CHAPTER XIV

“THOU WILT NEVER TAKE THE CITY”

The moon of a lovely autumnal night silvered the sleeping Roman camp that lay at the entrance of “the going up to Beth-horon.” Not a sound disturbed the silence, save the light tread of the vigilant sentinels pacing their rounds.

The array of black tents, glittering arms, and lofty standards, occupied a vast area, square in shape, and defended on all sides by an earthen rampart, and an outer trench filled with water from a neighboring stream--defenses made by a three-hours’ labor with mattock and spade, the whole army having toiled at the task. No matter how short their stay in a place--and the camping on the present occasion was for one night only--the Roman legionaries would never, at least in a hostile country, take their sleep till they had secured themselves from attack in the manner just described. Four gates, facing the four points of the compass, gave entrance to the camp, whose countless lines of tents crossing each other at right angles looked with the intervening spaces like the streets and squares of a well-planned city.

This military force was under the command of Cestius Gallus, imperial Legate of Syria, and its object was the restoration to Roman rule of the rebellious city of Jerusalem, sixteen miles distant.

The tent of the general-in-chief, or, to employ the Latin term, the prætorium, was pitched, according to immemorial custom, by the gate nearest to the enemy, in this case the southern one, as being on the side towards Jerusalem.

This tent, furnished in the simplest fashion and lighted by a lamp pendent from the roof, contained but one occupant, the Legate.

He was a man of about sixty years, grave and soldierly; his face at ordinary times had a look that showed him to be, in spite of his military profession, a man of a humane and kindly disposition; but now, and for many days past, there had been in his aspect something so stern and cold that the soldier about to ask a favor of his general shrank away, reserving the matter for another time.

The sudden entering of a man unannounced caused the Legate to look up with a frown.

“Who comes here?” said he, shading his eyes with his hand.

“A wise man and a fool.”

“How can that be, royal Polemo?” said Cestius, smoothing his brows as he recognized his visitor.

“He who is not a fool at times is never a wise man,” returned the Pontic king, taking his seat with an air that proved him to be on familiar terms with the Legate.

“You have returned from Achaia very quickly,” said Cestius.

“Twelve days on the sea going and coming. I doubt whether the double voyage were ever performed in so short a time. I found the god”--this with a sneer--“at Olympia.”

“You told him of the revolt?”

“All that I knew of it.”

“And his commands?”

Polemo drew forth a scroll of papyrus, secured with red wax and impressed with a seal which Cestius knew to be that of Nero. Breaking the seal, the Legate read the missive, first silently, and then, for the benefit of Polemo, aloud.

“Our faithful servant, Cestius Gallus, is herewith granted full liberty to deal with the rebellious city of Jerusalem in whatever way he deemeth best for the interests of the Roman republic.

“Given on this, the eighth of the Ides of September, in the twelfth year of our reign. NERO AUGUSTUS.”

“Liberty to deal with the city as I please?” exclaimed Cestius, a fierce fire sparkling from his eyes and a color lighting up his hitherto sallow cheek. “_Delenda est Hierosolyma!_ Not a man in it shall live. Its women and children shall be sold into slavery. I will give their temple to the flames and the city to destruction. Not one stone of it shall be left standing upon another. Jerusalem shall be blotted from the face of the earth.”

This threatened doom being the very end for which Polemo had been clandestinely working during a space of many years was received by him with secret rapture; nevertheless he could not help wondering why Cestius, usually humane in his dealings, should have become animated by a spirit so merciless. But now, as Polemo noticed, what he had not noticed before, namely, that the Legate was wearing a black pallium, the emblem of mourning, he was seized with a sudden suspicion.

“I am the last of my race,” said Cestius, answering the question expressed by the other’s eyes. “There is no son to carry on my name.”

“Say not that Crispus is dead!” gasped Polemo, whose look of grief could not have been keener if he, and not Cestius, had been the father. “Crispus dead! Then my plan for the humiliation of--Oh, it cannot be! How? When?”

