, was his equal in that cool hardihood which can accept and
baffle a surprise. Esca had divided his force into two bodies, so that the
second might advance in a dense mass to the support of the first, whether
its disorderly attack should be attended by failure or success. This body,
though clear of the trench, yet remaining firm in its ranks, now became a
rallying point for its comrades, and although a vast number of the Jews
were ridden down and speared by the attacking horsemen, there were enough
left to form a bristling phalanx, presenting two converging fronts of
level steel impervious to the enemy. Placidus observed the manœuvre and
ground his teeth in despite; but though his brow lowered for one instant,
the evil smile lit up his face the next, for he espied Esca, detached from
his band and engaged in rallying its stragglers; nor did he fail to
recognise at a glance the man he most hated on earth. Urging his horse to
speed, and even at that moment of gratified fury glancing towards the
tower to see whether Titus was looking on, he levelled his spear and bore
down upon the Briton in a desperate and irresistible charge. Esca stepped
nimbly aside, and receiving the weapon on his buckler, dealt a sweeping
sword‐cut at the tribune’s head, which stooping to avoid, the latter
pulled at his horse’s reins so vigorously as to check the animal’s career
and bring it suddenly on its haunches. The Briton, watching his
opportunity, seized the bit in his powerful grasp, and with the aid of his
massive weight and strength, rolled man and horse to the ground in a
crashing fall. The tribune was undermost, and for the moment at the mercy
of his adversary. Looking upward with a livid face and deep bitter hatred
glaring in his eye, he did but hiss out “Oh, mine enemy!” from between his
clenched teeth, and prepared to receive his deathblow; but the hand that
was raised to strike, fell quietly to Esca’s side, and he turned back
through the press of horsemen, buffeting them from him as a swimmer
buffets the waves, till he reached his own men. Placidus, rising from the
ground, shook his clenched fist at the retreating figure; but he never
knew that he owed his preservation to the first‐fruits of that religion
which had now taken root in the breast of his former slave. When he
groaned out in his despair “Oh, mine enemy!” the Briton remembered that
this man had, indeed, shown himself the bitterest and most implacable of
his foes. It was no mere impulse, but the influence of a deep abiding
principle that bade him now forgive and spare for the sake of One whose
lessons he was beginning to learn, and in whose service he had resolved to
enter. Amongst all the triumphs and the exploits of that day, there was
none more noble than Esca’s, when he lowered his sword and turned away,
unwilling, indeed, but resolute, from his fallen foe.

The fight raged fiercely still. Eleazar with his Zealots—John of Gischala
with his Robbers—rushed from the walls to the assistance of their
countrymen. The Roman force was in its turn outnumbered and surrounded,
though Placidus, again on horseback, did all in the power of man to make
head against the mass of his assailants. Titus at length ordered the Tenth
Legion, called by his own name and constituting the very flower of the
Roman army, to the rescue of their countrymen. Commanded by Licinius, in
whose cool and steady valour they had perfect confidence, these soon
turned the tide of combat, and forced the Jews back to their defences;
not, however, until their general had recognised in the Yellow Hostage the
person of his favourite slave, and thought, with a pang, that the fate of
war would forbid his ever seeing him face to face again, except as a
captive or a corpse.

                        THE WISDOM OF THE SERPENT

Ever since the night which changed the imperial master of Rome, Esca had
dwelt with Eleazar as if he were a member of the same family and the same
creed. Though Mariamne, according to the custom of her nation, confined
herself chiefly to the women’s apartments, it was impossible that two who
loved each other so well as the Jewess and the Briton should reside under
the same roof without an occasional interview. These usually took place
when the latter returned to unarm after his military duties; and though
but a short greeting was interchanged, a hurried inquiry, a few words of
thanksgiving for his safety, and assurances of her continued affection,
these moments were prized and looked forward to by both, as being the only
occasions on which they could enjoy each other’s society uninterrupted and
alone.

After the repulse of the tribune’s attack beneath the Tower of Antonia,
Esca returned in triumph to Eleazar’s house. He was escorted to the very
door by the chief men of the city, and a band of those chosen warriors who
had witnessed and shared in his exploits. Mariamne, from the gallery which
surrounded it, saw him enter her father’s court at the head of her
father’s friends, heard that father address him before them all in a few
soldierlike words of thanks and commendation—nay, even observed him lead
the successful combatant away with him as though for some communication of
unusual confidence. The girl’s heart leaped within her; and vague hopes,
of which she could not have explained the grounds, took possession of her
mind. She loved him very dearly: they slept under the same roof, they ate
at the same board; notwithstanding the perils of warfare to which she was
now habituated, they met every day: but this was not enough; something was
wanting still; so she watched him depart with her father, and grudged not
the loss of her own short interview with its congratulations that she so
longed to pour into his ear, because the indefinite hopes that dawned on
her, seemed to promise more happiness than she could bear.

Eleazar took the helmet from his brow, and signed to Esca to do the same.
Then he filled a measure of wine, and draining the half of it eagerly,
handed the rest to his companion. For a few minutes he paced up and down
the room, still wearing his breastplate, and with his sword girded to his
side, deep in thought, ere turning abruptly to his companion he placed his
hand on his shoulder, and said—

“You have eaten my bread—you have drunk from my cup. Esca, you are to me
as a son; will you do my bidding?”

“Even as a son,” replied the Briton; to whom such an address seemed at
once to open the way for the fulfilment of his dearest wishes.

