THE MAKING OF AN EMPEROR
Crispus had the high honor of dining that night in the tent of
Vespasian with a select company of tribunes, Terentius Rufus being of
the number.
Titus was, of course, present. His office of second in command, added
to the glory gained by him in the Galilæan campaign, had disposed
him to adopt a somewhat lofty air towards his former friends and
acquaintances; but Crispus had acquired the Christian grace of
humility, and the patronage that he might have resented in his pagan
days now afforded him matter only for a little quiet amusement.
Let Titus receive his just due, however; though Berenice had earnestly
pressed him to persuade Vespasian to exclude Crispus from the army
intended to act against Jerusalem, he had declined the task as an
ungenerous one. “If Crispus wishes to play the soldier, I am not the
man to prevent him,” he said, an answer that considerably mortified the
proud princess, as showing that Titus was not quite the plastic clay
she had thought him.
The fare provided by Vespasian for his guests was simple, as became the
tastes of the general, and they sat to it.
“I hate the effeminate habit of reclining at meals,” said he.
The conversation at table naturally turned upon the war, and Crispus,
who knew little of the then state of Jerusalem, received some
enlightenment from Vespasian.
“True is the saying,” said he, “that those whom the gods wish to
destroy they first make mad. Listen to what is happening at Jerusalem.
“Simon of Gerasa, disgusted that his great services should be passed
over by the Sanhedrim while Eleazar was rewarded with the government of
a province, retired from Jerusalem; and, collecting a numerous body of
followers, took to brigandage again.
“Whilst Eleazar was administering the affairs of Idumæa, a certain
ambitious Zealot seized the opportunity to make himself master of the
temple; by a singular confusion of names this new captain is called
Eleazar.
“In the meantime that fierce Zealot, John of Giscala, defeated by us
in Galilee, fled to Jerusalem, where, becoming powerful, he played the
tyrant, putting the rich to death, and seizing their wealth.
“The high priest Matthias sought to free the miserable people by
calling in the aid of Simon; he came, but was unable to expel John.
“The result is that the city is now groaning beneath the tyranny of
three factions.
“Simon rules in Zion, with the Tower of Phasaelus for his palace; John
holds the Lower City, and the outer courts of the temple; Eleazar keeps
jealous guard over the Sanctuary.
“These three Zealots, each aiming at sovereignty, wage war with one
another by night and by day.
“Titus would have me march to Jerusalem at once, but why should I, when
they are doing our work so effectually? At sight of us, faction would
disappear; they would unite their arms against the common enemy. No;
let them go on with their internecine warfare till two of the factions
are exterminated, and then we will deal with the survivor.”
“Sound policy!” commented Rufus.
Crispus, with his Christianized way of thinking, could not help
seeing in the terrible state of the city the working out of a Divine
retribution. The people that had cried, “Not this man, but Barabbas,”
desiring that a murderer might be granted to them, were now delivered
over to the rule of murderers. “The assassin’s dagger was to sway the
last councils of their dying nationality.”
Rufus now added _his_ contribution to the story of Israel’s degradation.
“And, that they might not have a moralist perpetually rebuking them
for their misdoings, the Zealots of Eleazar’s party deposed the high
priest Matthias; and, calling for the register of priests, they broke
through all precedent by casting lots for the office. The lot fell upon
an obscurity named Phannias, a rustic so illiterate as scarcely to know
what the high priesthood meant. Yet, they brought him from his native
village; and, putting the sacred vestments upon him, instructed him how
to act, finding matter for laughter and sport in the many blunders that
he made.”
Again the finger of Divine retribution! The high priesthood, that had
mocked at the Crucifixion, had itself become a subject for mockery, a
thing of scorn.
Somewhat to his surprise, Crispus discovered that Vespasian at the end
of his day’s labor would sometimes find relaxation in listening to the
discourses of Josephus upon Jewish history and Jewish philosophy. He
chose to do so on this present occasion; and, accordingly, after the
repast was over, a centurion was dispatched to bring in the captive.
