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.

CHAPTER III

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.

“Around that dried‐up fountain,” said he, pointing to the terraces on

which his stately house was built, “there lie seven slabs of marble, with

which its basin is paved. If you put the point of your sword under the

left‐hand corner of the centre one, you may move it sufficiently to admit

your hand. Lift it, and you find a staircase leading to a passage; follow

that passage, in which a full‐grown man can stand upright, and along which

you may grope your way without fear, and you come to an egress choked up

with a few faggots and briers. Burst through these, and, lo! you emerge

beyond the Tower of Antonia, and within fifty paces of the Roman camp.

Will you risk yourself amongst the enemy for Judah’s sake?”

“I have been nearer the Romans than fifty paces,” answered Esca proudly.

“It is no great service you ask; and if they seize upon me as an escaped

slave, and condemn me to the cross, what then? It is but a soldier’s duty

I am undertaking after all. When shall I depart?”

Eleazar reflected for a moment. The other’s unscrupulous, unquestioning

fidelity touched even his fierce heart to the quick. It would be,

doubtless, death to the messenger, who, notwithstanding his character of

herald, would be too surely treated as a mere runaway; but the message

must be delivered, and who was there but Esca for him to send? He bent his

brows, and proceeded in a harder tone—

“I have confided to you the secret way, that is known to but three besides

in Jerusalem. I need keep nothing from you now. You shall bear my written

proposals to Titus for a truce till the sun has again set twice, on

certain terms; but those terms it will be safer for the messenger not to

know. Will you run the risk, and when?”

“This instant, if they are ready,” answered the other boldly; but even

while he spoke, Calchas entered the apartment; and Eleazar, conscious of

the certain doom to which he was devoting his daughter’s preserver and his

own guest, shrank from his brother’s eye, and would have retired to

prepare his missive without further question.

Fierce and unscrupulous as he was, he could yet feel bitterly for the

brave, honest nature that walked so unsuspiciously into the trap he laid.

It was one thing to overreach a hostile general, and another to sacrifice

a faithful and devoted friend. He had no hesitation in affecting treason

to Titus, and promising the Romans that, if they would but grant him that

day and the next, to obtain the supremacy of his own faction and chief

power within the walls, he would deliver over the city, with the simple

condition that the Temple should not be demolished, and the lives of the

inhabitants should be spared. He acknowledged no dishonour in the

determination, which he concealed in his own breast, to employ that

interval strenuously in defensive works, and when it had elapsed to break

faith unhesitatingly with his foe. In the cause of Judah—so thought this

fanatic, half‐soldier, half‐priest—it was but a fair stratagem of war, and

would, as a means of preserving the true faith, meet with the direct

approval of Heaven. But it seemed hard—very hard—that, to secure these

advantages, he must devote to certain destruction one who had sat at his

board and lived under his roof for months; and a pang, of which he did not

care to trace the origin, smote the father’s heart when he thought of

Mariamne’s face, and her question to‐morrow, “Where is Esca? and why is he

not come back?”

He took his brother aside, and told him, shortly, that Esca was going as a

messenger of peace to the Roman camp. Calchas looked him full in the face,

and shook his head.

“Brother,” said he, “thy ways are tortuous, though thy bearing is warlike

and bold. Thou trustest too much to the sword of steel and the arm of

flesh—the might of man’s strength, which a mere pebble on the pavement can

bring headlong to the ground; and the scheming of man’s brain, which

cannot foresee, even for one instant, the trifle that shall baffle and

confound it in the next. It is better to trust boldly in the right. This

youth is of our own household: he is more to us than friend and kindred.

Wouldst thou send him up with his hands bound to the sacrifice? Brother,

thou shalt not do this great sin!”

“What would you?” said Eleazar impatiently. “Every man to his duty. The

priest to the offering; the craftsman to his labour; the soldier to the

wall. He alone knows the secret passage. Whom have I but Esca to send?”

“I am a man of peace,” replied Calchas, and over his face stole that ray

of triumphant confidence which at seasons of danger seemed to brighten it

like a glory; “who so fitting to carry a message of peace as myself? You

have said, everyone to his appointed task. I cannot—nay, I _would_ not—put

a breastplate on my worthless body, and a helmet on my old grey head, and

brandish spear, or javelin, or deadly weapon in my feeble hands; but do

you think it is because I fear? Remember, brother, the blood of the sons

of Manahem runs in my veins as in yours, and I, too, have a right to risk

every drop of it in the service of my country! Oh! I have sinned! I have

sinned!” added the old man, with a burst of contrition, after this

momentary outburst. “What am I to speak such words? I, the humblest and

least worthy of my master’s servants!”

“You shall not go!” exclaimed Eleazar, covering his face with his hands as

the horrid results of such a mission rose before his eyes. Should the

Romans keep the herald for a hostage, as most probably they would, until

the time of surrender had elapsed, what must be his certain fate? Had they

not already crucified more than one such emissary in face of the walls?

and could they be expected to show mercy in a case like this? His love for

his brother had been the one humanising influence of Eleazar’s life. It

tore his heart now with a grief that was something akin to rage, when he

reflected that even that brother, if requisite, must be sacrificed to the

cause of Jerusalem.

