CHAPTER XVI

THE AMBITION OF BERENICE

More than two years and a half had now passed since the disastrous retreat of Cestius, and during all that time no Roman legion had come within sight of Jerusalem.

Vespasian, the successor of Cestius, had first directed his arms against Galilee, almost every city of which was in a state of rebellion.

Thanks to the spirit and activity displayed by the warrior-historian Josephus, as well as to the situation of the Galilean cities, most of which were built upon hill-tops and almost inaccessible crags, the campaign was prolonged for more than a year.

Then came a long interval of inactivity, due to a series of revolutions taking place at Rome, the seat of the government. Within the space of a single year the throne of the Cæsars was occupied in turn by a series of ambitious generals, the self-murdered Nero having been succeeded by Galba, by Otho, and by Vitellius.

During these political crises Vespasian was under the necessity of having his position as commandant in Judæa successively recognized and confirmed by each new Cæsar, and as this was a matter requiring much time, it led to frequent pauses in the campaign, a state of affairs very much to the advantage of the revolutionary factions in Jerusalem.

The Roman army destined to act against the holy city had formed a huge camp upon the seashore at a point a few miles to the north of Cæsarea, and here day by day with unfailing regularity the iron warriors of Rome went through those evolutions and exercises that had made them the masters of the world.

This similitude of war naturally attracted crowds from the neighboring region. It became quite a custom with the fashionable Greeks of Cæsarea to take their morning promenade along the seashore for the purpose of witnessing a spectacle as thrilling almost as the contests at Olympia or the combats of the amphitheater.

One fair, sunny morning in the month of June, just as the legions were beginning their daily drill, under the personal inspection of Vespasian and his son Titus, there drove up a magnificent chariot, which, by the grace of the lictors, was given a place considerably nearer to the exercising troops than was allowed to the ordinary spectator, for the occupant of the chariot was none other than the fair princess Berenice, who was paying her first visit to the Roman camp.

No sooner had Titus detected her presence upon the field than he at once made his way to her side. His look and voice alike told how much he was enamored of the fascinating princess, who at the age of forty had, like Cleopatra, all the grace and beauty of youth.

“Princess, you seem sad to-day,” said he, after an interval of silence. “Of what are you thinking?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, with a tantalizing little sigh, “perhaps of Crispus.”

“Why do you torment me with the name of a rival who is dead?”

“_Is_ he dead?” said Berenice. “True, nothing has been heard of him since he parted from Terentius Rufus at Antipatris.”

“And that is more than two years ago. The ban put upon him by Nero has been revoked. If he be alive why does he not show himself, since he has nothing now to fear?”

“Except the being claimed by a wife whom he does not like,” said Berenice with a silvery laugh, and a glance at the house called Beth-tamar, which, seated on a lofty crag, was plainly visible from the camp.

“Princess,” said Titus, with a tender look, “if Crispus should ever return it will mean to me----”

Berenice raised her finger with a witching smile.

“Ah me! Now you are going to make love again. We shall never be friends, if you do that. Let me watch your Romans. They interest me.”

The air at that moment was all alive with the crisp, sharp commands of tribune, and centurion, and decurion.

The exercises performed by the Romans comprehended feats in running, leaping, wrestling, swimming, sword-play, hurling the pilum--everything in short that could add strength to the body or tend to success in war.

Here, Cretan archers, having set up their targets, were demonstrating the deadly accuracy of their aim. There, Balearic slingers were discharging their leaden bullets, which not infrequently melted with the heat engendered by the swift rush of the missile through the air; here, a body of soldiers was busily engaged in bridging within a given time a broad sheet of water; there, a group were vigorously occupied in storming a wooden fortress, whose defense was as vigorously maintained by a garrison of fellow-Romans.

“Why, it is like war itself,” said Berenice, fascinated by the spectacle.

“So like, that it is the fashion of the soldiers to call the exercise a bloodless battle, and the battle a bloody exercise.”

“Where are these men going?” she asked as a certain cohort tramped past at full speed.

“They are marching to Dora and back.”

“That is not very hard work.”

“You think so, princess. But mark that each soldier is carrying the full equipment customary in war time, consisting of various utensils, as well as victuals for fifteen days, the whole amounting to sixty pounds’ weight, not including arms, for the Roman soldier considers these, not as a burden, but as a part of himself. Weighted thus, he is to march in this burning sunlight to Dora and back, the double journey being a distance of twenty miles, and he is to do it within five hours. If this be not hard work, what is?”