He came, linked as usual to the guardian soldier, and advanced with
an air meant to be solemn and dignified, but which in Crispus’ view
was pompous only; nay, contradictory as it may seem, beneath this air
of importance there was lurking an undercurrent of obsequiousness and
servility that set Crispus against him. If ever man was sycophant this
man was!
“We have sent for you,” began Vespasian, “to hear you discourse for a
time upon the history and laws of your nation.”
“Sire, thou honorest our holy books by wishing to derive instruction
from them. But, to-night--to-night, I would speak, not of the past, but
of the future.”
“Of which he knows no more than you or I,” whispered Rufus to Crispus.
“Sire, when the Almighty created the seventy nations of the earth he
gave to each its peculiar gift; to the Roman, sovereignty in war, and
to the Greek, supremacy in art; to the Egyptian, depth in wisdom,
and to the Hebrew, the power of prophecy. To us are granted at times
glimpses of the future, prevision denied to other races. Did I not show
the knowledge of the seer by declaring that Jotapata would fall on the
forty-seventh day of the siege? And now again do I lift the veil that
hides the future. The God of our fathers hath revealed to me that great
thing which shall come to pass.”
He advanced a step, accompanied necessarily by the soldier; and,
falling on his knees before Vespasian, he touched the ground with his
forehead, saying, as he made this Oriental salutation:
“HAIL, CÆSAR THAT IS TO BE!”
As if a chasm had suddenly yawned at his feet, Vespasian started back
in an amazement so obviously genuine as to show plainly that this
treasonable notion was being sprung upon him for the first time.
Crispus shared in Vespasian’s amazement, as did most of the other
officers present. Titus was the only one that showed no surprise; one
might have thought that he had been expecting something of this kind;
he sat with his eyes keenly attentive to his father’s face.
Crispus could not help thinking that this little tableau was not a
spontaneous ebullition on the part of Josephus, but a premeditated
piece of acting, primarily due to the scheming brain of Berenice, and
seconded by the ambitious hopes of Titus.
The deep silence was broken by the voice of Vespasian, who spoke with
stern indignation.
“No more of this. Thou talkest treason--treason to the reigning
emperor.”
Titus’ face became clouded.
“If it be treason to declare the will of God, then am I talking
treason,” said Josephus.
“Peace! I and the legions have sworn to uphold the throne of Vitellius.”
“They took the oath with great reluctance, however,” observed Titus,
“and are repenting of it. Their dissatisfaction grows from day to day.”
“Their dissatisfaction shall not divert me from the path of duty.”
“Seek not,” said Josephus, “to resist your destiny. Cæsar you will be,
in spite of yourself. For so is it written in our sacred scriptures,
that one arising in Judæa shall obtain the empire of the world.”[20]
Crispus, in spite of the debt he owed Josephus, could not conceal his
scorn at this amazing perversion of Messianic prophecy, a perversion
that showed to what depth of sycophancy the soul of this priest and
Pharisee could descend. That the sacred predictions of Isaiah should
receive their fulfillment in the elevation of a heathen soldier to
the throne of the Cæsars was to the Hebrew mind an interpretation so
blasphemous that if Josephus had ventured to assert it among a circle
of his own countrymen he would most assuredly have been torn to pieces.
On the present occasion, however, he was safe from such a fate; and if
he himself did not believe in his own statement what mattered, if the
lie could but accomplish his purpose?
“Rise,” said Vespasian sternly, for during all this time Josephus
had been kneeling. The captive arose; and Vespasian, turning to his
officers, asked in a tone of pleasantry: “How shall I punish this knave
for urging me to treason?”
Rufus answered him.
“Give him his freedom on the day that you become Cæsar. If he hath
prophesied truly his freedom is bound to come, and if not----”
Vespasian slapped his thigh with a hearty laugh.
