THE DOOMED CITY
[Illustration: She drew that charming old-world historian from her
little library and read to him day by day]
The Doomed City
By
JOHN R. CARLING
Author of “The Shadow of the Czar,” “By Neva’s Waters,”
“The Viking’s Skull”
Illustrations by
A. FORESTIER
[Illustration: Publisher’s mark]
New York
Edward J. Clode
Publisher
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
EDWARD J. CLODE
----
Entered at Stationers’ Hall
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A MYSTERIOUS WEDDING 1
II. THE BANQUET OF FLORUS 18
III. THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY 30
IV. THE DREAM OF CRISPUS 48
V. SIMON THE ZEALOT 60
VI. “DELENDA EST HIEROSOLYMA!” 71
VII. THE JOURNEY TO JERUSALEM 83
VIII. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE ROYAL SYNAGOGUE 95
IX. “LET US GO HENCE!” 112
X. THE VENGEANCE OF FLORUS 124
XI. “TO YOUR TENTS, O ISRAEL!” 135
XII. “VÆ VICTIS!” 147
XIII. A GOOD SAMARITAN 160
XIV. “THOU WILT NEVER TAKE THE CITY” 170
XV. THE TRIUMPH OF SIMON 181
XVI. THE AMBITION OF BERENICE 198
XVII. THE MAKING OF AN EMPEROR 210
XVIII. THE PRELIMINARIES OF A GREAT SIEGE 228
XIX. THE FIRST DAY’S FIGHT 241
XX. CIRCUMVALLATION 258
XXI. THE DYING CITY 266
XXII. THE RESCUE OF VASHTI 290
XXIII. CLOSING IN 306
XXIV. “WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?” 325
XXV. “JUDÆA CAPTA!” 341
XXVI. JUSTICE THE AVENGER 354
NOTES
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Τῶν στρατιωτῶν τις ΔΑΙΜΟΝΙΩ ΟΡΜΗ ΤΙΝΙ ΧΡΩΜΕΝΟΣ ἁρπάξει μὲν ἐκ τῆς
φλεγομένης ὕλης, τό δὲ πῦρ ἐνίησι θυρίδι χρυσῇ τοῦ ἱεροῦ.
_A certain soldier_, MOVED BY A DIVINE IMPULSE, _seized a blazing
torch, and set fire to a golden window of the temple_.
_JOSEPHUS. Jewish War_ vi. 4, 5.
THE DOOMED CITY
CHAPTER I
A MYSTERIOUS WEDDING
The purple light of evening had fallen upon the Syrian shore as
Crispus, with a quick, swinging pace, trod the well-paced road that led
southwards to the stately city of Cæsarea, the Roman capital of Judæa.
Evidently he loved the exercise of walking, since, had it pleased
him to do so, he could have ridden, for at a respectable distance
there followed, led by a couple of slaves, his two-horsed rheda, a
traveling-car of sculptured bronze, provided with a leathern hood and
silken awnings, and containing such necessary luggage (aptly named
_impedimenta_ by the Romans) as a man of simple tastes would require on
a long journey.
Crispus, whose age was perhaps twenty-five years, had a powerful yet
graceful figure, eyes of a deep gray, crisp hair of a bronzed hue, and
a handsome face, as clear cut as if sculptured from marble, a face
whose pure complexion spoke of pure living--a rare virtue in that
age!--a face whose keen, ardent look gave promise that its owner was
one born to achieve distinction, if indeed he had not already achieved
it. “An antique Roman,” one would say on seeing him, since he still
adhered to the wearing of the stately toga, which in the first century
was fast becoming superseded by the Grecian tunic; moreover, the ring
on his finger was not of gold, but of iron, in accordance with ancient
usage.
In journeying along he had caught sight, by the wayside, of a stone
pillar engraved with letters which told that the said pillar was
distant from Rome by the space of one thousand five hundred miles. Thus
far, yea, and hundreds of miles farther, did the Roman power extend in
this, the twelfth year of the reign of the Emperor Nero. Crispus’ stern
smile gave the keynote to his character--pride in the Empire founded by
his forefathers, determination to maintain that Empire, though it cost
him limb and life.
