THE YOUNG TITUS
They who stood on the wall by the Tower of Psephinos in Coenopolis of
Jerusalem on a day in March, 70 A.D., saw prophecy fulfilled.
Since the hour in which the Roman eagles had appeared above the
horizon to the west in their circling over the rebellious province of
Judea there had not been one day of peace. Then their coming had meant
the approach of an enemy. But in a short time such implacable and
fierce oppressors, with such genius for ferocity and bloodshed, had
developed among the Jews' own factions that the miserable citizens had
turned to the tyrant Rome for rescue. They who had risen against
Florus and had driven him out would have willingly accepted him again
in place of Simon bar Gioras and John of Gischala, before two years
had elapsed. Now, their plight was so desperate that they clambered
daily upon the walls of their unhappy city to look for the first
glimpse of the approaching enemy, Titus, whom they had learned to call
the Deliverer.
Near noon of this day in March certain citizens on the wall beside
Hippicus saw a flash down the road to the west beyond the Serpent's
Pool near Herod's monuments. Again they saw it and again, until they
observed that its appearance was rhythmic, striking through a soft
colored cloud of Judean dust.
Out of that yellow haze, rolling nearer, they saw now the glittering
Roman standards emerge, one by one; saw the spiky level of shouldered
spears; saw the shapes of horses, saw the shapes of men; heard the
soft thunder of six hundred horse on the packed earth, heard the music
of six hundred whetting harnesses; heard like a tender, far-off song
the winding of a Roman bugle and heard then in their own hearts, the
shout: "He has come! The Deliverer!"
It was the hour of the City's last hope.
On the near side of the Pool of the Serpent, they saw the body of
horse break into a light trot and, wheeling in that fine concord in
which even the dumb beasts were perfect, turn the broadside of the
splendid column to Jerusalem as it swept up Hill Gareb to the north.
The citizens clambered down from the wall by Hippicus and, speeding
silently but with moving lips and shining eyes through alleys and
byways, came finally to an angle in Agrippa's wall that stood out
toward Gareb. Here was built the Tower of Psephinos. Dumb and callous
as beasts to the blows and commands of the sentries there mounted, the
citizens clambered up on the fortifications and, with their chins on
the battlements that stood shoulder-high, gazed avidly at the sight
they saw.
Scattered confidently over the uneven country the six hundred had
broken file and were in easy disarray all over Gareb. Spears were at
rest, standards grounded, many were dismounted, whole companies
slouched in their saddles. The Jews, long used to rigid military
discipline among the Romans, looked in amazement. Then a light click
of a hoof attracted their attention to the bridle-path immediately
under the overhanging battlements.
There a solitary horseman rode. Not a scale of armor was upon his
horse; not a weapon, not even a shield depended from his harness. His
head was uncovered and a sheeny purple fillet showed in the tumbled,
dusty black hair. There was no guard on the hand that held the bridle;
the cloak that floated from his shoulders was white wool; the tunic
was the simple light garment that soldiers usually wear under armor;
the shoes alone were mailed. It seemed that the young Roman had
stripped off his helmet, breast-plate and greaves to ride less
encumbered or to appear less warlike.
But the Jews who looked at him understood. Here was Titus come in
peace!
The horse went with loosened rein, while the young Roman's eyes raised
to the great wall towering over him had more of admiration and a
generous foe's appreciation of his enemy's strength than of the
note-making search of a spy in them.
"Ha! By Hector, that penurious Herod was a builder!" they seemed to
say. "There is enough stone insolence in these walls to trouble Rome
for a while!"
Rod after rod of the slowly rising ground he traversed; rod after rod
of the tall fortification passed under his inspection, and now the
twin Women's Towers rose upon the ashes and scarped rock to the north.
Titus spoke to his horse and rode faster.
Meanwhile silent dozens climbed panting and dumbly resisting the
sentries up beside the first Jews. They were citizens who dared not
rejoice aloud. They followed the young Roman with brightened eyes,
saying each within his heart:
"Thus David came up against Saul, unto Israel!"
But there was an increase of uproar in the city below, as if news of
the coming of Titus had spread abroad.