“By Castor, a just sentence! As thou sayest, so shall it be.”
A close observer might have detected in the “prophet’s” expression
a certain uneasiness suggestive of the idea that he was by no means
confident of the fulfillment of his words.
“Retire,” said Vespasian, whose desire for Hebrew history had vanished.
“I will hear thee no more to-night.”
So Josephus departed; but when Titus began to comment upon his
vaticination, Vespasian forbade him with so stern an air that Titus at
once dropped the subject; and when, later, a centurion looked in to ask
the watchword for the night, Vespasian wrote upon the tessera the word
“FIDELITAS.”
* * * * *
The throne of the Cæsars!
Despite Vespasian’s repudiation--a repudiation made at the time in all
sincerity--it became evident within the space of a few days that the
seed sown in his mind by Josephus was beginning to germinate.
Under the haunting spell of a new and splendid ambition, he became
moody, restless, uneasy. Shunning the daily exercises of the army
he took long walks, communing with himself in lonely woods. Deep in
thought, he would stare vacantly when addressed; one had to speak twice
or thrice ere he understood. At times he was heard to murmur, “I will
not do this thing,” and his officers would look at each other, well
knowing what thing was meant.
One morning, as if wishful to escape from his vexing thoughts, he
mounted a horse and rode mile after mile along the shore towards
the point where the long ridge of Carmel, intercepting the maritime
road, thrusts a rocky bluff into the sea. In this wild gallop he was
attended by his staff-officers, Crispus and Rufus being of the number.
Arrived at the foot of the mount, Vespasian, either as wishing to take
a survey of the country around, or moved perhaps by a desire to show
what the agility of a man of sixty could accomplish, resolved to make
the ascent; and soon he and his staff were toiling on foot up the
craggy path that wound through forests of pine, oak, and olive to the
point
“_Where Carmel’s flowery top perfumes the skies._”
The glorious panorama presented by the mountainous landscape and
the dark-blue sea well rewarded them for their climb. The officers
were particularly interested in pointing out to Crispus the various
hill-fortresses of Galilee--Giscala, Tabor, Jotapata--subdued by their
arms in the campaign of the previous year.
As the staff moved first this way and then that, following the steps of
Vespasian, they turned the corner of a crag, and came suddenly upon a
stately figure in a flowing white robe, who with folded arms was gazing
silently and pensively seaward. Obviously, he was a priest, since there
was in attendance upon him a young boy holding in his hands what seemed
an acerra, or box containing incense. Near by, formed from a number of
rough unhewn stones, was an altar, upon which lay a few dried shavings
of cedar-wood.
The man was not quite a stranger to Crispus; he had seen him, or rather
had caught a fleeting glimpse of him, on the previous evening, holding
converse with Titus in a lonely spot at some distance from the camp.
Crispus had come upon the pair unawares, and it seemed to him that
Titus was not altogether pleased at being detected in company with this
priest, though what there was to be vexed at it would be hard to say.
On hearing footsteps the priest turned, and caught sight of the armed
men.
“Who art thou?” he asked of Vespasian, as being evidently the chief of
the band.
“I am Flavius Vespasian.”
“I know not the name.”
“And this is fame?” smiled Vespasian. “To be unknown after so many
victories in this Galilæan province!”
“Hast thou dropped from the moon,” asked Rufus, “not to have heard the
name of the great Vespasian?”
“Content with my grotto,” said the priest, pointing to a cave
in the face of the rock, “and with this altar, I stir not from
Carmel,”--Crispus, remembering where he had seen him last, wondered at
this speech, but held his peace,--“hence I know nothing of the affairs
of men. If thou art some great one of the earth, the gods teach thee to
use thy power well.”
“To what deity is this altar erected?” asked Vespasian.
“To the god Carmelus, the tutelary genius of this mountain.”
“Hath he no image nor temple?”
“None. This altar--’tis composed of twelve stones--is alone acceptable
to him. Such hath been his worship from ancient days.”