And in truth Rome counted few sons more patriotic than young Crispus
Cestius Gallus, distinguished alike by feats of arms and by beauty
of person; by noble birth, and by high office--for he was secretary
to his father, the elder Cestius, who at that time held the dignity
of imperial Legate of Syria, a dignity whose vast power and splendid
emoluments made it a prize coveted of all Roman statesmen.
It was a lovely evening. A faint breeze came from the sea, whose
waves, wine-dark in color, flowed with a sort of velvety ripple upon
the yellow sands. To the east at the distance of a mile or more rose
the Samaritan hills, mysterious and still in the evening light, their
rounded summits clearly defined against the deep violet of the sky.
Now, as Crispus glanced ahead, he saw approaching a solitary figure,
wearing buskins of purple, and a sleeved and embroidered tunic of the
same color, cut to the latest fashion. He walked, his eyes set upon the
ground, with a somewhat slow and pensive step, and would have passed by
unheeding but for the cheery, rousing voice of Crispus.
“Ho, Titus! Is it thus in a strange land that you pass by your oldest
friend?”
He who was thus addressed started, looked up, and, recognizing the
speaker, dropped as if by magic his melancholy air, and advanced with
smiling face and extended hand.
“By the gods, ’tis Crispus,” he cried in a tone of genuine delight.
“Now doth Fortune favor me. To think of meeting you in this barbarian
province, a thousand miles from our Sabine farms! Whither are you
bound? For Cæsarea? Then will I return with you.”
Titus Flavius, destined in course of time to attain the imperial
purple, was the senior of Crispus by one year: keen of eye, and with an
aquiline nose, he looked every inch the soldier that he was, in spite
of his perfumed and fashionable garb. A certain ruddiness of features
showed him to be likewise a sort of “Antony, that revels long o’
nights.”
“What do _you_ in this Jewish land?” asked Crispus.
“Rejoice at my presence here, for ’tis proof that I am restored to
Nero’s favor.”
“I did not know that you had lost it.”
“What? Have you not heard that when Nero--what a delightful buffoon he
is, to be sure!--was singing on the stage at Corinth, my sire Vespasian
was so little appreciative of good music as actually to yawn, and even
to fall asleep and snore, with the result that not only _Pater nocens_
but even _Filius innocens_ was forbidden to appear in the imperial
presence.”
“I marvel that you did not both lose your heads.”
“So do I. Though banished, however, I did not lose heart, but in the
spirit of a true courtier I sacrificed every day to Nero’s heavenly
voice; and, on learning this (for I took good care it should reach his
ears!), he recalled me to court, and marked his approval of my piety by
sending me on a mission to Cæsarea.”
“A mission? Of what nature?”
“Why, you doubtless know that yon fair city of Cæsarea is peopled
both with Greeks and Jews, each claiming precedency of the other. Let
procurator Florus post up an edict beginning, ‘To the Greeks and Jews
of Cæsarea,’ and the Jewish mob will tear it down. Let him word it, ‘To
the Jews and Greeks,’ and the Greeks will not suffer it to remain up.
The Greek high priest of Jupiter demands that on state occasions he
shall sit upon the right hand of the procurator; the high priest of the
Jews, when he comes to Cæsarea, claims the same privilege. The Greeks
wish their language to be used in the law-courts to the exclusion of
our own stately Latin--there’s taste for you! the Jews clamor for their
own tongue. This feud is productive of continual rioting and bloodshed.
Therefore Nero, appealed to by deputies from both factions, hath
pronounced his decree, dispatching it from Greece by my hand.”
“And in whose favor hath Cæsar decided?”
“Nay, I know not. The decree was contained in a sealed letter addressed
to Florus, who hath not yet made it public. As for me, instead of
hastening back to Nero to show him how quickly I can transact his
business, I, like a fool, tarry in the neighborhood of Cæsarea.”
“There being a woman in the case,” smiled Crispus; “otherwise the
usually sensible Titus would not be garbed like a fashionable dandy.
What would your stern republican father say to this perfuming of
yourself?”
“A woman in the case? Say, rather, a goddess. No lovelier face hath
ever been seen since Helen lured the Grecian ships to Troy.”