“And supposing they should take more than five hours?”

“Terentius Rufus, who rides at their head, will see to that.”

“But if they should fail?”

“He will punish them.”

“And what will the punishment be?”

“It takes various shapes. Yon cohort, as is shown by the carrying of the eagle, is the First Cohort of the legion. They may be degraded by being compelled to resign the eagle, and to take the second place; or their diet for the week may be barley bread instead of wheaten; or they may be excluded from their tents, and made to sleep at a distance from the camp.”

“How often do the troops practice these exercises?”

“Every day of the year.”

“But when a soldier has learned his work?”

“He goes on practicing just the same. Let a man have been forty years in the army, that fact will not exempt him from the daily exercise. And mark this: every weapon you see in use now, every helmet, breastplate, and shield, is double the weight of those used in actual warfare.”

Berenice opened her eyes in wonder.

“Why, a battle must be an easier matter than the daily exercise!”

Titus laughed.

“The soldier would much prefer a battle,” said he.

Berenice spoke no more for a long time; so long that Titus began to see from her rapt expression that some momentous thought was occupying her mind.

“I am thinking,” said she, in reply to his questioning, “I am thinking what _I_ would do with these troops, were they mine.”

“And what _would_ you do with them, princess?” asked Titus with a smile.

Instead of replying directly to this, Berenice put a question.

“Is not your father Vespasian a skillful general?”

“He hath no equal in the art of war; it is not I only who say this, but others.”

“And he is liked by all the legions, near and far?”

“Liked is but a feeble word to express his hold over them.”

“But he is somewhat lacking in ambition?”

“Ambition is apt to die with the sixtieth year.”

“But his son Titus is ambitious, and being so, and having great influence over his father, should act as a spur to his mind.”

“Princess,” said the puzzled Titus, “to what does all this tend?”

“I am thinking,” said Berenice, watching him keenly from beneath the dark fringe of her half-closed eyelids, “I am thinking what a pity it is that the great Vespasian should be serving Cæsar, when he might be Cæsar himself. The present emperor Vitellius can show no hereditary title to the imperial throne; an ambitious general, he gained the purple by fighting for it. Why should Vespasian not do the like?”

It was a startling suggestion, so startling as almost to deprive Titus of breath. He glanced at the charioteer, who stood by the horses’ heads--glanced in fear lest the man should have overhead Berenice’s treasonable remarks, despite the low tone in which they were spoken.

“When Titus can call himself Cæsar’s son,” she whispered, “then will Berenice listen to his love--not till then. Go,” she added, with a little peremptory wave of her hand. “Ponder it well!”

Left to herself, the princess, sinking back upon the silken cushions of her chariot, indulged in a pleasing reverie.

“The idea is new, and it frightens him,” she murmured with a somewhat contemptuous smile. “But he will grow used to it. I have sown the seed in his mind, and it will grow and bear fruit.”

Daringly original in all her ways, Berenice had often embarked upon some political enterprise which, pronounced by her more sober-minded brother Agrippa to be impracticable, had nevertheless met with brilliant success. Would she succeed in this, a more daring venture than any she had hitherto dreamed of? Why not? All things are possible to the brave, and why should not the brave Vespasian, the idol of the legions, prevail against the feeble-minded Vitellius, whose follies were daily alienating the loyalty of the nations?

The chief obstacle in the way was honest old Vespasian himself; he might refuse to listen to the voice of the charmers, Berenice and Titus, charm they never so wisely. But, if otherwise, and if the enterprise succeeded, what glory would be hers!

Even now it filled her with pride to think that she was, in a manner, the mistress of all the troops she saw exercising before her. Recover Jerusalem they might, and would; but destroy it--never! Thanks to her influence over Titus, the holy city would be spared from dilapidation, the temple preserved from the torch. She was the new Esther destined to save the Hebrew nation from destruction--destined, too, if Titus would but exercise his ambition, to be the empress of the world, the mother, it might be, of a line of Cæsars, all adherents of the Jewish faith!

And if Cæsar were once the disciple of Moses, the conversion of the world would follow.