“Thou art about to offer incense to thy god, I perceive. We will join
in thy worship. Offer on our behalf as well as on thine own.”
And with that the superstitiously devout Vespasian doffed his helmet,
in which act he was imitated by the rest, save Crispus, who drew aside
from a ceremony incompatible with his Christian faith.
Rufus, observing that the priest apparently lacked the means of
kindling a fire, offered him his own flint and steel, but they were
waved aside by the priest.
“Our rites forbid such method,” said he. “The wood must be kindled not
by ordinary means, but by the pure fire of heaven.”
So saying, he produced a thick glass lens, with which he proceeded to
focus the sun’s rays upon the cedar-wood.
Crispus, whose Christian training among the learned brethren of Tarsus
and Ephesus had embraced the study of the Greek Septuagint, murmured to
himself:
“Mount Carmel? an altar of twelve stones? fire from heaven? This deity
Carmelus is none other than Elijah in a heathen guise!”
It was not long ere the wood began first to smolder and then to break
into a flame. The feat was one as common in that age as in this, but
being new to Vespasian, he looked on as though it were a miracle.
The attendant boy now held forth the acerra, and the priest, taking
from it some grains of incense, cast them upon the fire.
As the strong fragrance became diffused around the priest began the
chanting of an invocation which fell with a somewhat weird effect upon
the ears of the Romans, being delivered in the Phœnician, a tongue not
understood by them.
“Now, how know we that this fellow is not cursing us?” muttered Rufus.
From time to time the priest continued to cast fresh incense upon the
altar. It seemed that the sacrifice was scarcely acceptable to the god
Carmelus, for the fire was dull and smoky, always deemed a bad omen.
Then, all in a moment, there was a change.
A tongue of flame sprang up, high and brilliant, and lasting for
several moments.
At the first leap of the fire the priest turned and stared hard at
Vespasian, as though that general had become suddenly invested with a
new and strange interest.
“Vespasian--if that be thy name--whatever project thou now hast in thy
mind, whether it be the enlargement of thy house, the augmentation of
thy lands, or the increase of thy slaves, the Fates are preparing for
thee a splendid seat, a large territory, a multitude of men.”[21]
The Roman officers, aware of the thought that was then paramount in the
mind of their general, looked significantly at each other.
“What is thy name?” asked Vespasian.
“What thine shalt be--Basilides.”
Now this name is, by interpretation, a king; and therefore Vespasian
was not a little startled to find this Phœnician seer hinting, and
that not obscurely, at the same high destiny assured him by Josephus.
Surely, since there had been no previous concert between them, that
must be true which was prophesied by Hebrew priest and by Phœnician
priest alike?
During the course of the long ride back to camp, Crispus had ample time
to review the incident that had just happened, and he saw in it not
the hand of the gods, but the trickery of man, the man in this case
being Titus, who by subtle devices was luring his father on to make an
attempt for the imperial throne.
Vespasian on the previous evening had announced his intention of
visiting Carmel on the morrow, and it had therefore been a very easy
matter for Titus to obtain the collusion of the priest Basilides for
the purpose of playing upon the superstitious feelings of Vespasian.
The sudden springing up of the flame upon the altar was a result easily
obtainable by concealing a grain of fat among the incense. Titus was
the real source of this “divine sign,” as well as of the ambiguous but
significant oracle delivered by Basilides.
Crispus hesitated whether to enlighten Vespasian as to how he was being
duped into believing himself to be a recipient of divine signs, but
finally resolved to hold his peace. What mattered it how Vespasian
was induced to revolt, whether by necessity, reason, or superstition,
so long as he _did_ revolt? The rule of Vespasian would be infinitely
preferable to that of the bestial Vitellius. And when Crispus, further
reflecting that should a Flavian dynasty be established, and should
Titus and Domitian--both at present childless--die without issue, the
next heir to the throne would be Flavius Clemens, an adherent of the
faith, he began to wonder whether a Christian Cæsar might not be among
the possibilities of the near future.