Esca looked from one to the other, apparently unmoved. To him the whole

affair seemed simply a matter of duty, in the fulfilment of which he would

himself certainly run considerable risk, that did not extend to Calchas.

He was perfectly willing to go; but could not, at the same time, refrain

from thinking that the latter was the fitter person to undertake such a

mission at such a time. He could not guess at the perfidy which Eleazar

meditated, and which brought with it its own punishment in his present

sufferings for his brother. “I am ready,” said he quietly, resting his

hand on his helmet, as though prepared to depart forthwith.

“You shall not go,” repeated Calchas, looking fixedly at his brother the

while. “I tell thee, Eleazar,” he added, with kindling eye and heightened

tone, “that I will not stand by and see this murder done. As an escaped

slave, Esca will be condemned to death unheard. It may be that they will

even subject him to the scourge, and worse. As the bearer of terms for a

truce, our enemies will treat me as an honoured guest. If thou art

determined to persevere, I will frustrate thine intention by force. I need

but whisper to the Sanhedrim that Eleazar is trafficking with those

outside the walls, and where would be the house of Ben‐Manahem? and how

long would the Zealots own allegiance to their chief? Nay, brother, such

discord and such measures can never be between thee and me. When have we

differed in our lives, since we clung together to our mother’s knees?

Prepare thy missive. I will take it to the Roman camp forthwith, and

return in safety as I went. What have I to fear? Am I not protected by Him

whom I serve?”

When Eleazar withdrew his hands from his face it was deadly pale, and

large drops stood upon his forehead. The struggle had been cruel indeed,

but it was over. “Jerusalem before all,” was the principle from which he

had never been known to swerve, and now he must sacrifice to it that life

so much dearer than his own.

“Be it as you will,” said he, commanding himself with a strong effort;

“you can only leave the city by our secret passage. The scroll shall be

ready at midnight. It must be in the hand of Titus by dawn!”

CHAPTER IV

THE MASTERS OF THE WORLD

An hour before sunrise Calchas was stopped by one of the sentinels on the

verge of the Roman camp. He had made his escape from the city, as he

hoped, without arousing the suspicions of the besieged. The outskirts of

Jerusalem were, indeed, watched almost as narrowly by its defenders as its

assailants, for so many of the peaceful inhabitants had already taken

refuge with the latter, and so many more were waiting their opportunity to

fly from the horrors within the walls, and trust to the mercy of the

conquerors without, that a strict guard had been placed by the national

party on the different gates of the city, and all communication with the

enemy forbidden and made punishable with death. It was no light risk,

therefore, that Calchas took upon himself in carrying his brother’s

proposals to the Roman general.

Following the high‐crested centurion, who, summoned by the first sentinel

that had challenged, offered to conduct him at once to the presence of

Titus; the emissary, man of peace though he was, could not but admire the

regularity of the encampment in which he found himself, and the discipline

observed by those who occupied it. The line of tents was arranged with

mathematical order and precision, forming a complete city of canvas, of

which the principal street, so to speak, stretching in front of the tents

occupied by the tribunes and other chief officers, was not less than a

hundred feet wide. From this great thoroughfare all the others struck off

at right angles, completing a simple figure, in which communication was

unimpeded and confusion impossible, whilst an open space of some two

hundred feet was preserved between the camp and the ramparts that

encircled the whole. In this interval troops might parade, spoil and

baggage be stored, or beasts of burden tethered, whilst its width afforded

comparative security to those within from darts, firebrands, or other

missiles of offence.

If Calchas had ever dreamed of the possibility that his countrymen would

be able to make head against the Romans, he abandoned the idea now. As he

followed his conductor through the long white streets in which the legions

lay at rest, he could not but observe the efficient state of that army

which no foe had ever yet been able to resist—he could not fail to be

struck by the brightness of the arms, piled in exact symmetry before each

tent; by the ready obedience and cheerful respect paid by the men to their

officers, and by the abundant supplies of food and water, contrasting

painfully with the hunger and thirst of the besieged. Line after line he

traversed in silent wonder, and seemed no nearer the pavilion of the

general than at first; and he could not conceal from himself that the

enemy were no less formidable to the Jews in their numerical superiority

than in discipline, organisation, and all the advantages of war.

His conductor halted at length in front of a large canvas dome, opposite

to which a strong guard of the Tenth Legion were resting on their arms. At

a sign from the centurion, two of these advanced like machines, and stood

motionless one on each side of Calchas. Then the centurion disappeared, to

return presently with a tribune, who, after a short investigation of the

emissary, bade him follow, and, lifting a curtain, Calchas found himself

at once in the presence of the Roman conqueror and his generals. As the

latter gave way on each side, the hero advanced a step and confronted the

ambassador from the besieged. Titus, according to custom, was fully armed,

and with his helmet on his head. The only luxury the hardy soldier allowed

himself was in the adornment of his weapons, which were richly inlaid with

gold. Many a time had he nearly paid the penalty of this warlike fancy

with his life; for, in the thick of battle, who so conspicuous as the bold

prince in his golden armour? Who such a prize, alive or dead, as the son

of Vespasian, and heir to the sovereignty of the world? He stood now,

erect and dignified, a fitting representative of the mighty engine he

wielded with such skill. His firm and well‐knit frame wore its steel

covering lightly and easily as a linen tunic. His noble features and manly

bearing bore witness to the generous disposition and the fearless heart

within; and his gestures denoted that self‐reliance and self‐respect which

spring from integrity and conscious power combined. He looked every inch a

soldier and a prince.

