CHAPTER II

THE BANQUET OF FLORUS

Early on the morning after his arrival at Cæsarea, Crispus was waited upon at his lodgings by Gessius Florus, procurator of Judæa, who, apprised of Crispus’ coming, lost no time in calling upon the son of the Syrian Legate, that Legate whose word was all-powerful in the East.

Previous knowledge had disposed Crispus to take an unfavorable opinion of Florus, an opinion that became strengthened on seeing the man himself. A shallow-minded Greek of Clazomenæ, and no true Roman, he had gained the procuratorship of Judæa, not through merit, but by the influence of his wife Cleopatra, who was a close friend of the reigning Empress Poppæa.

Florus, though born in Ionia, had little of the grace that is usually associated with that region, and had Crispus not known otherwise he might have taken the governor, with his round bullet head, furtive greenish-brown eyes, and heavy brutal jaw, for a member of that pugilistic fraternity whose feats with the cæstus were the delight of the lower orders among the Romans.

He was desirous that Crispus should form one at a grand banquet, to be held that night in the Prætorium, or procuratorial palace.

Crispus was about to decline the honor, when he thought of Athenaïs. For all he knew to the contrary she might be a resident of Cæsarea, and if so, her “royal blood” would certainly entitle her to an invitation. She might be among the guests. He would go, though it would be difficult, if not impossible, to recognize her.

Florus withdrew in apparent delight.

As for Titus, he departed that same day for Rome, embarking on the good ship _Stella_.

“There is no hope of my ever winning Berenice,” he said, though without assigning any reason for coming so suddenly to this lugubrious conclusion.

Before his departure, however, he did Crispus a good service by introducing him to a brave and worthy Roman, Terentius Rufus by name. He was the captain of the garrison stationed at Jerusalem, and had come with his cohort to Cæsarea to aid in the work of suppressing the riots that were almost certain to arise upon the coming publication of Nero’s edict relative to the precedency claimed by the Jews and the Greeks.

Terentius Rufus, like Crispus, had received an invitation to the banquet of Florus, and so, at the appointed time, the two presented themselves at the Prætorium.

Upon making their way to the hall appropriated to the feast, a hall called Neronium after the reigning emperor, they paused a moment at the entrance to contemplate the sight. The marble saloon, supported by porphyry columns and blazing with the radiance of a thousand lamps, was a scene of glitter, movement, and color. Sweet spices burned in gilded tripods; the rarest flowers glowed from sculptured vases; the ivory triclinia with their purple cushions, the lavish display of gold and silver plate, the rich dresses and jewels of the ladies, made a picture destined to live long in the memory of Crispus.

He marveled to see such splendor in the hall of a provincial governor.

“Whence does Florus obtain the wealth that enables him to make such a display?” he asked.

“There are others who would like an answer to that question,” replied Rufus, mysteriously.

“Where _is_ Florus?” asked Crispus, glancing around, and not seeing the procurator.

“Probably tickling his throat with a feather to produce a vomit,” answered Rufus, referring to the disgusting custom practiced by many Romans of that age for the purpose of creating an appetite. “You may trust him to do full justice to the banquet.”

Crispus was not slow to recognize among the guests that type of physiognomy which, graved on Egyptian monuments long ere Rome was founded, has continued almost unchanged to the present day.

“There are many Jews here to-night,” remarked he.

“And Jewesses, too,” replied Rufus; “and here comes the fairest of them all, leaning upon the arm of Florus. For a wonder he’s sober!”

There was a sudden cessation of tongues as a curtain that draped a certain archway was lifted by two bowing slaves to give entrance to the procurator.

Glancing around, Florus immediately caught sight of Crispus, and advanced to give him welcome. He was accompanied by a lady, none other than the Princess Berenice, and as Crispus quietly surveyed her, he thought it no wonder that Titus should have fallen in love with her at first sight. She had dark hair and dark starry eyes, and a face which, when radiant with a smile as it was at that moment, was perfectly dazzling in its loveliness. Her figure, which was as beautiful as her face, was appareled in a robe of purple silk, embroidered with flowers of gold and adorned with the costliest pearls.

She greeted Crispus with a sweet smile of recognition.

“Do not neglect me to-night as you did at Antioch,” she said half-jestingly, and then giving him a witching glance she passed on, with Florus, to her place at the banquet. While the procurator reclined at full length upon the triclinium, Berenice sat erect beside him, for the posture assumed by men at the banquet was deemed unbecoming in women.