Titus was now almost a mile from the nearest of his soldiers. He
passed the Gate of the Women's Towers. Hedges, gardens, ditches and
wind-breaks of cedars of Lebanon from time to time obscured him. When
he came in sight again, he had placed obstruction between himself and
retreat.
The next instant the Gate of the Women's Towers swung in. Out of it
rushed a sortie of motley soldiery, brandishing weapons and shouting
the war-cries of Simon and John.
The citizens on the walls pressed their hands to their temples and
watched, transfixed with horror. Jerusalem's defenders had gone out
against the Deliverer!
The attack had been seen by the disorganized troops on Gareb and the
rapid trumpet-calls showed formation. But between the time of their
movement and the moment of their relief a company could have been
unhorsed. Meanwhile Titus, with nothing less than Fate preserving him
for its own work, dodged javelins and, enraging the white stallion
that he rode, kept out of reach of hand-to-hand encounter with his
assailants. Back and forward he rode, his horse carrying him at times
out of range of missiles; again, all but surrounded by the unorganized
enemy. About his head whizzed axes and spears, wild, and frequently
slaying their own. Far up the slope of Gareb the six hundred gathered
itself and swept in mass down upon the conflict.
Between them and Titus lay two furlongs. To join his column with all
honor to himself, he had to work back over the wadies he had crossed
and circle the gardens that stood in his way. But a hedge pressed too
close upon the space he must pass, between it and the enemy, before he
could return to his men. An ax glanced beside his ear; he wavered in
his saddle. Then, that happened which a Roman of that day could not be
forced to do and forget.
Titus wheeled his horse and, plunging his spurs into its sides, fled
on into the open country to the north, with the jeers of the men of
Simon and John following him.
His troops rushed down upon his assailants. But the wary soldiers
turned when the Roman had fled and the Gate of the Women's Towers
closed upon them.
Up from the visitors within the wall rose a shout:
"A sign, a sign! An omen! Thus shall the children of God overthrow the
heathen in battle!"
But one of the Jews on the wall thrust his fingers under his turban
and seized his hair.
"Jerusalem is fallen! Woe! Woe to the wicked city!"
He turned in his place and leaped a good twenty feet to the ground.
When he raised himself the look of a maniac had settled on his face.
Tearing his garments from him as he went, he entered a narrow street
that made its ascent toward Zion by steps and cobbled slants. Here he
came upon great crowds of terror-stricken citizens who had rushed
together as the news spread abroad over Jerusalem that the men of
Simon and John had gone out against the Deliverer. No definite news of
the outcome of the sortie had reached them and they were moving in a
dense pack down toward the walls to hear the worst. The whole hurrying
mass seemed to vibrate with suspense and dread. The maniac met them.
"Woe, woe to Jerusalem!" he cried.
A lean, apish, half-naked, lash-scarred idiot in the street,
instantly, as if in echo to that mad cry, shouted in a voice of the
most prodigious volume:
"A voice from the east, a voice from the west, a voice from the four
winds, a voice against Jerusalem and the Holy house, a voice against
the bridegrooms and the brides and a voice against this whole people!"
The temper of the crowd had reached that point of tension that needed
only a little more strain to become panic. Some one received the
discordant cries of the maniacs with piercing rapid screams. Instantly
the choked passage filled with frantic uproar. Scores attempting to
flee blindly trampled over those transfixed with fear. They fought,
men with women, youths with old age, children with one another.
Hundreds attracted by the tumult rushed in on the panic and added
fresh victims and new death. Out of the horror rose the fearful cries
of the madmen:
"Woe, woe to this wicked city!"
Meanwhile, the soldiers of Simon and John came to prevent citizens
from gathering in bodies, and with sword and spear drove into the
struggle and added murder to it all. The spirit of terror then issued
out of that bloody alley and seized upon street by street. Far and
wide the tumult ran, growing in volume with every accession, until the
raging and humiliated Titus, among his six hundred, heard Jerusalem
howl like a beaten slave and hushed his pagan curses to listen.
Late that same afternoon, the Esquiline Gate, inaccessible, despised
and sealed, was broken open from within and under it and down its
difficult and dangerous approach poured a silent multitude, numbering
thousands. They were abandoning the Rock of David to its fate. Among
them went the last remnants of that sect of Christians who had tarried
long after their brethren had been warned away, hoping against hope.
