CHAPTER IV

THE DREAM OF CRISPUS

Tempted by the beauty of the starry night, as well as by the wish to be alone with his thoughts, Crispus passed from the banqueting hall, and sought the spacious gardens attached to the Prætorium, gardens that with their variegated parterres and smooth lawns, marble fountains and shady walks, differed little, if at all, from the aspect presented by a modern pleasaunce.

There is nothing new under the sun! Even the practice of forcing shrubbery to assume artificial shapes was not unknown to the ancients, and the boscage of these gardens presented at different points a variety of figures, graceful and grotesque.

Now, as Crispus walked meditatively along a quiet path he caught sight of a distant and solitary figure standing by a marble seat that gleamed white against a background of dark cypresses. Her face was turned from him, but there was something familiar in her form; the stature and shape suggested Berenice, and as he drew nearer he became certain of it. At the sound of his footsteps the figure turned, and dimly, beneath the gloom cast by the cypress leaves, he saw the face of Berenice--Berenice, yet with golden hair! He stopped short in surprise. Then in a moment the likeness that he had seen, or thought he had seen, vanished, leaving in its place--Vashti! He looked, but the resemblance was no more. A mere fancy wrought by his imagination and the dim light.

Vashti greeted him with a shy smile, and a blush due to the memory of the kiss that he had bestowed upon her.

She was awaiting, it seemed, the return of Josephus. He had left her there for a moment while he ran off to speak a word with Ananias, whom he had beheld in the distance.

Crispus looked round, but could see neither Ananias nor Josephus; in fact could see no one save the beautiful maiden beside him.

“I’ll act as your guardian till his return,” smiled he, as he seated himself and invited Vashti to do the like.

It was a beautiful night, with nothing to disturb its stillness save the far-off sounds of music and revelry coming from the Prætorium.

Their position, on ground slightly elevated, gave them a full view of the sea, a purple mirror reflecting in broken sparkles the light of a thousand stars.

To their left, and looking like a long white ribbon flung out upon the dark water, was the mole of Cæsarea, its far end adorned with the Drusion, a noble tower upon whose top a fire was flaming for the guidance of ships sailing into the harbor.

It was not, however, upon the Drusion that Crispus’ eyes were set, but upon Vashti. He longed to know something of her personal history, and the present occasion afforded him an excellent opportunity. The difficulty was how to begin. A patrician of Rome, who had in his time conversed unrestrainedly with princesses and queens, and even with the Empress Poppæa, he actually found himself embarrassed in the presence of this Hebrew maid of seventeen. There was something about her, a spirit of innocence and purity, that marked her off as altogether different from the women of that age.

However, having once contrived to begin a conversation he found it easy to maintain it, and ere long he succeeded in eliciting something of her parentage and history.

Her mother, it seemed, was a widow, Miriam by name, who had one other child only, an infant. Her father, Hyrcanus, had been a wealthy rabbi of some distinction. (“Clearly Tertullus was wrong,” thought Crispus, “in giving her a Grecian origin.”) Hyrcanus, at his death, an event of the previous year, had by will left his family and effects to the care of his friend Josephus, who thus exercised in relation to Vashti the office of guardian. She and her mother were staying for a brief space only at Cæsarea, their usual home being at Jerusalem, in the street of Millo. Miriam, a strictly orthodox Jewess, had been much opposed to her daughter’s going to a Gentile feast, but had finally yielded to the wishes of Josephus.

All this was told, not in her native Syro-Chaldaic, but in Greek; and Crispus did not know which was the more charming, the melody of her voice, or the grace and purity with which she spoke the beautiful language of Hellas.

“I learned the Greek from my father,” she explained in answer to Crispus’ question. “He trained me in it from infancy.”

Crispus marveled to hear of a Jew with views so unorthodox.

“According to my friend Rufus, your rabbis have said, ‘He who teaches his son Greek is as if he reared swine.’”

“_Some_ rabbis have said that. But my father belonged to the school of Gamaliel, who taught us to appropriate whatever is good among the Gentiles. The Greek language is good, and Josephus and I are availing ourselves of its treasures.”

“In what way?”

Instead of giving a direct reply, Vashti asked a seemingly irrelevant question.

“How old should you take our nation to be?”

As Hebrew history formed no part of the study of Roman youth, Crispus was fain to confess his ignorance.

“Well, how old is Rome?”