“Fickle Titus! Last autumn he was vowing eternal fidelity to Lesbia,
the hetæra; it was the Greek dancing-girl Lycoris in winter; this
spring it is--who?”
“Lesbia and Lycoris! Pouf!” said Titus, as if blowing these nymphs away
in air. “Do not mention them, I pray you, in the same breath with this
splendid eastern beauty. I am serious now, if ever I were so. I would
marry her to-morrow, were she willing; nay, more, to win her I would
even repudiate the religion of my ancestors, and worship her Jewish
God.”
“Titus must indeed be smitten! So your fair one is a Jewess?”
“Ay, and in rank far above poor plebeian me,” said Titus, sighing like
a furnace.
“You talk thus! you who are a quæstor, tribune of a legion, and a
messenger of imperial Cæsar?”
“And the son of a man who was once a horse-doctor; forget not that.”
“You were brought up in the imperial household with Britannicus,
enjoying the same luxuries and the same instructors as he.”
“And very nearly drinking of the same fatal cup,” commented Titus,
grimly.
“The gods reserved you for a nobler destiny. But as to your fair
lady--who is she?”
“A princess, beautiful, proud, scornful. Berenice her name, the
daughter of that Agrippa who, some twenty years ago, was King of
Palestine. He left her so much wealth that she is called ‘Golden
Berenice.’ You know her?” added Titus, as he saw an odd look flit for a
moment over the face of Crispus.
“I have seen her.”
“Then you know how beautiful she is.”
“Yes, she is certainly beautiful,” replied Crispus, in a tone as if
grudging the admission.
“You speak coldly. ’Tis clear I shall never have _you_ for a rival.”
“True, O Titus. When I mate it shall be with pure maid. Hath not your
Berenice already had one husband?”
“She was wedded, when quite a girl, to Polemo, King of Pontus, who
divorced her two years afterwards.”
“Polemo?” ejaculated Crispus, in some surprise. “Polemo?--one of my
father’s friends. Why did he divorce her?”
“Nay, ask that of others. He was elderly and serious; she was youthful
and gay: _there_, I suspect, lay the reason.”
“Their separation,” remarked Crispus, “does not appear to have left
much bitterness behind, for, at a banquet given by my father to all
the kings of the East, Polemo and the Princess Berenice sat side by
side, seeming to be on excellent terms with each other. And, what
struck me as strange, their glances were so often cast in my direction
that I could not help wondering whether I were the subject of their
talk. Were there any children born of this marriage?”
“One--a daughter, said to have died in infancy.”
“And you would woo this Herodian princess? Do you frequent this lonely
shore in order to sigh out vows to Venus?” said Crispus, pointing to
love’s planet that sparkled like an eye in the blue depths above.
“I come here hoping to have the pleasure of a few words with her as she
returns to Cæsarea. An hour ago, so I am told, she drove this way in
her chariot.”
“You do right, then, in retracing your steps, for I can certify that no
chariot has passed me.”
“Then she must have turned aside, and gone inland,” said Titus, looking
to the left as if meditating a diversion among the hills in quest of
the fair princess.
With a sigh he resigned the project, and strode onward beside Crispus,
whose frequent questions on all that fell within the sphere of his
vision showed that he was treading the shore of Palestine for the first
time.
“How name you yon house?” he asked, pointing ahead to an edifice
perched upon a crag that overlooked the shore road.
“I am told that it is called ‘Beth-tamar.’”
“And that, being interpreted, meaneth ‘The House of Palms,’” remarked
Crispus, and smiling at Titus’ look of surprise. “O, I know something
of the speech of these barbarians, having learned it in childhood from
one of my father’s favorite slaves, a captive Jew; and so long as the
fellow kept to his language, well and good, but when he tried to make
me a proselyte to his superstition, he was promptly scourged, and put
at a distance from me.”
“Hebrew!” commented Titus. “You have the better of me. Would that I
could speak it, for then it might dispose Berenice to look with a more
favorable eye upon me. As it is, I have to say with Ovid:
‘_Barbarus hic ego sum, quia non intelligor ulli._’”
What more he would have said was checked by a command delivered in an
authoritative voice:
“Halt!”