But there was a peculiarity in the countenance of Titus which added a

nameless charm to his frank and handsome features. With all its manly

daring, there was yet in the depths of those keen eyes a gleam of womanly

compassion and tenderness, that emboldened a suppliant and reassured a

prisoner. There was a softness in the unfrequent smile that could but

belong to a kindly guileless nature. It was the face of a man capable, not

only of lofty deeds and daring exploits, but of gentle memories, loving

thoughts, home affections, generosity, commiseration, and self‐sacrifice.

Close behind the general, affording a striking contrast in every respect

to his chief, stood the least‐trusted, but by no means the least

efficient, of his officers. Almost the first eye that Calchas met when he

entered the tent was that of Julius Placidus, whose services to Vespasian,

though never thoroughly understood, had been rewarded by a high command in

the Roman army. The most right‐thinking of Cæsars could not neglect the

man whose energies had helped him to the throne; and Titus, though he saw

through the character he thoroughly despised, was compelled to do justice

to the ready courage and soldierlike qualities of the tribune. So Julius

Placidus found himself placed in a position from which he could play his

favourite game to advantage, and was still courting ambition as zealously

as when he intrigued at Rome against Vitellius, and bargained with Hippias

over a cup of wine for the murder of his emperor.

That retired swordsman, too, was present in the tent; no longer the mere

trainer of professional gladiators, but commanding a band that had made

itself a name for daring at which the besieged grew pale, and which the

Tenth Legion itself could hardly hope to emulate. After the assassination

of the last Cæsar, this host of gladiators had formed themselves into a

body of mercenaries, with Hippias at their head, and offered their

services to the new emperor. Under the ominous title of “The Lost Legion,”

these desperate men had distinguished themselves by entering on all such

enterprises as promised an amount of danger to which it was hardly thought

prudent to expose regular troops, and had gained unheard‐of credit during

the siege, which from its nature afforded them many opportunities for the

display of wild and reckless courage. Their leader was conspicuous, even

in the general’s tent, by the lavish splendour of his arms and

appointments; but, though his bearing was proud and martial as ever, his

face had grown haggard and careworn, his beard was thickly sprinkled with

grey. Hippias had played for the heaviest stakes of life boldly, and had

won. He seemed to be little better off, and little better satisfied, than

the losers in the great game.

Near him stood Licinius,—staid, placid, determined; the commander of the

Tenth Legion; the favoured councillor of Titus; the pride of the whole

army; having all the experiences, all the advantages, all the triumphs of

life at his feet. Alas! knowing too well what they were worth. It was a

crown of parsley men gave the young athlete who conquered in the Isthmian

Games; and round the unwrinkled brows that parsley was precious as gold.

Later in life the converse holds too true, and long before the hair turns

grey, all earthly triumphs are but empty pageantry; all crowns but

withered parsley at the best.

Titus, standing forward from amongst his officers, glanced with a look of

pity at the worn hungry face of the messenger. Privation, nay, famine, was

beginning to do its work even on the wealthiest of the besieged, and

Calchas could not hide under his calm, dignified bearing, the lassitude

and depression of physical want.

“The proposal is a fair one,” said the prince, turning to his assembled

captains. “Two days’ respite, and a free surrender of the city, with the

simple condition that the holy places shall be respected, and the lives of

the inhabitants spared. These Jews may do me the justice to remember that

my wish throughout the war has ever been to avoid unnecessary bloodshed,

and had they treated me with more confidence, I would long ago have shown

them how truly I respected their Temple and their faith. It is not too

late now. Nevertheless, illustrious friends, I called you not together so

soon after cock‐crow(18) for a council of war, without intending to avail

myself of your advice. I hold in my hand a proposal from Eleazar, an

influential patrician, as it appears, in the city, to deliver up the keys

of the Great Gate, within forty‐eight hours, provided I will pledge him my

word to preserve his Temple from demolition, and his countrymen from

slaughter; provided also, that the Roman army abstain during that time

from all offensive measures, whatever preparations for resistance they may

observe upon the walls. He further states that the city contains a large

party of desperate men, who are opposed to all terms of capitulation, and

that he must labour during these two days to coerce some and cajole others

to his own opinion. It is a fair proposal enough, I repeat. The Tenth

Legion is the first in seniority as in fame—I call upon its commander for

his opinion.”

Licinius, thus appealed to, earnestly advised that any terms which might

put an end to the loss of life on both sides, should be entertained from

motives of policy as well as humanity.