They were not missed among the numbers in Jerusalem, for the Passover
hosts still poured through the gates to the south and took their
places in the unhappy city. And with these that same afternoon Laodice
and her old servant came into Jerusalem.
It was the eighth day after they had applied to the priest at Emmaus
whither they had fled in their search for the frosts, a good three
leagues north of the direct road to Jerusalem. They had stopped at the
Lavatory outside the walls, washed themselves and had purchased the
white garments of the purified. Old Momus carried with him the price
of the lambs, of the fine flour and the oil for their cleansing and
the two were ready to present themselves for their purification at the
Temple. But all the roar and disorder of the great city in its warfare
and its discord confused them. Ascalon had not a thousandth part of
this turmoil at its busiest season. Neither was there a servant in a
purple turban with the gold star to meet them and they were bewildered
and lost.
The rest of the visitors to the Passover hurried into the heart of the
city; wave after wave of new-comers replaced them; but the young woman
and her dumb old servant stood aside just within reach of the shadow
of the immemorial portal and waited.
Time and again wolfish Idumean soldiers who were numerous about the
place noted the pair and commented to one another or spoke insolently
to the shrinking girl who hid ineffectually behind her veil. Hour
after hour they stood with growing distress and no friendly face in
all that army of hurrying, restless, quarreling Jews welcomed them.
The afternoon waned. Laodice thought of the darkness and trembled.
An old man fumbling a talisman of bone drew near them. Laodice took
courage and approached him.
"I pray thee, sir, I seek Amaryllis, the Seleucid."
The old man turned large, grave eyes upon her.
"Daughter, what dost thou know of this woman?" he asked.
"My husband knows her; I do not. I am to join him under her roof."
The old man looked reassured.
"Follow this street unto one intersecting it on the summit of Zion.
That will be a broad street and a straight one, terminating on a
bridge. Go thence to the hither side of that bridge, pass down the
ravine and cross to the other side against Moriah. There thou shalt
see a new Greek house. It is the residence of Amaryllis."
Laodice thanked her informant and began the pursuit of the cloudy
directions to her destination. Twice before she brought up at the
sentry line before the house of the Seleucid, she asked further of
other citizens. Many times she met affront, once or twice she
perilously escaped disaster. At last, near sunset, she stood before
the dwelling-place of the one secure citizen of the Holy City.
A sentry dropped his spear across her path and she had not the
countersign to give him. There she and her helpless old attendant
stood and looked hopelessly at the refuge denied them.
Presently a man appeared in the colonnade across the front of the
house and descending to the sentry line called to him the officer in
command. They stood within a few paces of Laodice and she heard the
soldier address the man as John, and heard him deliver a report of the
day.
When the soldier withdrew to his place, Laodice stepped forward and
called to the Gischalan. He stopped, noted that she was beautiful and
waited.
"I would speak with the Lady Amaryllis," she hesitated.
"Have you the countersign?" he asked.
"No; else I should have entered. But Amaryllis will know me."
"Enter then," the Gischalan said.
In a moment she was admitted at the solid doors and led into a
vestibule. Here, a porter took charge of Momus and showed him into a
side passage, while Laodice followed her conductor through a corridor
into an interior hall of splendid simplicity. Lounging on an exedra
was a young woman in a woolen chiton, barefoot and trifling with the
Greek ampyx that bound her golden hair.
Laodice put up her veil and looked with hurrying heart at her hostess.
Before she could get a preliminary idea of the woman she was to meet,
John spoke lightly:
"Be wearied no longer. I have brought you a mystery--a stranger,
without the countersign, asking audience with you."
"Go back to the fortress," the young woman answered. "Sometime you
will find strangers awaiting you there, also without the password. You
will lose Jerusalem trifling with me. I have spoken!"
John filliped her ear as he passed through into a corridor which must
have led into the Temple precincts. Under the light, Laodice saw that
he was a middle-aged Jew, not handsome, but luxuriant with virility.
His face showed great ability with no conscience, and force and charm
without balance or morals. Here, then, thought Laodice, is the first
of Philadelphus' enemies.
The idler in the exedra, meanwhile, was awaiting the speech of her
visitor.