Instinctively the two friends paused, and glanced aloft. Standing upon
a lower spur of the crag above them, and clearly defined against the
star-lit sky, was a tall figure in a flowing robe.
“Who are you that bid two Romans halt?” demanded Titus, haughtily.
“The servant of a king,” was the answer, delivered in the Latin
language, though not with the true Latin accent.
“Your master’s name?” asked Titus, suspiciously.
“Polemo, King of Pontus.”
At this Crispus and Titus looked at each other, deeming it odd to be
brought thus in connection with the monarch about whom they had just
been talking.
“I have a message,” continued the stranger, “for one, Crispus Cestius
Gallus.”
“My name,” said the bearer of it. “What would the king with me?”
“My royal master bids you tarry an hour with him ere journeying on to
Cæsarea.”
“Where is the king to be found?”
“Within the walls of his mansion, Beth-tamar.”
“And should I pass on my way neglectful of the king’s bidding----?”
“Pass on, and miss a high destiny.”
“Haste thee, and tell thy lord that Crispus comes with his friend,
Titus Flavius.”
The man had appeared suddenly; just as suddenly did he now disappear.
Bidding his two slaves await his return, Crispus turned from the
maritime road, and began to climb the rough ascent. His ready
acquiescence with the stranger’s wish was viewed with some uneasiness
by Titus, who was, however, quickly reassured by Crispus.
“Polemo, in this matter,” said he, “acts as his own messenger, for it
was he who spoke with us.”
“The king himself?” said Titus, greatly surprised.
“Even so,” replied Crispus. “We can enter Beth-tamar in perfect safety.
I am not altogether unprepared for this meeting. As I was setting out
from Antioch my father spoke thus to me: ‘On your way to Cæsarea you
may meet with King Polemo, who hath a proposal for you. I leave you
free to accept or decline, but, if you will be guided by me, you will
do his bidding, however strange it may appear.’”
Language such as this moved Titus to wonder, and he became almost as
eager as Crispus for the meeting with the Pontic king.
Arrived upon the platform that formed the summit of the crag, the two
Romans saw before them a rectangular edifice, massive and spacious,
formed like most of the buildings in that region from blocks of
limestone--a bare dull-looking structure; but then the Oriental house
is not to be judged by its outside, for a costly exterior suggests
wealth, and in the East, wealth, then, as now, is a temptation to the
powers that be.
Within the arched entrance stood a slave, who, with a profound salaam,
invited the two friends to follow him. Traversing a stone passage,
they quickly emerged into a spacious court, open to the sky: rooms
with latticed windows looked out upon this court, and to one of these
the slave conducted the visitors, and there left them. The room was
Oriental in character: a cushioned divan ran round the marble walls
that gleamed with gilded arabesques and lapis-lazuli. In the middle of
the tesselated pavement was a fountain, whose waters played with a
golden sparkle in the soft radiance shed by the many lamps pendent from
the fretted roof above.
As the two Romans entered, there came forward to greet them the same
man that had spoken from the crag, a man of grave and stately presence,
whose classic features can still be studied on the extant coins of
the kingdom of Pontus. He had cast off the coarse garb he had worn
without, and appeared now in a majestic robe of royal purple. On his
finger glittered a gold ring, decorated with a cameo sculptured with a
miniature head of Nero, a fact of some significance, since the wearing
of such a ring was permitted to those only who had the high privilege
of free access to the Emperor’s presence.
“Welcome to Beth-tamar!” were the monarch’s first words. “Aware that
you were drawing near to Cæsarea,” he continued, addressing Crispus, “I
have ventured thus to intercept your journey.”
“To what end?”
“Hath not your father told you?”
Crispus answered in the negative. Polemo seemed surprised at this;
he hesitated, and glanced at Titus as if his presence were an
embarrassment. Divining his thoughts, Crispus spoke:
“Titus is my _fidus Achates_. Let not the king take it amiss, but
whatever is said must be said before him.”
“Be it so,” said Polemo, after a brief pause. “You must, however, both
give pledge, that the proposal I am about to make, whether accepted or
declined, shall be kept a secret till such time as I shall choose it to
be known.”
