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on seeing him, since he still adhered to the wearing of the stately toga, which in the first century was fast becoming superseded by the Grecian tunic; moreover, the ring on his finger was not of gold, but of iron, in accordance with ancient usage.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!_”