“More than eight hundred years,” he answered with conscious pride.

“Which proves your nation, when compared with ours, to be but of yesterday. We Jews were a people a thousand years before Romulus drew his plow along the Palatine.”

Crispus, jealous for the antiquity of his nation, was disposed to question Vashti’s statement.

“Why, you are as skeptical as Apion. You have heard of Apion?”

“No,” laughed Crispus. “Who was he?”

“A grammarian of Alexandria, and the author of a work intended to show that we Jews are quite a recent nation in the history of the world, a libel that has so wrought upon the spirit of Josephus that he is writing a reply, whose title is to be ‘_Contra Apion_.’”

“And you are aiding him in the work? Come, deny it not!”

Vashti smiled assent.

“I act as his amanuensis,” added she.

A Hebrew maiden of seventeen versed in Grecian literature was a novelty to Crispus. Curious to know whether her learning was anything more than superficial, he ventured, with her own consent, to subject her to a catechism derived from the reminiscences of a two-years’ curriculum in the schools of Athens, but soon relinquished the task on finding her knowledge far more extensive than his own.

“You have been questioning me,” said she with a smile, sweet yet grave, when he had finished. “Now may I claim a like privilege?”

“In order to demonstrate my ignorance,” laughed Crispus. “Well, I’ll put myself under examination. Be not too hard with me.”

Thus adjured, Vashti began.

“Why does your Greek poet Bianor, in commenting upon the fable of Arion, who was cast into the sea by the sailors but saved by the dolphins, say it is meant to teach us that ‘_By man comes death, but by the Fish salvation_’?”[5]

This, Crispus thought, was a very odd question. He had merely heard of Bianor as a poet living in the days of Tiberius; and that was the extent of his knowledge concerning him. As to the passage quoted by Vashti, it had no meaning for him. The words, however true of the fabled Arion, were scarcely applicable to mankind at large.

Over Vashti’s face there passed a shade as of sadness, momentary only, but it did not escape Crispus’ quick eye.

“I thought perhaps you might have comprehended,” said she. “Your story told to-night at the banquet, the story of ‘Great Pan,’ led me to hope that--that--no matter! I see now that I was wrong,” she added with a sigh.

Saddened because she found him unable to explain an obscure line of a Greek poet! Why, what an odd maiden was this! And the curious part of it all was, she refused to enlighten him; and hence he could not but conclude that Vashti had some secret to which the poet’s words were the key.

The conversation flowed on, and soon touched upon Jewish antiquity again. There were Jews, so Vashti averred, Josephus for example, who could carry back an authentic ancestry over a space of two thousand years. Crispus was wont to pride himself upon his ancient family, but what was its antiquity compared with such as these?

“And can _you_ show so long a genealogy?”

“My father Hyrcanus could.”

Crispus thought this a somewhat odd reply.

“But if _he_ could, so can _you_, seeing that you are his daughter.”

“Only those genealogies are deemed authentic that are inscribed on the public rolls. _My_ name is missing from them.”

“How is that?”

“Nay, I cannot tell, but such is the case. I discovered it but a few days ago. I was in the Archeion--the House of the Rolls, we call it--with its keeper Johanan ben Zacchai, who has always regarded me with fatherly affection. Moved by curiosity, I asked to be allowed to see my own name in the public genealogical records. ‘Well, to please you, my daughter,’ said he. So he brought out the rolls of papyrus and parchment; and after a long time, and much searching, he found the names of my father Hyrcanus, and my mother Miriam, but _my_ name he could not find, though my little brother Arad’s is recorded. So you see----”

The sound of approaching footsteps checked her utterance. On turning, Crispus and Vashti saw at a little distance a stately and beautiful figure that for a moment stopped short, apparently in surprise, at seeing the pair in such friendly converse. It was the Princess Berenice. Some instinct told Crispus that she was looking for him, and he beheld her with a sort of self-reproach. In spite of her half-jesting reminder that he should not, as at Antioch, neglect her, he had repeated his indifference; his only dealing with her had been to depose her from the proud position of being the first beauty of the land. What wonder, then, if she should feel somewhat hurt?

“I will leave you now,” murmured Vashti, making as if to rise.

“Nay, do not go,” said Crispus, venturing, all unconsciously, to lay a detaining hand upon her wrist.

