Читать книгу The Robe - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 5

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After the tipsy little ship had staggered down past the Lapari Islands in the foulest weather of the year, and had tacked gingerly through the perilous Strait of Messina, a smooth sea and a favorable breeze so eased Captain Manius’ vigilance that he was available for a leisurely chat.

‘Tell me something about Minoa,’ urged Marcellus, after Manius had talked at considerable length about his many voyages: Ostia to Palermo and back, Ostia to Crete, to Alexandria, to Joppa.

Manius laughed, down deep in his whiskers.

‘You’ll find, sir, that there is no such place as Minoa.’ And when Marcellus’ stare invited an explanation, the swarthy navigator gave his passenger a lesson in history, some little of which he already knew.

Fifty years ago, the legions of Augustus had laid siege to the ancient city of Gaza, and had subdued it after a long and bitter campaign that had cost more than the conquest was worth.

‘It would have been cheaper,’ observed Manius, ‘to have paid the high toll they demanded for travel on the salt trail.’

‘But how about the Bedouins?’ Marcellus wondered.

‘Yes—and the Emperor could have bought off the Bedouins, too, for less than that war cost. We lost twenty-three thousand men, taking Gaza.’

Manius went on with the story. Old Augustus had been beside himself with rage over the stubborn resistance of the defense—composed of a conglomeration of Egyptians, Syrians, and Jews, none of whom were a bit squeamish at the sight of blood, and never took prisoners and were notoriously ingenious in the arts of torture. Their attitude, he felt, in willfully defying the might of the Empire demanded that the old pest-hole Gaza should be cleaned up. Henceforth, declared Augustus, it was to be known as the Roman city of Minoa; and it was to be hoped that the inhabitants thereof, rejoicing in the benefits conferred upon them by a civilized state, would forget that there had ever been a municipality so dirty, unhealthy, quarrelsome, and altogether nasty as Gaza.

‘But Gaza,’ continued Manius, ‘had been Gaza for seventeen centuries, and it would have taken more than an edict by Augustus to change its name.’

‘Or its manners, either, I daresay,’ commented Marcellus.

‘Or its smell,’ added Manius, dryly. ‘You know, sir,’ he went on, ‘the crusty white shore of that old Dead Sea is like a salt lick beside a water-hole in the jungle where animals of all breeds and sizes gather and fight. This has been going on longer than any nation’s history can remember. Occasionally some animal bigger than the others has shown up, driving all the rest of them away. Sometimes they have ganged on the big fellow and chased him off, after which the little ones have gone to fighting again among themselves. Well—that’s Gaza for you!’

‘But the salt lick,’ put in Marcellus, ‘is not at Gaza; but at the Dead Sea.’

‘Quite true,’ agreed Manius, ‘but you don’t get to the Dead Sea for a lick at the salt unless Gaza lets you. For a long time the lion of Judah kept all the other animals away, after he had scared off the Philistine hyenas. Then the big elephant Egypt frightened away the lion. Then Alexander the tiger jumped onto the elephant. Always after a battle the little fellows would come sneaking back, and claw the hides off one another while the big ones were licking their wounds.’

‘And what animal came after the tiger?’ prodded Marcellus, though he knew the answer.

‘The Roman eagle,’ replied Manius. ‘Flocks and swarms of Roman eagles, thinking to pick the bones; but there were plenty of survivors not ready to have their bones picked. That,’ he interrupted himself to remark, ‘was how we lost three-and-twenty thousand Romans—to get possession of the old salt lick.’

‘A most interesting story,’ mused Marcellus, who had never heard it told just that way.

‘Yes,’ nodded Manius, ‘an interesting story; but the most curious part of it is the effect that these long battles had upon the old city of Gaza. After every invasion, a remnant of these foreign armies would remain; deserters and men too badly crippled to travel home. They stayed in Gaza—a score of different breeds—to continue their feuds.’ The Captain shook his head and made a wry face. ‘Many will tell you of the constant quarreling and fighting in port cities such as Rhodes and Alexandria where there is a mixed population composed of every known tint and tongue. Some say the worst inferno on any coast of our sea is Joppa. But I’ll vote for Gaza as the last place in the world where a sane man would want to live.’

‘Perhaps Rome should clean up Gaza again,’ remarked Marcellus.

‘Quite impossible! And what is true of old Gaza is equally true of all that country, up as far as Damascus. The Emperor could send in all the legions that Rome has under arms, and put on such a campaign of slaughter as the world has never seen; but it wouldn’t be a permanent victory. You can’t defeat a Syrian. And as for the Jews!—you can kill a Jew, and bury him, but he’ll climb out alive!’ Noting Marcellus’ amusement, Manius grinningly elaborated, ‘Yes, sir—he will climb right up the spade-handle and sell you the rug he’d died in!’

