‘On your recommendation, I shall go. What is the nature of the equipment?’
‘It is not very burdensome, sir. Because it is a gala occasion, we carry our best uniforms. You will be proud of your command, I think; for it is a reward of merit here to be chosen for this duty, and the men are diligent in polishing their weapons. Otherwise we pack nothing but provisions for tenting and meals on the way. We are put up in commodious barracks in Jerusalem, and the food is of an uncommonly fine quality, furnished by certain rich men of the city.’
‘What?’ Marcellus screwed up his face in surprise. ‘Do they not resent Roman rule in Jerusalem?’
Paulus laughed ironically.
‘It is the common people who feel the weight of the Roman yoke, sir. As for the rich, many of whom collect the tribute for Tiberius—and keep a quarter of it for themselves—they are quite content. Oh—publicly, of course, the nabobs have to make a show of lamenting the loss of their kingdom; but these fat old merchants and money-lenders would be quite upset if a real revolution got started. You will find that the city fathers and the Procurator are thick as thieves, though they pretend to be at odds.’
‘But this is amazing, Paulus! I had always supposed that the Jews were passionately patriotic, and uncompromising in their bitter hatred of the Empire.’
‘That is quite true, sir, of the common people. Very zealous, indeed! They keep hoping for their old independence. Doubtless you have heard of their ancient myth about a Messiah.’
‘No. What’s a Messiah?’
‘The Messiah is their deliverer, sir. According to their prophets, he will appear, one day, and organize the people to accomplish their freedom.’
‘I never heard of it,’ admitted Marcellus, indifferently. ‘But small wonder. I haven’t had much interest in religious superstitions.’
‘Nor I!’ protested Paulus. ‘But one hears quite a little about this Messiah business during Passover Week.’ He laughed at the recollection. “Why, sir—you should see them! Sleek, paunchy old fellows, swathed from their whiskers to their sandals in voluminous black robes, stalking through the streets, with their heads thrown back and their eyes closed, beating their breasts and bleating about their lost kingdom and bellowing for their Messiah! Pouf! They don’t want any other kingdom than the one that stuffs their wallets and their bellies. They don’t want a Messiah—and if they thought there was the slightest likelihood of a revolution against Roman domination they would be the first to stamp it out.’
‘They must be a precious lot of hypocrites!’ growled Marcellus.
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Paulus, ‘but they set a fine table!’
For a little while, the Tribune sat silently shaking his head in glum disgust.
‘I know the world is full of rascality, Paulus, but this beats anything I ever heard of!’
‘It is rather sickening, sir,’ conceded Paulus. ‘The sight that always makes me want to slip a knife under one of those pious arms upraised in prayer, is the long procession of the poor and sick and blind and crippled trailing along after one of these villainous old frauds, under the impression that their holy cause is in good hands.’ He interrupted himself to lean over the arm of his chair for a better view of the doorway, and caught sight of Demetrius standing in the hall within sound of their voices. Marcellus’ eyes followed.
‘My Greek slave keeps his own counsel, Centurion,' he said, in a confidential tone. ‘You need not fear that he will betray any private conversation.’
‘What I was going to say, sir,' continued Paulus, lowering his voice—‘this political situation in Jerusalem, revolting as it sounds, is not unusual.’ He leaned halfway across the desk, and went on in a guarded whisper, ‘Commander—that’s what holds the Empire together! If it were not for the rich men in all of our subjugated provinces—men whose avarice is greater than their local patriotism—the Roman Empire would collapse!’
‘Steady, Paulus!’ warned Marcellus. ‘That’s a dangerous theory to expound! You might get into trouble—saying such things.’
Paulus stiffened with sudden wrath.
‘Trouble!’ he snarled, bitterly. ‘I did get into trouble, sir, that way! I was fool enough to be honest in the presence of Germanicus! That’—he added, only half audibly—‘was how I—a Legate—earned my passage to Minoa to become a Centurion! But—by the gods—what I said was true! The Roman Empire was consolidated, and is now supported, by the treachery of rich provincials, willing to sell out their own people! This strategy is not original with us, of course! Rome learned the trick from Alexander. He learned it from the Persians, who had learned it in Egypt. Buy up the big men of a little country—and—pouf!—you can have the rest of them for nothing!’ Paulus’ face was flushed with anger, and after his seditious speech he sat with clenched hands, flexing the muscles of his jaw. Then he faced Marcellus squarely, and muttered: ‘Valor of Rome! Bah! I spit on the valor of Rome! Valor of treachery! Valor of gold! Valor of hurling the poor at one another on the battle-field, while the big ones are off in a corner selling them out! The great and proud Roman Empire!’ Paulus brought his fist down with a bang on the desk. ‘I spit on the Roman Empire!’