“The character of the noble Polemo,” returned Crispus, “is a sufficient
guarantee that he will require of me nothing dishonorable or nothing
detrimental to the interests of the Roman state.”
“Far be such thoughts from me. My aim is to add to its strength.”
Assured thus, both Crispus and Titus promised to hold sacred whatever
the king were minded to reveal.
“Good! To come at once to the question, for I love not many words, you
are doubtless aware of my misfortune in having no son to succeed me on
the throne. I am,” he added mournfully, “the last of my race. In these
circumstances our lord Nero has graciously conceded to me the favor of
nominating a successor, with the necessary proviso that my choice must
fall on a man loyal to the Empire. Such a one I have found.”
He paused and looked at Crispus, whose head began suddenly to whirl
with a daring hope. Could it be that he himself was----?
“If,” continued Polemo, “if loyalty to Rome be the first qualification
in my successor, who more loyal than a Roman himself? who more likely
to meet with the approval of the Senate than one of the Senatorial
order? For these reasons, then, and because your past deeds have shown
you to be worthy of the dignity, I am minded at a date three years from
now to confer upon you the scepter of Pontus. What say you to this?”
At first Crispus could say nothing for very amazement. Then, recovering
somewhat, he began eagerly to question the king, and found him to all
appearances sincere in making the offer.
Now, although Polemo had made a special point of Crispus’ worthiness,
Crispus himself had nevertheless a secret belief that the king was
actuated by some ulterior motive. He recalled a saying of his father’s:
“There is fire within Polemo for all his cold exterior. To me he seems
a man who, having received a great wrong, is meditating a scheme of
revenge--ay, and devoting his whole life to it. The weapon may take
years in the forging, but when forged it will fall, swiftly, terribly.”
Recalling these words, Crispus began to wonder whether the offer just
made was a part of the king’s scheme of vengeance. Was he, Crispus,
to be elevated to the throne merely to bring gall to some scheming and
ambitious enemy? Crispus had a reasonable objection to be utilized for
such a purpose; but still, what mattered? Here was an opportunity of
gaining a splendid dignity, and it would be foolish to let his scruples
as to the other’s motive interfere with his ambition.
A king!
“All things,” said Porus, “are comprehended in that word.”
What fancies crowded thick and fast upon Crispus’ mind as he tried to
picture the future!
He would be a father to his people; would regulate their finances;
foster their commerce; increase the army; promote the use of the Latin
language and encourage Greek culture. In the glens of the Caucasus,
bordering upon his kingdom, were wild tribes that had never yet
acknowledged a conqueror. He would curb their predatory incursions, and
augment his territory at their expense. Nay, he might even pass that
mighty mountain-barrier, and carry his arms over Scythia, a region that
had defied the attempts of the Persian, the Grecian, and the Roman.
Why should he not be in the North what Alexander had been in the East,
and Cæsar in the West? Then, when his kingdom had become enlarged and
Latinized, he would act the patriot, and transfer his dominion to the
Senate, making it a province of mighty Rome.
Dreams, perhaps, but it is in such dreams that empires have sometimes
had their beginning.
“What answer do you make?”
“At present, none,” replied the cautious Crispus. “Is your gift
accompanied by any stipulation?”
“One only. He who chooses the king of Pontus must also choose its
queen.”
“In other words, I must take a wife, a wife to be chosen by you.”
“That is so.”
“And failing to do this--no scepter?”
“Truly said. The gift of the kingdom is dependent upon your marrying
the lady of my choice. The two go together.”
“And what date do you fix for our nuptials?”
“This very night--nay, this very hour.”
“_To-night?_ Ye gods! You hear that, Titus?”
“The lady is at hand, for in the reasonable belief that you would not
refuse a throne I have had her brought here.”
“Her name?”
“Call her Athenaïs, since that is the name she will take as queen.”
“I am not to know her real name! What is her rank?”
“Superior to your own, for she is of royal blood.”
“She is of fair shape, I trust?”
“Zeuxis never delineated a face and form more lovely.”