Crispus and Rufus had places assigned them at the triclinium adjoining that of Florus, and upon the same couch with them reclined a shrewd-looking, keen-eyed man, who, so Rufus informed Crispus, went by the name of Tertullus, and was a distinguished forensic orator.

“Mark well his noble name,” said Rufus, laughingly. “Tertullus, thrice-Tully! What could be more suitable for an orator? Take my advice, Crispus,” continued he, “if you have a lawsuit while at Cæsarea, fail not to employ my friend Tertullus, who never undertook a case he did not win.”

“Save once,” corrected Tertullus. “Paul of Tarsus escaped the stoning we had marked out for him.”

“Ah! I am forgetting him. The dog, it seems, is a Roman citizen. He appealed to Nero, who let him off.”

“And what was the result?” commented Tertullus. “A few months later Rome was in flames, lit by the hands of his disciples. The wretches! Haters of mankind! I know of only one class of men more vile than they, and that is the sect of the Zealots, whose latest victim I am.”

“How mean you?” asked Rufus.

“Have you not heard? No? Well, a few days ago I was journeying from Jericho to the Jewish capital. Knowing the state of the country, I traveled in the company of an armed caravan that was going the same way. We took a long circuit northwards to avoid the dreaded Pass of Adummim; all to no purpose. Manahem and his Zealots, like vultures scenting their quarry afar, swooped down upon us. I was one of the few that escaped. When is Florus going to dispatch an expedition against that robber crew?”

“Did you lose aught?”

“Some gold plate, and--what I treasured above all earthly things--a myrrhine vase, so precious that I weep when I think of it.”

“Don’t think of it, then,” said Rufus. “Turn to a more pleasant theme, the Princess Berenice. She looks more charming and more youthful than ever to-night. Now, how old should you take her to be?” he continued, addressing Crispus.

“Not much past twenty,” he hazarded.

Rufus laughed pleasantly.

“Why, ’tis sixteen years ago since she married Polemo. She cannot be a day younger than thirty-eight.”

Crispus was surprised to hear it.

“There is many a young girl here to-night,” said he, “who looks older than the princess.”

“Berenice takes extreme pains to preserve her beauty,” remarked Rufus. “’Tis said that, like Poppæa, she bathes daily in asses’ milk to render her skin soft and supple.”

Florus now gave the signal for the feast, and there entered a train of pretty Greek maidens with baskets containing wreaths of flowers, for to dine ungarlanded would have been a departure from fashionable usage. Berenice chose a wreath of violets; Florus made a similar selection.

“The flower honored by a princess must be _my_ choice, too,” he whispered.

This little by-play did not pass unnoticed by Crispus.

“Florus is madly in love with her,” commented Rufus. “For the matter of that, who isn’t?”

“I thought that Florus already had a wife,” said Crispus.

“That’s no obstacle in these lax days, when a man takes a new wife with each year. It is whispered that Florus contemplates divorcing Cleopatra.”

“Where is Cleopatra at this present time?” asked Crispus.

“In Rome,” answered Tertullus, as he fixed a garland of roses upon his head, “looking after her precious husband’s interests. He takes advantage of her absence to pay court to Berenice, who cares not a whit for him, and intends no hurt to Cleopatra. Berenice is not to be too hastily condemned,” he continued, observing Crispus’ frown. “Her action in this matter, as in all others, is guided by two motives--love of her people, and love of her own superstition. Now, Florus, in the exercise of his procuratorship, can, if he be so minded, inflict injuries upon the Jewish people, and can also, though to a limited extent, interfere with the administration of their public worship. ‘But,’ argues our fair Berenice, ‘he is not likely to adopt these courses while seeking to win _me_, who am a Jewess. Therefore, for the good of the Jews I will amuse him with hopes.’ Now after this long speech,” added Tertullus, “let me eat. I can see the lampreys coming, and they are my favorite dish.”

And the delicacy being set before him, Tertullus applied himself thereto. After a time he raised his voice and addressed the procurator.

“I have myself, O Florus, given great attention to the breeding of lampreys, but I confess that I can never get them to attain the delicate flavor of those bred by you.”

Two or three other guests made similar remarks.

Florus smiled with the air of a man who, having discovered an excellent thing, is determined to keep it to himself.