Y‘ou are very indiscreet, Paulus,’ said Marcellus, seriously. ‘For remarks of that sort, you could have your pelt pulled off. I hope you do not often let yourself go like that.’
Paulus rose and hitched up his broad belt.
‘I had no fear of speaking my mind to you, sir,’ he said.
Y‘What makes you think I wouldn’t give you away?’ asked Marcellus. ‘Because’—replied Paulus, confidently—‘you believe in real valor—the kind that demands courage!’
Marcellus drew an appreciative smile.
‘It is a wonder, Paulus,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘that the ordinary rank and file do not take things into their own hands.’
‘Pouf! What can they do?’ scoffed Paulus, with a shrug. They’re nothing but sheep, with no shepherd! Take these Jews, for example: now and then, some fiery fellow goes howling mad over the raw injustice, and gets up on a cart, and lets out a few shrieks—but they dispose of him in a hurry!’
‘Who shuts him up? The rich men?’
‘Well—not directly. We’re always called in to do the dirty work. It’s obvious that Rome can’t permit such uprisings; but it is the rich and greedy provincials who nip revolutions in the bud.’
‘Damned scoundrels!’ exclaimed Marcellus.
Y‘Yes, sir,’ assented Paulus, his gusty storm having blown out—“but you will find that these damned scoundrels in Jerusalem know good wine when they see it, and aren’t mean about sharing it with the Roman legions. That’—he added, with cool mockery—‘is to encourage us to be on the lookout for any foolhardy patriot who squeaks about the lost kingdom!’
Chapter IV
THE first day’s journey, from Gaza to Ascalon, was intolerably tedious, for the deep-rutted highway was crowded with creeping caravans and filthy with dust.
‘It will be better tomorrow,’ promised Melas, amused by the grotesque appearance of Demetrius who had rewound his turban about his face until only his eyes were visible.
‘Let us hope so!’ grumbled the Corinthian, tugging at the lead-donkey that was setting off toward a clump of thistles. ‘But how will it be better? These snails are all crawling to Jerusalem; are they not?’
‘Yes—but we leave the highway at Ascalon,’ explained Melas, ‘and take a shorter road through the hills. The caravans do not travel it. They’re afraid of the Bedouins.’
‘And we aren’t?’
‘We’re too many for them. They wouldn’t risk it.’
Centurion Paulus’ stocky, bow-legged, red headed Thracian was enjoying himself. Not often was Melas in a position to inform his betters; and, observing that the status of Demetrius was enviable compared to his own, it had made him quite expansive to be on such friendly terms with the new Legate’s well-spoken slave.
‘It isn’t the camels that stir up the dust,’ advised Melas, o
ut of his long experience. ‘Your camel lifts his big, padded paws and lays them down on top of the soft dirt. It’s the asses that drag their feet. But I hate camels!’
‘I am not very well acquainted with camels,’ admitted Demetrius, willing to show some interest in his education.
‘Nobody is,’ declared Melas. ‘You can live with a camel for years and treat him as your brother, but you can never trust him. See that?’ He tapped a badly disfigured nose. ‘I got that up in Gaul, a dozen years ago. The fleas and flies were driving my master’s old Menepthah crazy. I spent the better part of two days rubbing olive oil into his mangy hide. And he stood like a rock, and purred like a cat; because he liked it. When I was all through, he turned around and kicked me in the face.’
Demetrius laughed, as was expected, and inquired what sort of revenge Melas had considered appropriate, a query that delighted him, for there was more of the story.