So here was Crispus wishing, like Berenice, to see Vespasian upon the
throne, though for a different reason--_she_ hoping to promote the
cause of Judaism, _he_ hoping to promote the cause of Christianity.
The course of the next few days furnished additional proof that subtle
art was being employed to make Vespasian accept a position almost akin
to that foretold of the Messiah.
“Do I look like a god?” said he with a caustic smile, entering the tent
of Rufus, who chanced to be alone.
Truth to tell there was little in the homely, and even vulgar, aspect
of Vespasian to suggest kinship with the Olympian divinities, but
naturally Rufus did not say so, contenting himself with asking the
general to explain his meaning. Then Vespasian, sitting down, proceeded
to tell a strange story.
“There hath been wont to sit at the fountain beside the gate of Cæsarea
a blind man. This morning as I was passing by the gate I saw a little
crowd gathered there, and among them this blind man. Guided by two
friends, he drew near, and, kneeling at my feet, implored me to cure
his blindness, declaring--and the two that were with him said the
same--that if I would but anoint clay with my spittle, and put the clay
upon his eyes, he would there and then recover his sight.
“I held my laughter and tried to reason him out of this belief, but
the more I argued the more earnest he became, and so I left him still
kneeling. But as I walked away, the poor fellow’s lamentations became
so pitiful that I could not help turning back, determined by making the
actual experiment to convince the man of his folly. But, lo! as soon
as the clay was washed from his eyes and I had pronounced the Hebrew
word ‘_Ephphatha!_’--for it seems these spells are more efficacious
when spoken in a barbarous language--the man cried out in an ecstasy of
delight that he could see![22]
“‘A miracle! a miracle!’ cried the crowd.
“‘So shalt thou give light to a dark world, O Vespasian,’[23] cried a
voice which I recognized as that of the priest Theomantes.
“As for me, I doubted whether the man _had_ recovered his sight, but he
gave proof of it by telling what number of coins lay on my palm, and
though I changed the number several times he did not once err.
“There must be some divine efficacy in my touch became the opinion of
the crowd. The news flew from mouth to mouth, and as I stood amazed at
my own deed, there came to me a man whose right arm, as if paralyzed,
hung stiff and motionless at his side.
“‘I was a mason,’ said he, ‘earning my livelihood by my hands. I pray
thee that thou wouldest make this arm whole like the other, that I may
not basely beg my bread.’
“Compliant with his will I clasped his right hand firmly in my own, and
after a few moments he cried out that he had recovered the use of the
withered limb, and gave evidence of his words by freely gesticulating
with it. Now, Rufus, how explainest thou these marvels?”
These feats of healing, so analogous to those recorded in the gospel,
as to suggest to the mind of more than one historian the suspicion that
they were purposely counterfeited with a view of investing Vespasian
with a sort of Messianic character, offered no difficulty whatever to
the pagan mind of Rufus.
“It is clear to me, sire,” said he, fully believing in the truth of
his own words, “that the gods wish to point you out to mankind as one
distinguished by their special favor and destined to attain a dignity
and splendor beyond that of ordinary mortals.”
And the perplexed Vespasian, though the least conceited of men, was
gradually driven to adopt this opinion in view of these strange
happenings.
A few days afterwards, Mucianus, the Legate of Syria, arrived at
Cæsarea, having come direct thither from a brief visit paid to Rome.
He was accompanied by Tiberius Alexander, the prefect of Egypt. A
Jew by birth, a nephew, in fact, of the brilliant theologian Philo
Judæus, Tiberius Alexander had deserted his ancestral faith for Grecian
paganism, a conversion unique in the annals of Judaism.
Vespasian at once hastened from the camp to Cæsarea to pay his respects
to Mucianus, who, besides being his lifelong friend, was also his
superior in office.