“Now, it is precisely because I happen to know _how_ the delicate flavor is acquired,” whispered Rufus, “that I avoid partaking of that dish.”

“By the trident of Neptune,” said Tertullus, “I wish you would communicate the secret to me, for I am mightily fond of lampreys.”

“Well, keep it a secret, for Florus may not thank me for telling it. Whenever one of his slaves commits a fault worthy of death, the poor wretch, instead of being hanged, is flung into the piscina to feed the lampreys. By the gods, I do not jest,” he added, as he noted Tertullus’ look of incredulity. “Get his chief piscinarius into a corner, put a dagger to his throat, and he’ll confess that what I say is true.”

As the Roman law gave to a master the power of life and death over his slaves, Florus’ peculiar practice did not evoke from Crispus the abhorrence that the man of the twentieth century would express at such a deed. As for Tertullus, he even went so far as to intimate that he might adopt the practice himself.

“If a slave _must_ die,” argued he, “let him die in a way that will add to his master’s enjoyment.”

Crispus sought to change the subject of conversation by asking Rufus the name of the richly-clothed man who reclined on the left of Florus; he was a majestic-looking, dark-skinned personage, with hair and beard finely dressed. At the beginning of the feast he had drawn forth a little ivory casket, from which he had produced an asp that had immediately twined itself around his bare arm, and there it remained partaking occasionally of such morsels as its master chose to give.

“That,” replied Tertullus, “is Theomantes, the priest of Zeus Cæsarius, and a skilled diviner.”

“And the serpent he carries with him, if you are fool enough to believe it,” remarked Rufus, “is an incarnation of the great Zeus himself. You can see by the place assigned to Theomantes how highly he is esteemed. Every Roman governor nowadays must have a soothsayer in attendance upon him, and Florus would not be out of the fashion. It is this Theomantes who supplies our procurator with the liquid for his daily bath.”

“The liquid? What liquid?”

“Well, not water, which is good enough for common mortals like you and me, nor yet milk, which the fair Berenice finds so excellent a cosmetic. Florus’ taste runs in favor of blood.”

“_Blood!_” ejaculated Crispus.

“Even so. Do you not know that by some physicians blood is deemed very efficacious in strengthening the human frame when exhausted by debauchery? So our dear governor bathes daily in a sanguinary fluid drawn from the veins of oxen slain in sacrifice, his superstitious fancy disposing him to believe that there will be more virtue in blood of that sort. Oh, it’s not an uncommon practice, I assure you. We’ve even drawn from the Greek a name for it, calling it taurobolium.”

“Every man to his taste,” commented Crispus, dryly; and continuing his inquiries as to the guests, he asked, “Who is that fierce graybeard reclining next to Theomantes?”

“Ananias, son of Nebedeus, at one time high priest of the Jews,” replied Rufus.

“And a cheating knave!” commented Tertullus. “In his prosecution of Paul of Tarsus before Felix he employed me as advocate, and hath never yet paid me my fee. But I’ll be even with him.”

“Do you mark,” continued Rufus, “how, from time to time, Ananias glowers at Theomantes? He considers that he himself should be sitting next the governor.”

“He is welcome to the place for me,” laughed Crispus. “And who is the fair damsel beside him? His daughter?”

“Daughter me no daughter, forsooth!” returned Rufus. “That is Asenath, a Syrian dancing-girl, and his latest favorite.”

“I must reluctantly confess he hath a pretty taste,” said Tertullus; “she is a delicious armful.”

“And she is desirous, you see, that we should observe the fact,” remarked Rufus.

The girl in question was a lovely brunette, attired in a Coan robe which, even in that decadent age, was deemed a trifle too extreme, consisting as it did of silk so transparent in texture that the shapely limbs of the wearer could be seen as through colored glass.

And, be it observed, she was not the only female at the banquet thus diaphanously clad!

“That’s the girl,” continued Rufus, “to please whom he burnt in his own house the incense that it is not lawful to burn anywhere save upon the altar of the Jewish temple. And as she was once curious to view the Jewish worship, Ananias had the way from his house to the temple carpeted for her pretty feet, and canopied to shield her from the sun. And he himself was so fastidiously minded that he was accustomed to wear silk gloves at the altar to avoid soiling his dainty fingers with the blood of the sacrifices,[1] though why a Sadducee, such as he, should want to worship God at all is a mystery to me. In the opinion of Ananias man dies as a dog dies. It seems to me that a God who creates man from dust merely to turn him into dust again is scarcely deserving of worship. What say you?”