‘I was so blind mad,’ continued Melas, ‘that I did the same thing to him—only Menepthah saw it coming and grabbed my foot. Ever have a camel bite you? Now—an ass,’ he expounded, ‘or a dog, will snap and nip and nibble at you; but if he is going to bite, he tells you. Your camel never lets you into the secret. When he bites, nobody knows what is in his mind—but himself. I was laid up for two weeks, the time Menepthah bit my foot. I don’t like camels,’ he added, reasonably enough, his new friend thought.
‘They can’t be blamed much for wanting to get even,’ observed Demetrius. ‘It’s a pretty rough life, I suppose.’
Melas seemed to be weighing this bland comment on his not very sensitive scales as they trudged along, and presently gave Demetrius a long, appraising look out of the tail of his eye. His lip curled in a sour grin. At length he ventured to give his thoughts an airing; having a care, however, to keep them in leash.
‘It doesn’t do much good—trying to get even. Take your slave, now: he can’t get anywhere that way. Camels and asses and slaves are better off minding their masters.’ And when Demetrius did not comment, Melas added, encouragingly, ‘Or—don’t you think so?’
Demetrius nodded, without interest. He had no desire to discuss this matter.
‘If you’re going to serve another man, at all,’ he remarked casually, 'it’s only good sense to serve him well.’
‘That’s what I always say,’ approved Melas, with such exaggerated innocence that Demetrius wondered whether the fellow was making a smug pretense of lily-white loyalty—or recklessly toying with a piece of crude irony. He thought it might be interesting to find out.
‘Of course, slavery is a bit different from the employment of freedmen,’ experimented Demetrius. ‘If a freedman finds his work distasteful, he can leave it, which is ever so much better than keeping on at it—and shirking it. The slave does not have this choice.’
Melas chuckled a little.
‘Some slaves,’ he remarked, ‘are like asses. They snap at their masters, and get slapped for it. They sit down and balk, and get themselves whipped and kicked. There’s no sense in that. And then there are some slaves that behave like camels; just keep going on, and taking it, no matter how they’re used’—Melas’ tone was getting noticeably metallic, to match his heavy scowl—‘and, one day—when the master is drunk, maybe—the poor beast pays him off.’
‘And then what?’ demanded Demetrius.
Melas shrugged, sullenly.
‘Then he’d better run away,’ he concluded. Presently he muttered an afterthought: ‘Not much chance for a camel. Once in a while a slave gets away. Three years ago’—Melas lowered his voice, though there was no need of this precaution as they were far at the rear of the procession, and the furtive quality of the Thracian’s tone hinted at a conspiratorial confidence. ‘It was on this same trip—three years ago. Commander Vitelius’ slave, as cheerful and obedient as anybody you ever met—Sevenus, by name—managed to lose himself the next to the last day in Jerusalem. Nobody knows what became of him.’ Melas stepped nearer and muttered out of the corner of his mouth: ‘Nobody but me. Sevenus left for Damascus. Wanted me to go along. Sometimes I’ve wished I had taken him up. It’s easy enough. We’re more or less on our own in Jerusalem. The officers have themselves a good time. Don’t want the slaves hanging about. Bad for discipline.’ Melas winked significantly. ‘The Centurions like to play a little.’
Demetrius listened without comment to this lengthy speech; and Melas, a bit anxious, searched his eyes for advice as to the safety of proceeding farther.
‘Of course, it’s no secret,’ he proclaimed, doffing his air of mystery. ‘Everybody at Minoa knows about it—all but what I just told you.’
Demetrius knew he was making a mistake when he asked the question that implied a personal interest in this matter, but the story had stirred his curiosity.
‘What made this fellow Sevenus think he had a chance of freedom in Damascus?’
Melas’ eyes relighted.
‘Why—Damascus is Syrian. Those people up there hate Rome like poison! The old city’s full of Roman slaves, they say; living right out in the open, too; making no attempt to hide. Once you get there, you’re safe as a bug in a donkey’s ear.’
***
Early next morning, their caravan broke camp and moved off through the bare hills over a winding road which narrowed frequently, in long ravines and deep wadies, to a mere bridlepath that raveled out yesterday’s compact pilgrimage into a single thread.
It was a desolate country, practically uninhabited. Small herds of wild goats, almost indistinguishable from the jagged brown rocks on the treeless hillsides, grouped to stare an absurd defiance of any attempted trespass upon their domain. In the valleys, the spring rains had fraudulently invited an occasional tuft of vegetation to believe it had a chance of survival. Beside a blistered water-hole a brave little clump of violets drooped with thirst.