Eleazar ignored the emphasis on the word. It may be that his mind was too
entirely engrossed with public interests to admit a thought upon private
affairs; it may be that he considered Esca, like the sword upon his thigh,
as a strong and serviceable weapon, to be laid aside when no longer wanted
for conflict; or it may be that his purpose was honest, and that, after
the salvation of his country, he would have been actuated by the kindlier
motives of a father and a friend; but in the meantime he had a purpose in
view, and no considerations of affection or partiality would have led him
to swerve from it by a hair’s‐breadth.

“Look around you,” said he, “and behold the type of Judæa, and especially
of Jerusalem, in this very building. See how fair and stately are the
walls of my house, how rich its ornaments, how costly its hangings and
decorations. Here are ivory, and sandal‐wood, and cedar; webs of divers
colours; robes of purple, stores of fine linen, vessels of silver, and
drinking‐cups of gold; frankincense and wine are here in plenty, but of
barley we have scarce a few handfuls; and if the same visitors that my
father Abraham entertained on the plains of Mamre were at my door to‐day,
where should I find a kid that I might slay it, and set it before them to
eat? I have everything here in the house, save that alone without which
everything else is of no avail—the daily bread that gives man strength for
his daily task. And so is it with my country: we have men, we have
weapons, we have wealth; but we lack that which alone renders those
advantages efficient for defence—the constant unshrinking reliance on
itself and its faith, from which a nation derives its daily resources as
from its daily bread. There are men here in the city now who would hand
Jerusalem over to the heathen without striking another blow in her
defence.”

“Shame on them!” answered the other warmly. “Barbarian, stranger as I am,
I pledge myself to die there, ere a Roman soldier’s foot shall pollute the
threshold of the Temple.”

“You are a warrior,” answered Eleazar; “you have proved it to‐day. As a
warrior I consult with you on the possibility of our defence. You saw the
result of the conflict under the Tower of Antonia, and the bravery of the
Tenth Legion; we cannot resist another such attack till our defences are
repaired. We must gain time; at all hazards, and at any sacrifice, we must
gain time.”

“In two days the breach might be strengthened,” replied the other; “but
Titus is an experienced soldier; he was watching us to‐day from the summit
of his tower. He will hardly delay the assault beyond to‐morrow.”

“He must!” answered Eleazar vehemently. “I have my preparations for
defence, and in less than two days the city shall be again impregnable.
Listen, Esca; you little know the opposition I have met with, or the
hatred I have incurred in overcoming it. I have sought means to preserve
the city from all quarters, and have thus given a handle to my enemies
that they will not fail to use for my destruction. Have I not taken the
holy oil from the sacrifice, to pour boiling on the heads of the
besiegers? and will not John of Gischala and the Robbers fling this
sacrilege in my teeth when it becomes known? Even at this moment I have
seized the small quantity of chaff there is yet remaining in the city, to
fill the sacks with which we may neutralise the iron strokes of that heavy
battering‐ram, which the soldiers themselves call Victory. There is scarce
a grain of wheat left, and many a hungry stomach must sleep to‐night
without even the miserable meal it had promised itself, for want of this
poor measure of chaff. Men will curse Eleazar in their prayers. It is
cruel work,—cruel work. But, no! I will never abandon my post, and the
seed of Jacob shall eat one another for very hunger in the streets, ere I
deliver the Holy City into the keeping of the heathen.”

Something almost like a tear shone in the eye of this iron‐hearted fanatic
while he spoke, but his resolution was not to be shaken; and he only spoke
the truth when he avowed that famine, stalking abroad in its most horrible
form, would be a less hateful sight to him than the crest of a Roman
soldier within the walls of Jerusalem. His brain had been hard at work on
his return from the conflict of the day; and he had woven a plan by which
he hoped to gain such a short respite from attack as would enable him to
bid defiance to Titus once more. This could only be done, however, with
the aid of others, and by means of a perfidy that even he could scarcely
reconcile to himself—that he could not but fear must be repugnant to his
agent.

The well‐known clemency of the Roman commander, and his earnest wish to
spare, if it were possible, the beautiful and sacred city from
destruction, had caused him to listen patiently at all times to any
overtures made by the Jews for the temporary suspension of hostilities.
Titus seemed not only averse to bloodshed, but also extended his goodwill
in an extraordinary degree to an enemy whose religion he respected, and
whose miseries obtained his sincere compassion. On many occasions he had
delayed his orders for a final and probably irresistible assault, in the
hope that the city might be surrendered; and that he could hand over to
his father this beautiful prize, undefaced by the violence inflicted on a
town taken by storm. The great Roman commander was not only the most
skilful leader of his day, but a wise and far‐sighted politician, as well
as a humane and generous man. Eleazar knew the character with which he had
to deal; but he stifled all scruples of honour in the one consideration,
that his first and only duty was to the cause of Judah; yet in his breast
were lying dormant the instincts of a brave man, and it was not without
misgivings of opposition from his listener, that he disclosed to Esca the
scheme by which he hoped to overreach Titus and gain a few hours’ respite
for the town.

“Two days,” said he, resuming his restless walk up and down the
apartment—“two days is all I ask—all I require. Two days I _must_ have.
Listen, young man. I have proved you, I can trust you; and yet the safety
of Judah hangs on your fidelity. Swear, by the God of Israel, that you
will never reveal the secret I disclose to you this day. It is but known
to my brother, my daughter, and myself. You are the adopted son of my
house. Swear!”

“I swear!” replied Esca solemnly; and his hopes grew brighter as he found
himself thus admitted, as it were, to a place in the family of the woman
he loved.

Eleazar looked from the casement and through the door, to assure himself
against listeners; then he filled the Briton’s cup once more, and
proceeded with his confidences.