Crispus wondered at her heightened color, and at the new light that came into her eyes. Was she pleased to think that he would not dismiss her, even in favor of a princess?

He withdrew his hand, but not before Berenice had noticed the action. Observant woman is doubly observant at such times.

“Will the Queen of Beauty,” said the princess with a slightly disdainful air, “permit me to share the conversation of the noble Crispus?” And, without waiting for a reply, she seated herself, as she spoke, at the left side of Crispus, Vashti being at his right.

“What is passing in the palace?” asked Crispus.

“The wit of Florus,” replied Berenice. “The wine hath got into his head. Like Nero, he thinks he can sing. But I was very good, and kept a grave face the while; nay, I even asked him to sing again, which pleased him hugely. I cannot say the same of his hearers.”

She laughed so pleasantly that Crispus was fain to laugh too.

And now there began on the part of Berenice a flow of talk that, sometimes witty, sometimes wise, was always interesting. She touched on topics grave and gay, from the government of the empire to the latest fashion in sandals, never failing to illumine the subject in hand with some subtle observation. She had the field all to herself, for Vashti was content to be a listener, while Crispus put in a remark now and again. It seemed almost as if Berenice, surmising that Crispus had found a fascination in Vashti’s conversation, had determined to display her own brilliancy. And certainly the character of both was a revelation to Crispus, who, accustomed hitherto, in the haughty and exclusive spirit of his race, to regard the Jews as an inferior nation, was agreeably surprised to find among these “barbarians” two women who, while equal in beauty to any Greek or Roman lady known to him, were certainly superior in intellect and charm.

“’Tis the first day of the new moon,” observed Berenice, suddenly.

“I see her not,” returned Crispus, glancing over the face of the sky, and thereby missing Berenice’s little frown. A foe to paganism, she did not like to hear personality ascribed to the moon.

“Its slender crescent is visible at Jerusalem, if not from here,” said Berenice. “_That_ tells me so.”

She pointed to a far-off peak upon the southern horizon, a peak upon which there had appeared a light no larger than a star. The sparkle was repeated at a point northward of the first; a third followed; and soon a whole line of fires was twinkling upon the hill-summits of Judæa.

“Our way of announcing the first day of the month,” explained Berenice. “So soon as the new moon is seen from a certain hill near Jerusalem by watchers appointed of the Sanhedrim for that purpose, the tidings is flashed by fire-signals throughout all the land. ’Tis an old custom lately revived by the high priest Matthias. But I will not weary you with matters in which a Roman can take no interest.”

“There you err, princess. My visit to Jerusalem--for thither am I bound--is undertaken for the sole purpose of seeing your temple.”

“You wish to see our temple?” exclaimed the princess in great surprise, “you, who at the banquet avowed yourself a worshiper of the gods of Rome! What interest can our temple have for _you_?”

“My interest is the outcome of a--a----”; he hesitated for a moment, and then added, “a dream.”

A statement so singular naturally evoked Berenice’s curiosity, and she begged him to tell the dream. Vashti, though she said nothing, was, as Crispus could see by her looks, equally curious to hear it.

“I wish now that I could recall my words,” said he, “for though it was but a dream, the telling of it may cause me to fall into disfavor with you both.”

That “both” was a distasteful word to Berenice, seeming, as it did, to imply that he thought as much of Vashti’s opinion as of her own. Evidently he did, for it was not till Vashti had added a persuasive word that he would begin his story.

“A few nights ago,” said he, plunging at once _in medias res_, “I seemed in my sleep to be standing in what appeared to be the court of some magnificent temple. This court, colonnaded on its four sides, was a spacious one and open to the sky. It was night, and the stars faintly twinkled. Before me at some distance rose the temple itself, an edifice constructed of pure white marble.

“The place was not quiet--far from it. Singular to relate, although no one was visible, the court seemed to be thronged with men. There was a running to and fro over the pavement, the clash and clang of arms, and the sound of warriors engaged in deadly fray. I laid hand to my sword, desiring to range myself on the one side or the other, but how could one take part in a combat like this--a combat of ghosts?

“Suddenly I became conscious of a glow; in front of me, upon a low balustrade, lay a flaming torch. As I looked at it a voice, seeming to come from the sky, cried in the Hebrew tongue, ‘_Burn!_’ and the flambeau shook itself as if impatient to be grasped. I hesitated. Again the voice cried, ‘_Burn!_’ in a tone so awe-inspiring that I durst not disobey. I lifted the burning brand, and tossed it through a golden window of the temple. A shower of sparks rose from within; next came a tongue of fire, leaping forth from the window; a little while and the whole structure was mantled with flame and smoke. At the same instant I awoke.”