“I speak not,” said the general, “for myself or my legion. Our discipline

is unshaken, our supplies are regular, our men have been inured by long

campaigning to a Syrian climate and a Syrian sun. We have lost

comparatively few from hardships or disease. But no commander knows better

than Titus, how an army in the field melts by the mere influence of time,

and the difference that a few weeks can make in its efficiency and

numerical strength is the difference between victory and defeat. Other

divisions have not been so fortunate as my own. I will put it to the

leader of the Lost Legion, how many men he could march to‐day to the

assault?”

Hippias stroked his beard gravely, and shook his head.

“Had I been asked the question five days ago,” said he frankly, “I could

have answered a thousand. Had I been asked it yesterday, seven hundred.

Great prince, at noon, to‐day, I must be content to muster five hundred

swordsmen. Nevertheless,” he added, with something of his old abrupt

manner, “not one of them but claims his privilege of leading the other

cohorts to the breach!”

It was too true that the influence of climate, acting upon men disposed to

intemperance in pleasure, added to the severity of their peculiar service,

had reduced the original number of the gladiators by one half. The

remnant, however, were still actuated, like their commander, by the fierce

reckless spirit of the amphitheatre. Titus, looking from one to the other,

pondered for a few moments in earnest thought, and Placidus, seizing the

opportunity, broke in with his smooth courteous tones.

“It is not for me,” said he, “to differ with such illustrious leaders as

those who have just spoken. The empire has long acknowledged Licinius as

one of her bravest commanders; and Hippias the gladiator lives but in his

natural element of war. Still, my first duty is to Cæsar and to Rome.

Great prince, when a short while ago you bade a noble Jewish captive

address his countrymen on the wall, what was the result? They knew him to

be a patrician of their oldest blood, and, I believe, a priest also of

their own superstitions. They had proved him a skilful general, and I

myself speak of him without rancour, though he foiled me before Jotapata.

Till taken prisoner by Vespasian Cæsar, he had been their staunchest

patriot and their boldest leader. When he addressed them, notwithstanding

the length of his appeal, they had no reason but to believe him sincere.

And what, I say, was the result? A few hours gained for resistance; a

fiercer defiance flung at Rome; a more savage cruelty displayed towards

her troops. I would not trust them, prince. This very proposal may be but

a stratagem to gain time. The attack of yesterday, covered by my cavalry,

must have shaken them shrewdly. Probably their stores are exhausted. The

very phalanx that opposed us so stubbornly looked gaunt and grim as

wolves. Observe this very emissary from the most powerful man in

Jerusalem. Is there not famine in his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes? Give

him to eat. See how his visage brightens at the very name of food! Give

him to eat, now, in presence of the council of war, and judge by his

avidity of the privations he has endured behind the walls.”

“Hold!” exclaimed Titus indignantly; “hold, tribune, and learn, if you

have one generous feeling left, to respect misfortune, most of all when

you behold it in the person of your enemy. This venerable man shall indeed

be supplied with wine and food; but he shall not be insulted in my camp by

feeling that his sufferings are gauged as the test of his truth. Licinius,

my old and trusty counsellor, my very instructor in the art of war, I

confide him to your care. Take him with you to your tent; see that he

wants for nothing. I need not remind you to treat an enemy with all the

kindness and courtesy compatible with the caution of a soldier. But you

must not lose sight of him for a moment, and you will send him back with

my answer under a strong guard to the chief gate of Jerusalem. I will have

no underhand dealings with this unhappy people; though much, I fear, my

duty to my father and the empire will not permit me to grant them the

interval of repose that they desire. This is for my consideration. I have

taken your opinions, for which I thank you. I reserve to myself the option

of being guided by them. Friends and comrades, you are dismissed. Let this

man be forthcoming in an hour, to take my answer back to those who sent

him. _Vale!_”

_Vale!_ repeated each officer, as he bowed and passed out of the tent.

Hippias and Placidus lingered somewhat behind the rest, and halting when

out of hearing of the sentinel who guarded the eagles planted before the

commander’s quarters, or Prætorium, as it was called, looked in each

other’s faces, and laughed.

“You put it pointedly,” said the former, “and took an ugly thrust in

return. Nevertheless, the assault will be delayed after all, and my poor

harmless lambs will scarce muster in enough force to be permitted to lead

the attack.”

“Fear not,” replied the tribune; “it will take place to‐morrow. It would

suit neither your game nor mine, my Hippias, to make a peaceable entry by

the Great Gate, march in order of battle to the Temple, and satisfy

ourselves with a stare at its flashing golden roof. I can hardly stave off

my creditors. You can scarce pay your men. Had it not been for the

prospect of sacking the Holy Place, neither of us would have been to‐day

under a heavy breastplate in this scorching sun. And we _shall_ sack it, I

tell you, never fear.”

“You think so?” said the other doubtfully; “and yet the prince spoke very

sternly, as if he not only differed with you, but disapproved of your

counsel. I am glad I was not in your place; I should have been tempted to

answer even the son of Vespasian.”