"Art thou she whom I seek?" Laodice asked. "Amaryllis, the Seleucid?"
"I am called by that name."
"I was bidden," Laodice continued, "by one whom we both know, to seek
asylum with thee."
"So? Who may that be?"
Laodice whispered the name.
"Philadelphus Maccabaeus."
The Greek's eyes took on a puzzled look. Then she surveyed the girl
and as a full conception of the beauty of the young creature before
her formed in the Greek's mind, the perplexity left her expression.
Her air changed; a subtle smile played about her lips.
"He sent you to me for protection?"
"Until he arrives in Jerusalem," Laodice assented.
"But he is already here."
It was the moment that Laodice had avoided fearfully ever since she
had gathered from that winsome stranger by the roadside that his
companion was her husband. Although, after that fact had been made
known to her, she had felt that she ought to join Philadelphus and
proceed with him to the Holy City, she had endured the exposure of the
hills, the want and discomfort of insufficient supplies and the
affronts of wayfarers, that she might spare herself as long as
possible her union with the unsafe man who had become even more
hateful by comparison with the one who had called himself Hesper.
"Perchance thou wilt lead me to him," Laodice said finally.
Amaryllis made no immediate answer. It would have been a natural
impulse for her to wish to inquire for the girl's business with the
man that the Greek as hostess was expected to conceal. But Amaryllis
had her own explanation for this visit. It had been plain to less
observant eyes than hers that the newly arrived Philadelphus was not
delighted with the bride he had met.
The Greek summoned a servant.
"Go summon thy master, Prisca; and haste. I doubt not I have for him a
sweet relief."
The woman bowed.
"If it please thee, madam, the master is without in the vestibule,
returning from the city." Amaryllis signed to the ivory chair before
her.
"Sit, lady," she said to Laodice. "He will come at once."
The young woman dropped into the seat and gazed wistfully at her
hostess. Instinctively, she knew that in this woman was no relief from
the darkened life she was to lead with her husband. The Greek's face,
palely lighted by a thoughtful smile, vanished in sudden darkness.
Laodice saw instead an image of a strong intent face, brightening
under the sunrise, saw it relax, soften, grow inexpressibly kind, then
pass, as a tender memory taking leave for ever.
She was brought to herself by the Greek's rising suddenly. The
Ephesian appeared at the arch, tossing mantle and kerchief to the
porter as he entered. Laodice rose to her feet with difficulty. It was
he, indeed!
He was kissing Amaryllis' hand. The Greek was smiling an accusing,
conscious smile. She indicated Laodice. The Ephesian's face showed
startlement, suspicion and a quick recovery. He bowed low and waited
for explanation.
"Then I will go," Amaryllis said with amusement in her eyes, "if you
are acting pretenses for my sake."
[Illustration: Amaryllis the Greek.]
She turned toward the arch which led into the interior of the house.
The pretender glanced again at Laodice and again at the Greek.
"What is the play, lady?" he asked.
Amaryllis looked at Laodice standing stony white at her place, and
lost her confident smile.
"Is this not he?" she asked.
"Is this Philadelphus Maccabaeus?" Laodice asked.
The Ephesian's face changed quickly. Enlightenment mixed with
discomfiture appeared there for an instant.
"I am he," he said evenly.
"Then," Laodice said, "I am she whom thou hast expected."
Philadelphus smiled and dropped his head as if in thought.
"One always expects the pleasurable," he essayed, "but at times one
does not recognize it when it comes. Who art thou, lady?"
"Pestilence, war and the evil devices of men have desolated me," she
said coldly. "I have only a name. I am Laodice."
"Laodice!" he repeated amiably. "A familiar name; eh, Amaryllis?"
Laodice waited. Philadelphus looked again at her and appeared to wait.
"I am Laodice," the girl repeated, a little disconcerted, "thy wife."
"So!" Philadelphus exclaimed.
There was such well-assumed astonishment in the exclamation that she
raised her eyes quickly to his face. There was another expression
there; one wholly incredulous.
"Now did I in the profligacy of mine extreme youth marry two
Laodices?" he said. "For another Laodice, wife to me, joined me some
days since."
Laodice gazed at him without comprehending.