The two illustrious visitors had accepted the hospitality of Berenice,
and it was in the palace of that intriguing princess that Vespasian
and Titus met them in a consultation upon which hung the destiny of an
empire.
“The senate of Rome,” began Mucianus, “loathes the rule of the bestial
Vitellius and his brutal soldiery. Shall I tell you what are likewise
the secret whisperings of the people in the forum? ‘Would to the gods
that Vespasian would deliver us from this glutton, who has already
spent seven million sesterces upon his stomach!’ Vespasian, you have
but to proclaim yourself Cæsar here in Judæa, and Rome--yea, and all
the provinces, will rise in your favor. I have here a list, and ’tis
a long one, of Roman patricians who have sworn to me that they are
willing to risk their lives and fortunes in your cause.”
Vespasian, having listened to all this, and much more of like import,
showed his indifference to the imperial throne by offering it to
Mucianus! A plain, sensible man, and a born soldier, Vespasian cared
little who was Cæsar so long as he himself should hold the chief
military command.
But however much Mucianus may have desired the purple he knew that
his chances of obtaining it were infinitely small, and he therefore
continued to press its acceptance upon Vespasian.
“Syria and its four legions are with you,” said he.
“And I can promise you Egypt,” observed Tiberius Alexander. “As soon as
you are proclaimed Cæsar I will cause the legions of Alexandria to take
the oath of allegiance to you.”
“And then your first act must be to stop the corn-ships from sailing,”
said Berenice, who was taking part in these deliberations.
“A wise policy!” commented Titus.
The possession of Egypt, as the conspirators well knew, was extremely
important from a political point of view, the populace of Rome being
almost dependent for their existence upon the supplies of grain
exported from Alexandria. Famine at the heart of the empire would not
be favorable to the cause of Vitellius.
“With Syria, Palestine, and Egypt on your side,” pursued Mucianus,
“you will occupy a continuous and united territory. Your rear you must
secure by an alliance with the Parthians. As to your front, by land it
is accessible only by way of the Taurus mountains; occupy the Syrian
and Cilician Gates, and you can bid defiance to any attack coming from
that quarter. As to your sea-front we have in Phœnicia the finest race
of seamen in the world, and in the cedars of Libanus an inexhaustible
supply of timber for shipbuilding. Phœnicia falls within my province.
Bid me do it, and ere two months be out you shall have a fleet of
triremes that shall guard all coasts from Cilicia to Cyrene. Thus
secure, we may advance to attack Vitellius, or await him here, as may
best seem convenient to us.”
But Vespasian, prudent and cautious, still delayed his final answer.
Accordingly, after his withdrawal the remaining conclave, at Berenice’s
suggestion, determined to force the hand of the reluctant general, that
princess propounding an ingenious scheme for the purpose.
“You, Titus,” said she, “must persuade all the soldiers in the camp to
salute Vespasian with the title of Cæsar.”
“They want no persuading. The difficulty is that he’ll refuse to listen
to them.”
“He will be compelled.”
“How so?”
“Vitellius will hear of it. He cannot with dignity pass over such
treason. He’ll demand that these disloyal legions be punished. In
declining this task--for how can he punish a whole army?--Vespasian
will become an object of suspicion to Vitellius. He’ll be summoned
to Rome; to go will be certain death. Therefore, if the legions here
persist in crying ‘Hail, Cæsar!’ whenever Vespasian appears, he must
either accept the title or be prepared for immediate ruin.”
“Princess, you have it,” cried Mucianus admiringly. “The plan cannot
fail. Now, Titus, do your part, whilst Alexander and I hasten to set
our provinces in order.”
The conspirators departed to put their plan into operation.
It succeeded admirably.
On the third of July A.D. 69 Vespasian was proclaimed emperor by the
legions of Cæsarea. His elevation was everywhere received with delight.