“You shall learn. ’Tis the time for it,” said the Legate with a glance at a clepsydra that stood on the table before him.

“The time?” repeated Polemo wonderingly.

“Every night at this hour I strengthen my spirit in its purpose of vengeance by hearing anew from the mouth of an eye-witness the story of a massacre wrought by the lying oath of a cowardly priest.”

Even as he spoke the curtain draping the entrance of the tent was lifted, and there entered two spearmen leading between them a captive whose dress and physiognomy bore unmistakable evidence of his Jewish origin.

“A deserter from the city. Now, fellow, tell thy tale.”

Frequent repetition had made the captive fluent in his narration, so with an unfaltering voice and in a simple style he gave a full account of the calamitous ending to the brave defense of the Prætorium.

“Art certain that Eleazar’s was a fatal stab?” asked Polemo.

“It could not have been otherwise; he dealt stroke upon stroke,” replied the Jew, who saw no reason why he should not heighten the story of Eleazar’s cruelty. Lives there a man who can relate an event exactly as it happened?

“Woe to Eleazar!” said Cestius. “’Twere better for him had he never been born.”

“What became of the bodies of those that were massacred?” asked Polemo.

“They were taken outside the city to a place called Aceldama, where it is the custom to bury strangers. A trench was dug, and the corpses were flung into it, one upon another.”

“You saw the body of Crispus treated thus?”

And the man stating, not what had happened, but what he fancied had happened, answered in the affirmative.

“Flung into a common grave! Lost to me forever!” murmured Cestius. “I am denied even the melancholy consolation of taking home his ashes.”

* * * * *

With the morning light the Roman army, having breakfasted, prepared to resume its march.

At the first shrill sound of the trumpet the tents fell flat to the ground; at the second, which followed at a measured interval, they were piled with other baggage upon wagons and beasts of burden; at the third signal the march began, the vanguard filing off in stately order, eight abreast. Soon the whole of the vast army was in motion, winding like a glittering, scaly serpent up the mountain pass that led towards Jerusalem. Mounted scouts pushed on ahead for the purpose of forestalling those ambuscades which are the delight of an Oriental people.

Cestius, who rode in the center of the host with King Polemo by his side, became annoyed at the irregular movements on the part of the columns composing the vanguard, who for a time would maintain a march so brisk as to leave a long interval between themselves and the central division, and then, without any apparent cause, would come to a dead halt, moving on again a few minutes afterwards. At last a stop was made of such duration that it brought the whole of the army following to a standstill, thus tending to create a degree of confusion not often witnessed in the Roman ranks. Unable any longer to control his impatience, Cestius, setting spurs to his steed, galloped forward, bent on administering a sharp reproof to the tribune in charge of the vanguard.

On being questioned as to the cause of this long halt that officer referred his angry general to the tall and stately figure of a priest, standing a few paces in front of the first rank and bearing in his hand the short _lituus_ or augurial staff. It was Theomantes, priest of Jupiter Cæsarius, the one-time councilor of Florus, but now acting, and that at Cestius’ own wish, as the official augur of the Roman army. The Legate had a high regard for him, but when Theomantes, presuming on this regard, ventured to check the advance of the whole army, he was undoubtedly usurping the authority of the general, an act not to be tolerated.

“How now, Theomantes?” cried Cestius angrily. “Why this delay?”

“Seest thou yon eagle?” said Theomantes, pointing to an eagle in front of them, poised apparently motionless in the air.

“I see it. And what then?”

“’Tis the divine director of our march. When it advances, we advance; when it stops, we stop; for so will it be to our advantage.”

“And when it retreats, I suppose we must retreat,” sneered Cestius. “Shall a father, bent on the sacred duty of avenging his son, be stayed by a fowl of the air? Fellow, thy bow and arrow,” he cried, addressing a Cretan archer that stood by; and, having received what he had asked for, Cestius fitted a shaft to the string, and, taking aim at the eagle, let fly.