The tribune laughed gaily once more. “Trifles,” said he; “I have the hide

of a rhinoceros when it is but a question of looks and words, however

stern and biting they may be. Besides, do you not yet know this cub of the

old lion? The royal beast is always the same; dangerous when his hair is

rubbed the wrong way. Titus was only angry because his better judgment

opposed his inclinations, and agreed with me—me to whom he pays the

compliment of his dislike. I tell you we shall give the assault before two

days are out, with my cohort swarming on the flanks, and thy Lost Legion,

my Hippias, maddening to the front. So now for a draught of wine and a

robe of linen, even though it be under one of these suffocating tents. I

think when once the siege is over and the place taken, I shall never

buckle on a breastplate again.”

CHAPTER V

GLAD TIDINGS

[Initial T]

The eye of Calchas did indeed brighten, and his colour went and came when

food was placed before him in the Roman general’s tent. It was with a

strong effort that he controlled and stifled the cravings of hunger, never

so painful as when the body has been brought down by slow degrees to exist

on the smallest possible quantity of nourishment. It was long since a full

meal had been spread even on Eleazar’s table; and the sufferings from

famine of the poorer classes in Jerusalem had reached a pitch unheard‐of

in the history of nations. Licinius could not but admire the self‐control

with which his guest partook of his hospitality. The old man was resolved

not to betray, in his own person, the straits of the besieged. It was a

staunch and soldierlike sentiment to which the Roman was keenly alive, and

Licinius turned his back upon his charge, affecting to give long

directions to some of his centurions from the tent‐door, in order to

afford Calchas the opportunity of satisfying his hunger unobserved.

After a while, the general seated himself inside, courteously desiring his

guest to do the same. A decurion, with his spearmen, stood at the

entrance, under the standard where the eagles of the Tenth Legion hovered

over his shining crest. The sun was blazing fiercely down on the white

lines of canvas that stretched in long perspective on every side, and

flashing back at stated intervals from shield, and helm, and breastplate,

piled in exact array at each tent‐door. It was too early in the year for

the crackling locust; and every trace of life, as of vegetation, had

disappeared from the parched surface of the soil, burnished and slippery

with the intense heat. It was an hour of lassitude and repose even in the

beleaguering camp, and scarce a sound broke the drowsy stillness of noon,

save the stamp and snort of a tethered steed, or the scream of an ill‐

tempered mule. Scorched without, and stifled within, even the well‐

disciplined legionary loathed his canvas shelter; longing, yearning vainly

in his day‐dreams for the breeze of cool Præneste, and the shades of

darkling Tibur, and the north wind blowing through the holm‐oaks off the

crest of the snowy Apennines.

In the general’s pavilion the awning had been raised a cubit from the

ground, to admit what little air there was, so faint as scarce to stir the

fringe upon his tunic. Against the pole that propped the soldier’s home,

rested a mule’s pack‐saddle, and a spare breastplate. On the wooden frame

which served him for a bed, lay the general’s tablets, and a sketch of the

Tower of Antonia. A simple earthenware dish contained the food offered to

his guest, and, like the coarse clay vessel into which a wineskin had been

poured, was nearly empty. Licinius sat with his helmet off, but otherwise

completely armed. Calchas, robed in his long dark mantle, fixed his mild

eye steadily on his host.

The man of war and the man of peace seemed to have some engrossing

thought, some all‐important interest in common. For a while they conversed

on light and trivial topics, the discipline of the camp, the fertility of

Syria, the distance from Rome, and the different regions in which her

armies fought and conquered. Then Licinius broke through his reserve, and

spoke out freely to his guest.

“You have a hero,” said the Roman, “in your ranks, of whom I would fain

learn something, loving him as I do like a son. Our men call him the

Yellow Hostage; and there is not a warrior among all the brave champions

of Jerusalem whom they regard with such admiration and dread. I myself saw

him but yesterday save your whole army from destruction beneath the

walls.”

“It is Esca!” exclaimed Calchas. “Esca, once a chief in Britain, and

afterwards your slave in Rome.”

“The same,” answered Licinius; “and, though a slave, the noblest and the

bravest of men. A chief, you say, in Britain. What know you of him? He

never told me who he was, or whence he came.”

“I know him,” replied Calchas, “as one who lives with us like a kinsman,

who takes his share of hardship, and far more than his share of danger, as

though he were a very chief in Israel—who is to me, indeed, and those

dearest to me, far more precious than a son. We escaped together from

Rome—my brother, my brother’s child, and this young Briton. Many a night

on the smooth Ægean has he told me of his infancy, his youth, his manhood,

the defence his people made against your soldiers, the cruel stratagems by

which they were foiled and overcome, how nobly he himself had braved the

legions; and yet how the first lessons he learned in childhood were to

feel kindly for the invader, how the first accents his mother taught him

were in the Roman tongue.”

“It is strange,” observed Licinius, musing deeply, and answering, as it

seemed, his own thought. “Strange lesson for one of that nation to learn.

Strange, too, that fate seems to have posted him continually in arms

against the conqueror.”

“They were his mother’s lessons,” resumed Calchas; “and that mother he has

not forgotten even to‐day. He loves to speak of her as though she could

see him still. And who shall say she cannot? He loves to tell of her

stately form, her fond eyes, and her gentle brow, with its lines of

thought and care. He says she had some deep sorrow in her youth, which her

child suspected, but of which she never spoke. It taught her to be kind

and patient with all; it made her none the less loving for her boy. Ay,

’tis the same tale in every nation and under every sky. The garment has

not yet been woven in which the black hank of sin and sorrow does not

cross and recross throughout the whole web. She had her burden to bear,

and so has Esca, and so hast thou, great Roman commander, one of the

conquerors of the earth; and so have I, but I know where to lay mine down,

and rest in peace.”