These words served to whet Crispus’ curiosity. He expressed a wish to
see his prospective bride.
“See her you will not; she will be veiled during the ceremony. Nor will
you hear her voice, for she will not speak. When the rite is over you
will resume your journey to Cæsarea.”
“Without seeing the face of my wife!” gasped Crispus in amazement. Was
there ever so strange a marriage proposal?
“It is my will that you shall not know whom you have married. The lady
is beautiful, high-born, and brings a crown as a dowry. Is not that
enough?”
“And when will my bride be made known to me?”
“On the day when you assume the scepter.”
“And the date of that event?”
“As I have said, at the end of three years.”
“The word of Polemo is his bond,” said Crispus, “but seeing
that--_absit omen!_--you may be dead ere the three years be past, what
warranty shall I then have of the due execution of this, your promise?”
“This,” replied the king, producing a parchment-scroll and unrolling
it. “’Tis yours as soon as the nuptial ceremony be over.”
Crispus ran his eye over the scroll, and saw that it was what
Roman lawyers would call an _instrumentum_--in other words, a
legally-executed document, constituting him the heir of Polemo in the
sovereignty of Pontus. It was subscribed with the signature of the
king, and, what was of far more weight, with that of Nero himself.
“Do you assent?”
“I assent.”
“Consider well; remember that you are to pledge yourself to remain
faithful to Athenaïs, who in turn pledges herself to remain faithful
to you. Should you in this interval be found breaking your vow by
offering love to any woman--yea, even though it be to your own unknown
wife”--Crispus smiled at the supposition--“you lose the crown of
Pontus.”
“Your terms are strange, but I abide by them.”
“You are ready to wed?”
“This very hour.”
“You promise not to lift her veil? You are content not to hear her
voice? You are willing to depart as soon as the rite is over? You
promise with your friend to observe secrecy as touching this night’s
work?”
There was a light as of triumph in Polemo’s eyes when the two Romans
gave assent to these terms. It confirmed Crispus in his belief that the
king was using him as an instrument of vengeance. But, as before, he
said within himself, “What matters?”
“With what rites do we wed?” asked Crispus.
“With the words customary in your own Roman nuptial ceremonies,
confirming them by placing this token upon the finger of the bride,”
returned Polemo.
He handed to Crispus a gold ring. It was set with a ruby, upon whose
surface there was graven, with beautiful and marvelous art, a device
that caused a quick look of surprise to pass over the face of Crispus.
As he slowly and mechanically turned the ring over in his hand the
ruby darted forth sparkles that caused what was sculptured on the gem
to vanish as if in a blaze of fire. At that sight Crispus gave a great
start, and darted an inquiring look at the king, who replied by a smile
full of a hidden meaning. Titus, who took due note of all this, was
naturally not a little puzzled; he refrained from comment, however,
believing that Crispus would enlighten him later.
“Follow me,” said Polemo, and, lifting a curtain, he led the way to
another chamber so dimly illumined by one lamp only that the parts
remote from the light were scarcely discernible, an arrangement
obviously due to Polemo’s determination that Crispus should see as
little as possible of his bride.
In the semi-darkness two waiting figures, both deeply veiled, were
faintly visible.
Of the one that stood a little in the rear Crispus took no note, she
being obviously an attendant. It was the other upon whom his eyes were
set. Slender and of medium stature, she wore the usual dress of a Roman
bride, the _tunica recta_, a long white robe with a purple fringe,
and girt at the waist with a zone. The _flammeum_, or veil, which
effectually concealed her features, was bright yellow in color, as were
likewise her dainty little shoes. The bride’s hair with the point of
a spear, was dispensed with on this occasion, her head being covered
with a coif, so well disposed that not a single tress was visible. So
completely was her person hidden that, let her dress be changed, and
there was nothing by which he could identify her, if he should meet her
again that same night.
Though Crispus could not see her eyes, he knew full well that she was
watching him as keenly as he was watching her, a scrutiny in which the
advantage was all on her side. She stood, wordless and motionless,
evidently awaiting the king’s pleasure.
“Athenaïs,” said he, “this is your husband.”
She made a little obeisance to Crispus, a simple act, yet performed
with a grace that charmed him.