The shot was a good one; pierced by the arrow, the eagle dropped to the earth like a falling stone.

“Fools!” exclaimed the Legate scornfully, as he noticed the dismayed looks of the superstitious soldiers, “exercise your reason. If yon eagle had the power of foreseeing the future, would it not have kept far hence, and not have flown hither to meet its death by the arrow of Cestius?”

“Cestius Gallus,” said the augur, solemnly, “thou hast slain the messenger sent by Jove to direct our march. The wrath of the gods will be upon thee for this. _Thou wilt never take the city._”

With this he broke his augurial staff in two, and cast the pieces at Cestius’ feet; then, walking to the roadside, he seated himself upon a crag; and, covering both head and face with his mantle, in token of grief, he added: “Here will I abide till I see thee returning in headlong confusion.”

“I will prove thee a liar,” said the Legate fiercely. “Forward!” he continued, addressing the vanguard.

The Jews, gazing from the lofty ramparts of their city, beheld with secret fear the drilled legions of Rome ascending and descending “the hills that stand about Jerusalem,” and stationing themselves at every strategic point; their eyes, turn them which way they would, saw nothing but the glitter of the eagles; all retreat was cut off; the city was girt with a ring of steel.

As the house of Miriam, widow of Hyrcanus, was one of the highest on Mount Zion, and as Mount Zion was the highest of the four hills on which Jerusalem was built, it follows that the military display outside the city could not escape the notice of Crispus as he lay upon the roof. The sight filled him with patriotic pride, a pride enhanced by the knowledge that it was his father who led that mighty host; _he_ would not fail in the work; Rome would again vindicate her supremacy; and Eleazar and the false, cowardly crew that had taken part in the barbarous massacre of the garrisons would receive their merited doom. A pity he, Crispus, must lie here, unable to join in the coming fight!

Beside his pallet sat the gentle Vashti, her eyes on the Roman host.

“Your father will not take the city,” said she quietly; “at least, not at this time.”

Crispus, almost startled by her air of certainty, asked what reason she had for her belief.

“There are in this city,” replied Vashti, “a multitude of Christians over whom our Divine Master watcheth, for He is not dead but liveth eternally. Think you that He will permit His saints to fall by the sword of the Romans? I trow not; those guilty Jews who have hardened their heart against Him will receive their just doom; but of His disciples He saith, ‘There shall not a hair of your head perish.’ And therefore that we might know when the time is come for us to quit the city, He, while on earth, gave us this sign.” Vashti drew from her bosom a scroll of papyrus written in Greek characters, and read from it the following sentence: “‘_When ye shall see Jerusalem compassed with armies, then let them that are in the midst of it depart out._’”

“How can they depart out with a hostile army camping all round?” asked Crispus, captiously.

“How, indeed? Therefore it is necessary that this hostile army should be withdrawn for a time.”

“In order to give the Christians the opportunity to escape!” said Crispus with a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

Yes, that was her belief, and she had no other reason for it than a supposed prophetical passage in a book she called the Evangel! This was not the first time (for she had often talked to him about her religion) that Vashti had sought to connect her Divine Teacher with the course of contemporary events. In her view He was the central figure of the world’s history; old times pointed to His coming; new times were to flow from it. Present events were taking place for no other reason than to advance the interests of the new religion. The general Cestius was merely a passive instrument in the hands of the deified Galilæan; his march to Jerusalem was not to vindicate the majesty of Rome, but to serve as a Divine sign to the Christians, and, having played the part allotted to him, he was to march back again without taking the city! Crispus could scarcely listen with patience to a theory so fantastical.

A Cestius to retreat? Go to!

However, as Vashti quietly remarked in answer to his arguments, the event would decide.

“Is your father a cruel man?” continued she.

“Quite the contrary; for a soldier he is said to be too merciful.”