In the midst of these brilliant dreams her ear caught the sound of a quiet footfall; and, turning her head, she saw--Crispus!

She gave a start, as was natural in one who supposed him dead, or at the least to be hundreds of miles away. Crispus, keenly attentive, fancied he could detect on her face an expression akin to dismay; at any rate it was an expression very different from her tender, lovable look in the Prætorium when she had avowed her wish to stay and die with him.

“I have startled you, princess.”

“You are as one returning from the dead,” she said with a faint smile.

“And the dead are not always welcome visitors.”

Then for a brief space there was a silence, during which both seemed to be reflecting.

“What do you here?” she asked.

“Would it surprise you, princess, were I to say that I am seeking my wife?”

“Your wife?” repeated Berenice, in her eyes an odd look as of fear, at least that is how Crispus interpreted it. “Your wife?”

“You did not perhaps know that I had a wife?”

“If you keep the matter a secret from the world how is one to know it? What is her name?”

“You do not know it?”

“How should I?” replied Berenice with a touch of impatience in her voice.

“I cannot tell you her name, seeing that it is unknown to me.” This answer seemed to afford some satisfaction to Berenice. “Nay, I have never yet seen my wife’s face.”

“You are telling me strange things,” laughed Berenice. “I pray you, my lord Crispus, mystify me no farther, but speak plainly.”

“Why, so I will.”

Leaning with folded arms upon the broad brim of the chariot, and looking directly into the eyes of Berenice, who seemed helplessly fascinated by his gaze, Crispus proceeded to relate the story of his marriage.

“As,” concluded he, with a glance at the distant Beth-tamar, “as it was in this neighborhood that I first met Athenaïs, I naturally turn to this neighborhood in the hope of again meeting her here.”

“And you do not really know who this Athenaïs is?”

“I do not. As you doubtless know, King Polemo died suddenly, a year ago; and, unfortunately for me, died without revealing the secret. But the three years’ limit is now past, and it is therefore permissible for Athenaïs to reveal herself by sending me the ring.”

“And if she chooses _not_ to reveal herself, you may never know whom you wedded.”

“That is so.”

“I greatly fear,” said Berenice with a grave shake of her head, “that your unknown bride will prefer to keep herself hidden from you.”

“Why should she so act? She was not coerced into the match. She accepted me of her own free will.”

“True, but reflect that you are not the great Crispus of her anticipation. She wedded you in the hope of sharing the crown of Pontus, and that hope is now extinguished, Pontus having become annexed to the empire.”

“Your opinion then is that a woman should take for her husband one well endowed with material advantages, and that should he, through misfortune, lose these advantages, the woman is justified in discarding him?”

“Though woman may not profess that doctrine with her lips,” smiled Berenice, “she’ll carry it out in practice. But answer me this: should you, by happy chance, discover your wife, would you keep her against her will? Would you not grant her a divorce, if such were her desire?”

Crispus gravely shook his head.

“She cannot part from me, nor I from her, for be it known to you, O princess, that I am a Christian, and a Christian can be separated from his wife by death only.”

Tidings so unexpected caused Berenice to draw a sharp breath. Her look of horror could not have been greater if Crispus had suddenly announced himself as a deadly leper.

“_You, a Christian!_” she gasped.

“The name is displeasing to you, I know; so it was once to me. If you will hear me----”

She cut him short with an imperative gesture.

“I have had the chief exponent of Christianity, Paul of Tarsus, lecturing in chains before me; where _he_ failed, _you_ can hardly hope to succeed. Go!” she exclaimed, disdainfully waving him away with her hand as though he were a slave or some other inferior creature. “Yet stay! one question I will ask,” she continued with a certain uneasiness of manner that did not escape Crispus’ notice. “In what light do you, as a Christian, regard the holy temple?”

“As an obstacle to the progress of Christianity,” he replied significantly, as he turned on his heel and walked quietly away. “Veni, vidi, _non_ vici,” he murmured sorrowfully.

Berenice watched him with a strange fear at her heart.

“A Christian,” she murmured; “and one who hates the temple! Now, if he should accompany the legions to Jerusalem how easy for him, when they are camping against the holy house, to fulfill his dream by throwing a lighted torch through its windows. If _that_ be his aim, I will foil it. He shall not be permitted to take part in the siege. Titus shall prevent him from joining the army. I have but to say the word and Vespasian will banish him from Palestine.”