He did not know in what relation Polemo stood to the bride, but his way
of speaking implied a quasi-authority over her, and since it was the
fashion in those days for parents and guardians to arrange marriages
with very little regard for the feelings of the two most concerned in
the affair, Crispus could not help wondering whether pressure had been
put upon this Athenaïs to induce her to consent to the union. He would
find out.
“Lady,” he said, “I am willing to marry, but only on the understanding
that you come to me without compulsion. Therefore, if you take me
of your own free will, testify the same--since you are forbidden to
speak--by coming forward two paces.”
Athenaïs hesitated, but only for a second. Giving him what he felt to
be a grateful glance, she advanced two steps.
“A mutual agreement,” smiled Polemo. “This is as it should be.”
He whispered in the ear of the bride something that Crispus could not
catch. Whatever it was it evoked from her a little ripple of laughter,
so sweet and silvery, that Crispus was put into sympathy with her at
once.
“If her face be as witching as her laughter!” thought he.
But her laugh, however charming to Crispus, had a very different effect
upon Titus. An attentive spectator would have seen him start violently,
and turn pale. He seemed on the point of breaking out into words, but
checking himself, he stood mute, his whole attitude expressive of
dejection, a feeling that seemed to increase as the nuptial ceremony
proceeded. Crispus, occupied with the matter in hand, did not notice
his friend’s agitation.
At a sign from Polemo Crispus drew near to Athenaïs, Titus acting
as paranymph, or, to use the modern phrase, “best man,” the veiled
attendant performing a similar office for the bride.
Athenaïs, directed by the king, put forth a white and prettily-shaped
hand, which Crispus took in his own.
If her feelings bore any resemblance to those of Crispus she must have
felt like one in a dream, for he could scarcely believe the scene to be
real. An hour ago he would have laughed had anyone prophesied for him
an early marriage, and yet here he was on the point of marrying a woman
of whose past history he knew nothing, a woman from whom, as soon as
the ceremony was over, he must part, without seeing her face, without
receiving so little as one word from her, part for a space of time to
be measured, not by months, but by years! What would his friends at
Rome think of a marriage contracted under auspices so strange? “Weddeth
Crispus as a fool weddeth?” would surely be their comment.
Thus much, however, could be said for his act: it had his father’s
sanction, and with this thought Crispus tried to suppress all
misgivings.
Mechanically he found himself repeating after Polemo the final words of
the rite that was to unite him for life with the unknown Athenaïs.
“Leaving all other, and keeping only to thee, I, Crispus Cestius
Gallus, patrician of Rome, do take thee, Athenaïs, to be my lawful
wife, to be openly acknowledged as such when it shall please thee to
claim me by this token.”
So saying, he slid upon her slender finger the golden ring given him by
Polemo.
No sound came from the woman who was now his wife, but her agitation
was shown by her trembling hand, by her accelerated breathing, by her
attitude, half-reclining, in the arms of her attendant.
Her hand seemed to close voluntarily upon his own. The thrilling
pressure of those fair fingers imparted to him somehow the belief that,
originally reluctant to come to the ceremony, she now viewed it with
pleasure, a thought that gave him pleasure in turn.
The sweet laugh that had come from her, the clasp of her pretty hand,
her willingness to trust her whole future to his keeping, so moved
Crispus that he began to feel a keen regret that he must immediately
part from her. He became almost angry with himself for having submitted
to the hard terms prescribed by Polemo.
As he released her hand she sank back half-swooning in the arms of the
other woman, who, at a sign from Polemo, proceeded to draw her gently
from the apartment. Till the last Crispus kept his eyes upon her,
hoping that, in spite of Polemo, she might raise a corner of her veil,
and give him just one glimpse at least of her face.
It was not to be, however. She melted away into the shadows around, and
he saw her no more.
* * * * *
The two Romans walked again by the star-lit shore with Beth-tamar far
behind them.
“What,” asked Titus, who, since the wedding ceremony, had been
strangely silent, “what was engraved on the stone of the nuptial ring
that you should start so?”
He received little enlightenment from the reply of Crispus:
“_The image of a temple in flames!_”