“Old Homer could have taught him better doctrine than that,” returned Crispus.

The conversation, it will be seen, was taking a theological turn; something of like sort was happening at the adjoining triclinium of Florus.

“I hate these Christians as much as you do,” remarked the procurator to Berenice. “But Nero hath taught us how to deal with them. And you say there are still some of this sect at Jerusalem? I had thought that my predecessor Albinus, in slaying James, the brother of this Christus, had put an end to these fanatics. You shall have your way, princess. Within a week of my coming to Jerusalem there shall not be a Christian left alive.”

“Now the gods confound these Christians!” said Tertullus aloud. “They grow daily wilder and madder in their blasphemies. They have now the effrontery to affirm that this Christus of theirs, who died in the eighteenth year of Tiberius Cæsar, was something more than a man, that this Galilæan peasant was in very truth a manifestation of the supreme deity, the creator of the universe, and the great TO PAN spoken of by the divine Plato.”

At these words there was on the part of Crispus a start as of surprise.

“When do you say this Christus died?” he asked somewhat quickly.

“In the eighteenth year of Tiberius Cæsar,” replied Tertullus.

“In what month?”

“On the fourteenth of Nisan, according to the Jewish calendar.”

“Which in our style would be the seventh of April,” explained Rufus, after a rapid mental calculation.

Crispus’ surprise seemed to deepen.

“And you say the Christians call their founder TO PAN? Strange!” he murmured.

“Why so?” asked Florus.

“I could tell a curious story of that month and year. But there! let it pass.”

“No, we must _not_ let it pass,” cried Florus, and thinking to do honor to Crispus, he said to those within his immediate vicinity, “Silence, friends, for the noble Crispus’ story.”

All eyes were bent upon Crispus, who hesitated for a moment, and then, seeing expectancy written upon the faces of the guests, he began:

“Well, since you will have it: At the time just mentioned, namely the month of April in the eighteenth year of Tiberius, there chanced to be upon the Ionian Sea a merchant vessel bound for Italy. It was eventide; the breeze had died away, and the ship lay becalmed off the Isle of Paxos. Suddenly the stillness that lay upon land and sea was broken by a voice coming from the lonely shore--a voice clear and solemn, and one that carried awe to all who heard it, for it seemed scarcely to belong to earth. ‘_Thamus!_’ it cried. Now the pilot of the vessel happened to be one Thamus, an Egyptian, a man of humble and obscure origin, and not so much as known by name to those on board. Full of fear, he let himself be called twice ere he would answer. At the third cry he found courage to ask, ‘What want you?’ And thus did the voice make reply: ‘When thou comest to Pelodes, cry aloud that the great Pan is dead.’ That was all; no more. The passengers, amazed and awed by the event, debated among themselves whether it would be wise to obey the mysterious voice. Thamus, himself, determined the matter: if on attaining the appointed place there should be wind enough to fill the sails, he would pass by in silence, but if not, he would proclaim the message. The breeze freshened, the ship glided on, but when they reached Pelodes it made no further progress, for the wind suddenly dropped again. Thamus, therefore, taking his stand upon the prow, turned his face to the land, and shouted in a loud tone, ‘_Great Pan is dead!_’ Then from the hitherto silent shore there arose a sound like the voice of a multitude, a sound as of weeping and wild lament.”[2]

Such was the story told by Crispus, and he finished with the odd feeling that the telling of it had pleased neither the Jewish nor the Gentile portion of his auditors.

“Whence do you derive this story?” asked Theomantes with a somewhat supercilious air.

“From my father, himself a passenger in this same vessel.”

“Who were they that made these sounds?”

“Beings more than mortal; of that he is convinced.”

“Gods and demons?”

“It may be so.”

“In a lamenting mood?”

“A wailing as of despair, so my father describes the sound.”

“Gods in despair at the death of someone? And this happened in Greece in the eighteenth year of Tiberius? Would you have us believe that the Christus crucified by Pilate and the ‘Great Pan’ of your story are one and the same, and that his death has caused the downfall of the gods?”

“I am hardly likely to adopt that explanation, believing as I do in the eternity of those gods by whose worship Rome has grown so great. The story is true, let the meaning be what it may,” added Crispus in a tone whose sharpness deterred Theomantes from making any further comment.