"I say," he repeated, "that my wife Laodice joined me some time ago."
"Why, I--I am Laodice, daughter to Costobarus, and thy wife!" she
exclaimed, while her eyes fixed upon him the full force of her
astonishment.
He turned to Amaryllis.
"What labyrinth is this, O my friend," he asked, "in which thou hast
set my feet?"
"I do not know," Amaryllis laughed suddenly. "Call the princess."
Philadelphus summoned a servant and instructed her to bring his wife.
For a short space the three did not speak, though Laodice's lips
parted and she stroked her forehead in a bewildered way.
Then Salome, late actress in the theaters at Ephesus, came into the
hall. Amaryllis bowed to her and the impostor gave her a chair. He
turned to Laodice and with the faintest shadow of a grimace motioned
toward the new-comer.
"This," he said, "is Laodice, daughter of Costobarus."
Laodice blazed at the insolent beauty who stared at her with curious
eyes.
"That!" she cried. "The daughter of Costobarus!"
The fine brown eyes of the woman smoldered a little, but she
continued to gaze without the least discomposure.
"Who is this, sir?" she asked of Philadelphus.
"That," said Philadelphus evenly, to the actress, "is Laodice,
daughter of Costobarus."
"I do not understand," the actress said disgustedly. "You are clumsy,
Philadelphus, when you are playful. If this is all, I shall return to
my chamber."
She rose, but Laodice sprang into her path.
"Hold!" she cried. "Philadelphus, hast thou accepted this woman
without proofs?"
Philadelphus smiled and shook his head.
"And by the by," he asked, "what proof have you?"
Up to that moment Laodice had burned with confident rage, feeling
that, by force of the justice of her cause, she might overthrow this
preposterous villainy, but at Philadelphus' question she suddenly
chilled and blanched and shrank back. A new and supreme disadvantage
of her loss presented itself to her at last. She could not prove her
identity!
Meanwhile, seeing Laodice falter, the woman's lip curled.
"Weak! Very weak, Philadelphus," she said. "You must invent something
better. The success of a jest is all that pardons a jester."
"She robbed me!" Laodice panted impotently. "Robbed me, after my
father had given her refuge!"
"Of what?" the Greek asked.
"My proofs--and two hundred talents!"
"Lady," the actress said to Amaryllis, "my husband's emissary, Aquila,
was a pagan. He had with him, on our journey, this woman and her old
deformed father who fled when the plague broke out among us. She
hoped, I surmise, that we should all die on the way. Even Samson gave
up secrets to Delilah, and this Aquila was no better than Samson."
Oriental fury fulminated in the eyes of Laodice. Philadelphus, fearing
that she was about to spring at the throat of her traducer, sprang
between the two women. In his eyes shone immense admiration at that
moment.
There was an instant of critical silence. Then Laodice drew herself up
with a sudden accession of strength.
"Madam," she said coldly to Amaryllis, "with-hold thy judgment a few
days. I shall send my servant back to Ascalon for other proof. _He_
can go safely, for he has had the plague."
Philadelphus started; the actress flinched.
"Friend," Philadelphus said in his smooth way, "I came upon this woman
by the wayside in the hills. I and a wayfarer cast a coin for
possession of her--and the other man won. Give thyself no concern."
Laodice flung her hands over her face and shrank in an agony of shame
down upon the exedra. Amaryllis looked down on her bowed head.
"Is it true?" she asked. After a moment Laodice raised herself.
"God of Israel," she said in a low voice, "how hast Thy servant
deserved these things!"
There was a space of silence, in which the two impostors turned
together and talking between themselves of anything but the recent
interview walked out of the chamber.
After a time Laodice lifted her head and spoke to the Greek.
"If thou wilt give me shelter, madam, for a few days only, I promise
thee thou shalt not regret it," she said.
The girl was interesting and Amaryllis had been disappointed in
Philadelphus. Nothing tender or compassionate; only a little
curiosity, a little rancor, a little ennui and a faint instinctive
hope that something of interest might yet develop, moved the Greek.
"Send your servant to Ascalon for proofs," she said. "I shall give you
shelter here until you are proved undeserving of it. And since the
times are uncertain, do not delay."