Embassies from various cities and provinces hurried to Cæsarea,
bringing addresses of congratulation and crowns of honor; within a
month Vespasian had received the submission of all the East, with the
exception of Jerusalem and its immediate neighborhood.
And the prophecy, long current in the East, not only among the Jews,
but likewise among other nations, that one coming from Judæa should
obtain the empire of the world, was thought to have received its
fulfillment at last!
It was decided at a council composed of Eastern statesmen and Roman
warriors that Mucianus should proceed by land against Italy, that Titus
should carry on the war against Jerusalem, and that Vespasian should
retire to Alexandria, and there await the issue of events.
“And now, O father,” said Titus, delighted at having attained the
rank of Cæsar--for to be scrupulously exact that was his title as
heir-apparent, the reigning emperor being called Augustus--“now, O
father, remember your promise and release Josephus from his bonds, else
will it be a shameful thing that the man who told beforehand of your
coming to empire, and hath been the minister of a divine message to
you, should still be retained in the condition of a captive.”
It was in the camp at Cæsarea that these words were spoken. So
Vespasian sent for Josephus, who came still wearing the chain that
bound him to the guardian soldier.
The new emperor gave orders that the captive should be set at liberty;
and accordingly the soldier was about to loose the chain when Titus
intervened, suggesting that the chain should be _cut_ from him, this
being the Roman method with such as were bound without just cause.
This advice being agreeable to Vespasian, a smith was sent for, a
fellow strong and dexterous of arm, who cut the chain to pieces.
“Josephus, thou art free,” exclaimed Vespasian, “and the citizenship of
Rome is thine.”
“Call me no more Josephus,” said the liberated one, boldly venturing to
assume the name of his imperial patron. “Henceforth let all men know me
as Titus Flavius.”
“Titus,” said Vespasian, referring to his son, “Titus has the glory of
being Cæsar. Josephus has----”
“Flavius, sire,” murmured the adopter of that name, remonstratingly.
“Flavius, then, to please you. Flavius has received the honor of the
citizenship. What honor,” he continued, turning to Crispus, “what honor
shall we confer upon you?”
On the point of replying that the emperor’s friendship was of itself a
sufficient honor, Crispus paused, suddenly seized by a happy idea.
“There is one favor I would ask, sire--a very simple one.”
“Name it.”
“’Tis of a private nature. I prefer to state it before you and Titus
only.”
Vespasian looked surprised. He gave a nod, and Josephus and the others
withdrew from the tent.
“Now, Crispus, for what do you make request?”
“It may not be known to you, sire, that I have a wife.”
It certainly was news to Vespasian, as his looks plainly showed.
Crispus proceeded to relate in as few words as possible the story of
his wedding at Beth-tamar.
“Eh! what is this?” said the old general, turning with a chiding air to
Titus. “You were Crispus’ paranymph, and yet you have never told me of
it. Fie on you! But what has this to do with the favor you would ask?”
continued he, addressing Crispus.
“You, sire, as emperor, are supreme in matters of the law. ’Tis yours
to see that the terms of a contract be fulfilled. Therefore I ask
that when I discover this woman she shall be made to keep her nuptial
pledge.”
“Find her, and if you want her, you shall have her, be she never so
reluctant,” said Vespasian, smiling grimly. “Who is _she_ to refuse my
bravest tribune?”
In that immoral age fidelity to a wife was a rare virtue, and one that
commended itself to honest old Vespasian.
“You swear it, sire, that no man shall be permitted to take her from
me?”
Vespasian was painfully impressed by the tense, earnest look of Crispus.
“By the gods, it shall go ill with the man, if any such there be. He
who dares to take your wife from you shall be hanged on high--yea,
though he were my own son.”
“Take it not amiss, sire, if I ask for that promise in writing.”
While Vespasian, surprised yet compliant, was putting his promise into
documentary form, Titus stood silent in the background.
His face at that moment was a study, and confirmed Crispus in the
suspicion he had long entertained.