Meanwhile, Crispus, suspecting something of Berenice’s intentions towards him, and resolving to forestall her, walked along the shore intent upon finding Vespasian, with whom he had always been a great favorite.

He found that general joining in the exercises like a common soldier, one of the ways by which he maintained his popularity with the troops.

A burly, bluff, red-faced man he looked less like a warrior than some honest old farmer who had just for sport’s sake put on the scarlet paludamentum of a general.

He greeted Crispus right heartily, and wanted to know where he had been hiding himself so long, a question which by the way Berenice had not thought of asking. So Crispus related how upon his proscription he had taken refuge with the Christians first at Pella and then at Antioch, and how, whenever he was in danger of being detected by the minions of Nero, the brethren would convey him by devious routes to some other Christian community; and how, in the end, convinced by infallible argument that theirs was the true and only religion, he himself had joined the sect.

“A good soldier marred!” growled Vespasian, on hearing this last. “My cousin Flavius Clemens is a Christian. An excellent character once, but now look at him! Takes no interest in state affairs or military matters. This world is nothing to him. A woman and no man! mild-mannered, lacking in spirit and backbone.”

“There is no reason, sire, why a Christian should not be a good soldier. As a matter of fact, I have come hither to ask for a place in the army that is to be sent against Jerusalem; I care not how humble the post so long as it puts me in the forefront of the battle.”

“Now, that’s the way to talk,” cried Vespasian delightedly. “A place in the army? You shall have it. There’s a post waiting for you. The First Cohort of the Twelfth Legion hath lost its tribune.”

“Dead?” asked Crispus.

“Dead! No! Degraded! ’Twas but a few days ago he received his baton. Yesterday he came to me, reeking with perfumes. Ye gods! is it a soldier’s business to be perfuming himself. ‘I would rather you had smelled of garlic,’ I cried. ‘Return to the ranks.’--You shall captain that cohort. You have heard of the Twelfth Legion before, eh? ’Twas one of those that fled at Beth-horon. They are longing to redeem their lost character. You shall show them how. You accept the post? Good! Come with me and let me show the First Cohort its new tribune.”

As they made their way along the shore two figures came walking slowly towards them. One was a legionary, wearing an armlet to which was attached a chain, two cubits in length, its other end being fastened to a similar armlet clasped round the wrist of a somewhat distinguished-looking personage.

It was a Jewish captive and his Roman guard.

The prisoner saluted Vespasian; and, as if well acquainted with Crispus, gave him a friendly smile.

Crispus gazed, and then suddenly recognizing the captive he there and then tendered him a warm thanksgiving; for the captive was none other than Josephus, the man who had been instrumental in saving his life by begging his supposed corpse from Eleazar.

When Josephus had resumed his walking, Vespasian remarked:

“Of all the rebels who fought against us in Galilee that man was the most valiant. When he was taken prisoner I had much ado at first to keep our soldiers from killing him.”

“I deemed him to be more of a scholar than a warrior.”

“He can handle both pen and sword, and he hath also prophetical gifts.”

Crispus was naturally somewhat surprised at this last observation.

“What prophecy hath he made?”

“Why, this. Though he so bravely defended Jotapata against us, he nevertheless told its inhabitants that the city was destined to be taken on the forty-seventh day of the siege, and so it came to pass. Oh!” he continued in answer to Crispus’ look of skepticism, “I know it to be true, for I made careful inquiry among the captives, and all testified that from the very beginning Josephus had foretold that Jotapata would fall on the forty-seventh day.”

What was very wonderful to Vespasian seemed simple enough to Crispus. If Josephus, as was very likely, had formed the secret purpose of going over to the Roman side, it would not be difficult for him to prolong the defense of such a rock-fortress as Jotapata till the forty-seventh day. The character gained as prophet on this occasion might stand him in good stead with the Roman general; in point of fact it had already so served him. Crispus could not help thinking that the man to whom he had so much reason to be grateful, was, nevertheless, a somewhat ambiguous character.

Glancing along the shore, Crispus saw that the “prophet” had halted in his walk by the chariot of Berenice, and was now conversing both with that princess and with Titus. As the three were holding their heads close together it may be inferred that the conversation was a very important one.

Its purport became apparent to Crispus ere many hours were past.