“They are a noble race, these women of Britain,” said Licinius, following

out the thread of his own thoughts with a heavy heart, on which one of

them had impressed her image so deeply, that while it beat, a memory would

reign there, as it had reigned already for years, undisturbed by a living

rival. “And so the boy loves to talk of his childhood, and his lost

mother—lost,” he added bitterly, “surely lost, because so loved!”

“Even so,” replied Calchas; “and deep as was the child’s grief, it carried

a sharper sting from the manner of her death. Too young to bear arms, he

had seen his father hurry away at the head of his tribe to meet the Roman

legions. His father, a fierce, imperious warrior, of whom he knew but

little, and whom he would have dreaded rather than loved, had the boy

dreaded anything on earth. His mother lay on a bed of sickness; and even

the child felt a nameless fear on her account, that forbade him to leave

her side. With pain and difficulty they moved her on her litter to a

fastness in their deep, tangled forests, where the Britons made a last

stand. Then certain long‐bearded priests took him by force from his

mother’s side, and hid him away in a cavern, because he was a chief’s son.

He can recall now the pale face and the loving eyes, turned on him in a

last look, as he was borne off struggling and fighting like a young wolf‐

cub. From his cavern he heard plainly the shouts of battle and the very

clash of steel; but he heeded them not, for a vague and sickening dread

had come over him that he should see his mother no more. It was even so.

They hurried the child from his refuge by night. They never halted till

the sun had risen and set again. Then they spoke to him with kind,

soothing words; but when he turned from them, and called for his mother,

they told him she was dead. They had not even paid her the last tribute of

respect. While they closed her eyes, the legions had already forced their

rude defences; her few attendants fled for their lives, and the high‐born

Guenebra was left in the lonely hut wherein she died, to the mercy of the

conquerors.”

When Calchas ceased speaking, he saw that his listener had turned ghastly

pale, and that the sweat was standing on his brow. His strong frame, too,

shook till his armour rattled. He rose and crossed to the tent‐door as if

for air, then turned to his guest, and spoke in a low but steady voice—

“I knew it,” said he—“I knew it must be so; this Esca is the son of one

whom I met in my youth, and why should I be ashamed to confess it? whose

influence has pervaded my whole life. I am old and grey now. Look at me;

what have such as I to do with the foolish hopes and fears that quicken

the young fresh heart, and flush the unwrinkled cheek? But now, to‐day, I

tell thee, warworn and saddened as I am, it seems to me that the cup of

life has been but offered, and dashed cruelly away ere it had so much as

cooled my thirsty lips. Why should I have known happiness, only to be

mocked by its want? What! thou hast a human heart? Thou art a brave man,

too, though thy robes denote a vocation of peace, else thou hadst not been

here to‐day in the heart of an enemy’s camp. Need I tell thee, that when I

entered that rude hut in the Briton’s stronghold, and saw all I loved on

earth stretched cold and inanimate on her litter at my feet, had I not

been a soldier of Rome my own good sword had been my consolation, and I

had fallen by her there, to be laid in the same grave; and now I shall

never see her more!” He passed his hand across his face, and added, in a

broken whisper, “Never more! never more!”

“You cannot think so. You cannot believe in such utter desolation,”

exclaimed Calchas, roused like some old war‐horse by the trumpet sound, as

he saw the task assigned him, and recognised yet another traveller on the

great road, whom he could guide home.

“Do you think that you or she, or any one of us, were made to suffer, and

to cause others suffering—to strive and fail, and long and sorrow, for a

little while, only to drop into the grave at last, like an over‐ripe fig

from its branch, and be forgotten? Do you think that life is to end for

you, or for me, when the one falls in his armour, at the head of the Tenth

Legion, pierced by a Jewish javelin, or the other is crucified before the

walls for a spy, by Titus, or stoned in the gate for a traitor, by his own

countrymen? And this is the fate which may await us both before to‐

morrow’s sun is set. Believe it not, noble Roman! That frame of yours is

no more Licinius than is the battered breastplate yonder on the ground,

which you have cast aside because it is no longer proof against sword and

spear; the man himself leaves his worn‐out robe behind, and goes rejoicing

on his journey—the journey that is to lead him to his home elsewhere.”

“And where?” asked the Roman, interested by the earnestness of his guest,

and the evident conviction with which he spoke. “Is it the home to which,

as our own poets have said, good Æneas, and Tullus, and Ancus have gone

before? the home of which some philosophers have dreamed, and at which

others laugh—a phantom‐land, a fleeting pageant, impalpable plains beyond

a shadowy river? These are but dreams, the idle visions of men of thought.

What have we, who are the men of action, to do with aught but reality?”