“Yet he has vowed to slay every man in the city, and to sell the women and children into slavery.”

“How know you that?”

“It is shouted at us by the enemy whenever they draw near the wall, and not by the common soldiers only: the centurions mock us with the same doom.”

“He thinks me dead, and hence his wrath. ’Tis a pity he should be in error. How it would gladden him to know that I am alive! Is there no way of communicating with him?”

Vashti reflected.

“I think,” said she, “I can contrive to let him know that you are living.”

“How?” asked Crispus, eagerly.

“If you will write a letter I will try to have it conveyed to him. I know a Christian youth, Heber by name, whom I have but to command, and he will perform this service for me. His house is upon the city wall. To get to the Roman camp he has but to lower himself by a rope. He can carry your message, but whether he can bring one back----”

“No. ’Twill be a dangerous business to be seen returning. Let him remain in the Roman camp. And tell him that whatever reward he likes to ask for--in reason--my delighted father will give. And now for stylus and papyrus.”

Vashti flew to procure writing materials, and Crispus, sitting up, proceeded to indite the following epistle:

“To the most excellent of fathers, greeting.

“Cast off your black pallium, and make a sacrifice to Jupiter the Saviour, for I, your son Crispus, am not, as you suppose, in Hades, but am lodged with the widow Miriam, whose house is in the street of Millo, abiding secretly for fear of the Zealots. That I have not sought to escape to the Roman camp is due to my enfeebled frame, which would not be living at all, but for the care and attention of a sweet maiden named Vashti.”

“You must delete the word _dulcis_,” said Vashti.

But this Crispus declined to do.

“Therefore should you take the city”--he put this hypothetically in deference to Vashti’s belief--“you must, as owing your son’s life to her, deal leniently with the nation to which she belongs, and show the mercy that pertaineth to an honorable Roman general. May we soon meet. _Vale!_”

He added the date, together with a strange sign that puzzled Vashti.

“A private mark,” he explained. “’Twill convince him of the authenticity of this little epistle.”

Later in the day Vashti went off with the letter; and, returning after an interval of two hours, was able to announce that Heber had undertaken the charge, but from due regard to safety he would not make the attempt till after nightfall.

Evidently he kept his word, for when Vashti visited his house next day his mystified kinsfolk declared that he had vanished during the night, deserting apparently to the Roman camp, since they had discovered a rope hanging from the window of his room.

Crispus from his place on the roof continued to watch with a lively interest the doings of the Romans.

Three days were spent by the Legate in perfecting his arrangements for the taking of the city; on the fourth day he advanced, delivering his attack from the north.

For five days the fighting went on, very much to the advantage of the Romans; at the close of the sixth day they had captured certain strategic points--a capture that made it manifest, even to those citizens least experienced in military affairs, that the morrow would bring with it the fall of the city.

Crispus, who had watched the operations with the trained eye of a soldier, remarked with filial pride: “My father will do in one week what took the great Pompey twelve weeks.”

But Vashti shook her pretty head mournfully.

That same night the remnant of the Sanhedrim and the captains of the Zealots met in the hall Gazith to deliberate upon their desperate situation. There was scarcely a man among them but believed the doom of the city to be a matter of a few hours only.

The once fierce Eleazar trembled now, remembering that it was _his_ hand that had struck down the Legate’s son. Though Cestius should be never so merciful to the rebels, there was one person at least whom he was certain not to spare.

Gloom and despondency marked every face but that of Simon; he alone maintained a bold front.

“To-morrow about this time,” said he, “Cestius will be in full retreat.”

“Yes, if the Messiah should descend from heaven to help us,” said Matthias, the high priest.

“Earthly means will suffice.”

“What is your plan, for you evidently have one?”

“Simply this; I shall go to Cestius and shall say to him, ‘Cestius, withdraw your legions,’ and he will withdraw them.”

“Have we need of madmen?” said Matthias, turning scornfully to Eleazar, “that you admit this fellow to our councils?”