Berenice’s dusky eyes, eloquent with a nameless fear, were set full upon the speaker’s face.

“Can you describe the temple seen by you in the vision?”

“I can shut my eyes now,” said Crispus, suiting the action to the word, “and recall every feature. I am standing on the north side of the temple; it extends east and west for a length of perhaps two hundred and fifty cubits. To enter it one must first pass a low balustrade of marble, curiously wrought, upon which stand little pillars engraved with a notice in Greek and Latin letters. I have a distinct remembrance in my dream of reading the notice. It forbade the Gentiles on pain of death from entering the shrine.”

Both Vashti and Berenice gave a faint cry of surprise.

“Did you speak, princess?”

“No, no! Go on. What next?” she asked breathlessly.

“After passing the balustrade one has the choice of four gates, each ascended by a stately flight of stairs fifteen in number. Of these gates, three, situated near the western end, are near each other; the fourth stands far remote towards the eastern end. Each gate consists of two folding doors, crusted with gold and silver, and is flanked by massive towers.” He paused for a moment, and resumed: “I related this vision to my father, who was as much startled, princess, as you appear to be. ‘What you have seen,’ said he, ‘is the temple at Jerusalem.’ Can you wonder, then, that I desire to take a view of it?”

“And did you know nothing of the interior of our temple till the time of this dream?” asked Berenice.

“Absolutely nothing, I pledge you my solemn word. I was, of course, aware that Jerusalem contained a notable temple resorted to by devout Jews out of every nation under heaven, but that was the total extent of my knowledge. Not a single detail of its architecture was known to me.”

Berenice seemed perplexed, even troubled.

“Strange! whence comes this dream of yours?” she murmured.

“You do not doubt the vision?”

“How can I, since you affirm it to be true?”

“You admit that my description is correct?”

“It cannot be gainsaid.”

“Well, then, since it is beyond the power of the human mind, whether sleeping or awake, to gain such knowledge as I gained at that time, shall I offend you by saying that the vision was directly vouchsafed to me by the immortal gods?”

“The gods?” returned the princess with a touch of disdain in her voice. “The gods? The gods of you Gentiles have no existence. There is but one true and living God.”

“Have it so,” replied Crispus, who seemingly could tolerate reflections upon his religion much more easily than Berenice could upon hers. “Shall we say, then, that the vision was sent by your own deity?”

“Impossible! Would He Who has enjoined upon us the perpetual worship of Himself give command to destroy the one and only temple in which that worship is carried on?”

“He might,” observed Vashti, “if He purposed to make His religion more spiritual. Pure religion requires neither temple nor altar.”

“There speaks one who is no true daughter of Abraham,” retorted Berenice.

“Nay, princess, it is because I _am_ a daughter of Abraham that I say it, for what temple did Abraham have?”

Berenice, about to make an angry retort, was checked by Crispus.

“We are drifting from the primary question,” said he, “which is, whence came my dream? That dream was plainly a supernatural one.”

“Whence?” returned Berenice. “Whence but from the kingdom of evil? There are wicked spirits as well as good, and the prince of them is named Satan, who would rejoice if he could but persuade a Roman to destroy the temple. I pray you, noble Crispus,” she continued, with considerable emotion, “dismiss this dream from your mind, lest by dwelling overmuch upon it you should come to believe that you have a Divine mission to destroy the temple.”

“It may be that I have.”

Crispus spoke with the grave air of one who believes in the truth of his words. For a moment the princess gazed at him, speechless with consternation. Recovering her voice, she cried indignantly:

“What good could come from such a deed?”

“Much--to Rome!”

“How?”

“That temple,” said Crispus, speaking in a cold, deadly tone that set Berenice shivering with terror, for she loved her temple more than her life, “that temple draws annually to its courts three million Jews, all animated by a fierce hatred of Rome, and all fanatically persuaded that One born in Judæa shall obtain the dominion of the world. You know it is so, princess; you cannot deny it. Your temple is a perpetual menace to the safety of the empire. Destroy the temple, and we put an end to these annual gatherings with their vain and treasonable hopes.”