“And what is reality?” replied Calchas. “Is it without or within? Look

from your own tent‐door, noble Roman, and behold the glorious array that

meets your eye—the even camp, the crested legionaries, the eagles, the

trophies, and the piles of arms. Beyond, the towers and pinnacles of

Jerusalem, and the white dome of the Temple with its dazzling roof of

gold. Far away, the purple hills of Moab looking over the plains of the

Dead Sea. It is a world of beautiful reality. There cometh a flash from a

thunder‐cloud or an arrow off the wall, and your life is spared, but your

eyesight is gone: which is the reality now, the light or the darkness? the

wide expanse of glittering sunshine, or the smarting pain and the black

night within? So is it with life and death. Titus in his golden armour,

Vespasian on the throne of the Cæsars, that stalwart soldier leaning

yonder on his spear, or the wasted captive dying for hunger in the

town—are they beings of the same kind? and why are their shares so unequal

in the common lot? Because it matters so little what may be the different

illusions that deceive us now, when all may attain equally to the same

reality at last.”

Licinius pondered for a few minutes ere he replied. Like many another

thinking heathen, he had often speculated on the great question which

forces itself at times on every reflective being, “Why are these things

so?” He, too, had been struck ere now with the obvious discrepancy between

man’s aspirations and his efforts—the unaccountable caprices of fortune,

the apparent injustice of fate. He had begun life in the bold confidence

of an energetic character, believing all things possible to the resolute

strength and courage of manhood. When he failed, he blamed himself with

something of contempt; when he succeeded, he gathered fresh confidence in

his own powers and in the truth of his theories. But in the pride of youth

and happiness, sorrow took him by the hand, and taught him the bitter

lesson that it is good to learn early rather than late; because, until the

plough has passed over it, there can be no real fertility, no healthy

produce on the untilled soil. The deeper they are scored, the heavier is

the harvest from these furrows of the heart. Licinius, in the prime of

life, and on the pinnacle of success, became a thoughtful, because a

lonely and disappointed, man. He saw the complications around him; he

acknowledged his inability to comprehend them. While others thought him so

strong and self‐reliant, he knew his own weakness and his own need; the

broken spirit was humble and docile as a child’s.

“There must be a _reason_ for everything,” he exclaimed at last; “there

must be a clue in the labyrinth, if a man’s hand could only find it. What

is truth? say our philosophers. Oh, that I did but know!”

Then, in the warlike tent, in the heart of the conquering army, the Jew

imparted to the Roman that precious wisdom to which all other learning is

but an entrance and a path. Under the very shadow of the eagles that were

gathered to devastate his city, the man to whom all vicissitudes were

alike, to whom all was good, because he knew “what was truth,” showed to

his brother, whose sword was even then sharpened for the destruction of

his people, that talisman which gave him the mastery over all created

things: which made him superior to hunger and thirst, pain and sorrow,

insult, dishonour, and death. It is something, even in this world, to wear

a suit of impenetrable armour, such as is provided for the weakest and the

lowest who enter the service that requires so little and that grants so

much. Licinius listened eagerly, greedily, as a blind man would listen to

one who taught him how to recover his sight. Gladdening was the certainty

of a future to one who had hitherto lived so mournfully in the past. Fresh

and beautiful was the rising edifice of hope to one whose eye was dull

with looking on the grey ruins of regret. There was comfort for him, there

was encouragement, there was example. When Calchas told, in simple,

earnest words, all that he himself had heard and seen of glorious self‐

sacrifice, of infinite compassion, and of priceless ransom, the soldier’s

knee was bent, and his eyes were wet with tears.

By the orders of his commander, Licinius conducted his guest back to the

Great Gate of Jerusalem with all the customary honours paid to an

ambassador from a hostile power. He bore the answer of Titus, granting to

the besieged the respite they desired. Placidus had been so far right that

the prince’s better judgment condemned the ill‐timed reprieve; but in

this, as in many other instances, Titus suffered his clemency to prevail

over his experience in Jewish duplicity and his anxiety to terminate the

war.

CHAPTER VI

WINE ON THE LEES

The commander of the Lost Legion, when he parted with Placidus after the

council of war, retired moodily to his tent. He, too, was disappointed and

dissatisfied, wearied with the length of the siege, harassed and uneasy

about the ravages made by sickness among his men, and anxious moreover as

to his share of the spoil. Hippias, it is needless to say, was lavish in

his expenses, and luxurious in his personal habits: like the mercenaries

he commanded, he looked to the sacking of Jerusalem as a means of paying

his creditors, and supplying him with money for future excesses. Not a man

of the Lost Legion but had already calculated the worth of that golden

roof, to which they looked so longingly, and his own probable portion when

it was melted into coin. Rumour, too, had not failed to multiply by tens

the amount of wealth stored in the Temple, and the jewels it contained.

The besiegers were persuaded that every soldier who should be fortunate

enough to enter it sword in hand, would be enriched for life; and the

gladiators were the last men to grudge danger or bloodshed for such an

object.