Demetrius was finding pleasure in this stage of the journey. The landscape was uninspiring, but it refreshed his spirit to be out in the open and at a comfortable distance from the uncouth Melas whose favorite topic had become disquieting. There was little doubt but the Thracian was building up toward a proposal of escape; either that, or was harboring an even more sinister design to engage him in a conspiracy and then expose him. Of course, this suspicion might be quite unfair to the fellow; but it would be dangerous to take any risks. No matter what he, himself, might say to Melas, on this touchy matter, it could easily become a weapon in the garrulous Thracian’s hand, in the event he were to be miffed about something or made envious of the unusual privileges accorded to the Commander’s more fortunate slave. Demetrius had resolved to be painstakingly prudent in any conversation with Melas, and—as much as possible—avoid being alone with him. Besides, there was much to think about, left over from a discussion between Marcellus and Paulus, last night; a most provocative—and highly amusing—survey of the gods, conducted by two men who had no piety at all. A good deal of it had been shockingly irreverent, but undeniably entertaining.
Late yesterday afternoon, when the company had halted near a spring—on city property, a mile northeast of Ascalon—Demetrius had been happy to receive a summons to attend his master, for he had begun to feel lonesome and degraded. He was amazed at the smart appearance of the camp. Almost by magic the brown tents had risen in four precise rows, the commissary had unpacked and set up its field equipment, chairs and tables and bunks had been unfolded and put in order. Banners were flying. Sentries were posted. The local Roman representative—a seedy, unprepossessing old fellow, with the bright pink nose of a seasoned winebibber, accompanied by three obsequious Jewish merchants—came out to read and present an illuminated scroll which eloquently (and untruthfully) certified to Ascalon's delight that the famed Legion of Minoa had deigned to accept the city’s poor but cheerful hospitality. They had brought with them four huge wineskins bulging with the best of the native product, and were invited to remain for supper, after the Commander had formally replied—with his staff ranged stiffly to the rear of him�
��that Minoa was fully as glad to be in Ascalon as Ascalon was to entertain Minoa, which his slave considered deliciously droll.
After the evening meal had been disposed of, and his immediate duties performed, Demetrius had stretched out on the ground in the shadow of the Commander’s tent—a quite imposing tent, it was, larger than the others, trimmed with red flouncing, red silk curtains at the entrance, and a canopy over the doorway supported by slanting spear-shafts. With his fingers interlaced behind his head, Demetrius lay gazing up at the stars, marveling at their uncommon brightness, and effortlessly listening to the subdued voices of his master and Paulus, lounging in camp-chairs under the gaudy canopy. Apparently the visitation of the local dignitaries, who had now left for home, accounted for the conversation. Paulus was holding forth with the leisurely drawl of an amateur philosopher—benign, tolerant and a little bit tight. Demetrius cocked an ear. Occasionally, in such circumstances, a man imprudently spoke his honest convictions about something; and, if Paulus had any convictions, it might be interesting to learn what they were.
‘The Jews,’ Paulus was saying, ‘are a queer people. They admit it themselves; brag about it, in fact; no other people like them in the whole world. For one thing, they’re under a special divine protection. Their god, Jehovah—they have only one, you know—isn’t interested in anybody else but the Jews. Of course, there would be nothing positively immoral about that belief, if it weren’t for the fact that their Jehovah created the world and all its inhabitants; but has no use for any of the other people; says the Jews are his children. Presumably the rest of the world can look out for itself. If they’d just admit that Jehovah was a sort of local deity—’
‘Oh—but we do the same thing, Paulus; don’t we?’ rejoined Marcellus. ‘Isn’t Jupiter a sort of general superintendent of the universe, with unlimited jurisdiction?’
‘Not at all; not at all, sir,’ protested Paulus, lazily. ‘Jupiter hasn’t any interests in the Egyptians, but he doesn’t claim he made them what they are, and then despised them for being no better. And he never said that the Syrians are a lousy lot, for not lighting bonfires on his feast-day. And Jupiter never said he was going to see that the Romans had the best of it—all the time.’
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