But there is a foe who smites an army far more surely than the enemy that

meets it face to face in the field. Like the angel who breathed on the

host of the Assyrians in the night, so that when the Jews rose in the

morning, their adversaries were “all dead men,” this foe takes his prey by

scores as they sleep in their tents, or pace to and fro watching under

their armour in the sun. His name is Pestilence; and wherever man meets

man for mutual destruction, he hovers over the opposing multitudes, and

secures the lion’s share of both. Partly from their previous habits,

partly from their looser discipline, he had been busier amongst the

gladiators than in any other quarter of the camp. Dwindling day by day in

numbers and efficiency, Hippias began to fear that they would be unable to

take the prominent part he had promised them in the assault, and the

chance of such a disappointment was irritating enough; but when to this

grievance was added the proposal he had just heard, for the peaceful

surrender of the city—a proposal which Titus seemed to regard with

favourable eyes, and which would entail the distribution in equal portions

of whatever treasure was considered the spoil of the army, so that the

gladiator and legionary should but share alike—the contingency was nothing

less than maddening. He had given Titus a true report of his legion in

council; for Hippias was not a man to take shelter in falsehood, under any

pressure of necessity, but he repented, nevertheless, of his frankness;

and, cursing the hour when he embarked for Syria, began to think of Rome

with regret, and to believe that he was happier and more prosperous in the

amphitheatre after all. Passing amongst the tents of his men, he was

distressed to meet old Hirpinus, who reported to him that another score

had been stricken by the sickness since watch‐setting the previous night.

Every day was of the utmost importance now, and here were two more to be

wasted in negotiations, even if the assault should be ordered to take

place after all. The reflection did not serve to soothe him, and Hippias

entered his own tent with a fevered frame, and a frown of ill‐omen on his

brow.

For a soldier it was indeed a luxurious home; adorned with trophies of

arms, costly shawls, gold and silver drinking‐vessels, and other valuables

scattered about. There was even a porcelain vase filled with fresh flowers

standing between two wineskins; and a burnished mirror, with a delicate

comb resting against its stand, denoted either an extraordinary care for

his personal appearance in the owner, or a woman’s presence behind the

crimson curtain which served to screen another compartment of the tent.

Kicking the mirror out of his way, and flinging himself on a couch covered

with a dressed leopard‐skin, Hippias set his heavy headpiece on the

ground, and called angrily for a cup of wine. At the second summons, the

curtain was drawn aside, and a woman appeared from behind its folds.

Pale, haughty, and self‐possessed, tameless, and defiant, even in her

degradation, Valeria, though fallen, seemed to rise superior to herself,

and stood before the man whom she had never loved, and yet to whom, in a

moment of madness, she had sacrificed her whole existence, with the calm,

quiet demeanour of a mistress in the presence of her slave. Her beauty had

not faded—far from it—though changed somewhat in its character, growing

harder and colder than of old. If less womanly, it was of a deeper and

loftier kind. The eyes, indeed, had lost the loving, laughing look which

had once been their greatest charm, but they were keen and dazzling still;

while the other features, like the shapely figure, had gained a severe and

majestic dignity in exchange for the flowing outlines and the round

comeliness of youth. She was dressed sumptuously, and with an affectation

of Eastern habits that suited her beauty well. Alas! that beauty was her

only weapon left; and although she had turned it against herself, a true

woman to the end, she had kept it bright and pointed still.

When Valeria left her home to follow the fortunes of a gladiator, she had

not even the excuse of blindness for her folly. She knew that she was

abandoning friends, fortune, position—all the advantages of life for that

which she did not care to have. She believed herself to be utterly

desperate, depraved, and unsexed. It was her punishment that she could not

rid herself of her woman’s nature, nor stifle the voice that no woman ever

_can_ stifle in her heart. For a time, perhaps, the change of scene, the

voyage, the excitement of the step she had taken, the determination to

abide by her choice and defy everything, served to deaden her mind to her

own misery. It was her whim to assume on occasions the arms and

accoutrements of a gladiator; and it was even said in the Lost Legion,

that she had fought in their ranks more than once in some of their

desperate enterprises against the town. It was certain that she never

appeared abroad in the female dress she wore within her tent: Titus,

indeed, would have scarcely failed to notice such a flagrant breach of

camp‐discipline; and many a fierce swordsman whispered to his comrade,

with a thrill of interest, that in a force like theirs she might mingle

unnoticed in their ranks, and be with them at any time. It was but a

whisper, though, after all, for they knew their commander too well to

canvass his conduct openly, or to pry into matters he chose to keep

secret.

These outbreaks, however, so contrary to all the impulses and instincts of

a woman’s nature, soon palled on the high‐born Roman lady; and as the

siege, with its various fortunes, was protracted from day to day, the yoke

under which she had voluntarily placed her proud white neck, became too

galling to endure. She hated the long glistening line of tents; she hated

the scorching Syrian sky, the flash of armour, the tramp of men, the

constant trumpet‐calls, the eternal guard‐mounting, the wearisome and

monotonous routine of a camp. She hated the hot tent, with its stifling

atmosphere and its narrow space; above all, she was learning daily to hate

the man with whom she shared its shelter and its inconveniences.

She handed him the wine he asked for without a word, and standing there in

her cold scornful beauty, never noticed him by look or gesture. She seemed

miles away in thought, and utterly unconscious of his presence.