‘But’—queried Marcellus, anxious to know more about his own job—‘doesn’t our fort at Minoa—or Gaza, rather—keep order in the city?’

‘Not at all! Hasn’t anything to do with the city. Isn’t located in the city, but away to the east in a most desolate strip of desert sand, rocks, and scratchy vegetation. You will find only about five hundred officers and men—though the garrison is called a legion. They are there to make the marauding Bedouins a bit cautious. Armed detachments from the fort go along with the caravans, so that the brigands will not molest them. Oh, occasionally’—Manius yawned widely—‘not very often—a caravan starts across and never comes back.’

‘How often?’ asked Marcellus, hoping the question would sound as if he were just making conversation.

‘Well—let’s see,’ mumbled Manius, squinting one eye shut and courting on his battered fingers. ‘I’ve heard of only four, this past year.’

‘Only four,’ repeated Marcellus, thoughtfully. ‘I suppose that on these occasions the detachment from the fort is captured too.’

‘Of course,’ drawled Manius.

‘And put into slavery, maybe?’

‘No—not likely. The Bedouins don’t need slaves; wouldn’t be bothered with them. Your Bedouin, sir, is a wild man; wild as a fox and sneaking as a jackal. When he strikes, he slips up on you from the rear and lets you have it between your shoulder blades.’

‘But—doesn’t the garrison avenge these murders?’ exclaimed Marcellus.

Manius shook his head and drew a crooked grin.

‘That garrison, sir, does not amount to much, if you’ll excuse my saying so. None of them care. They’re poorly disciplined, poorly commanded, and haven’t the slightest interest in the fort. Ever so often they have a mutiny and somebody gets killed. You can’t expect much of a fort that sheds most of its blood on the drill-ground.’

That night Marcellus felt he should confide his recent information to Demetrius. In a quiet voice, as they lay in their adjacent bunks, he gave his Corinthian a sketch of the conditions in which they were presently to find themselves, speaking his thoughts as freely as if his slave were jointly responsible for whatever policy might be pursued.

Demetrius had listened in silence throughout the dismaying recital, and when Marcellus had concluded he ventured to remark laconically, ‘My master must command the fort.’

‘Obviously!’ responded Marcellus. ‘That’s what I am commissioned to do! What else—indeed?’ And as there was no immediate reply from the other bunk, he added, testily, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, sir—if the garrison is unruly and disorderly, my master will exact obedience. It is not for his slave to suggest how this may be accomplished; but it will be safer for my master if he takes full command of the fort instantly—and firmly!’

Marcellus raised up on one elbow and searched the Greek’s eyes in the gloom of the stuffy cabin.

‘I see what you have in mind, Demetrius. Now that we know the temper of this place, you think the new Legate should not bother about making himself agreeable, but should swagger in and crack a few heads without waiting for formal introductions.’

‘Something like that,’ approved Demetrius.

‘Give them some strong medicine; eh? Is that your idea?’

‘When one picks up a nettle, sir, one should not grasp it gently. Perhaps these idle men would be pleased to obey a commander as well-favored and fearless as my master.’

‘Your words are gracious, Demetrius.’

‘Almost any man, sir, values justice and courage. My master is just—and my master is also bold.’

‘That’s how your master got into this predicament, Demetrius,’ chuckled Marcellus ironically—‘by being bold.’

Apparently unwilling to discuss that unhappy circumstance, but wanting to support his end of the conversation, Demetrius said, ‘Yes, sir,’ so soberly that Marcellus laughed. Afterward there was such a long hiatus that it was probable the Corinthian had dropped off to sleep, for the lazy roll of the little ship was an urgent sedative. Marcellus lay awake for an hour, consolidating the plan suggested by his shrewd and loyal Greek. Demetrius, he reflected, is right. If I am to command this fort at all, I must command it from the moment of my arrival. If they strike me down, my exit will be at least honorable.

It was well past mid-afternoon on the eighth day of March when Captain Manius maneuvered his unwieldly little tub through the busy roadstead of Gaza, and warped her flank against a vacant wharf. His duties at the moment were pressing, but he found time to say good-bye to the young Tribune with something of the somber solicitude of the next of kin bidding farewell to the dying.

Demetrius had been among the early ones over the rail. After a while he returned with five husky Syrians to whom he pointed out the burdens to be carried. There were no uniforms on the dirty wharf, but Marcellus was not disappointed. He had not expected to be met. The garrison had not been advised of his arrival. He would be obliged to appear at the fort unheralded.

Gaza was in no hurry, probably because of her great age and many infirmities. It was a full hour before enough pack-asses were found to carry the baggage. Some more time was consumed in loading them. Another hour was spent moving at tortoise speed through the narrow, rough-cobbled, filthy streets, occasionally blocked by shrieking contestants for the right of way.

The Syrians had divined the Tribune’s destination when they saw his uniform, and gave him a surly obedience. At length they were out on a busy, dusty highway, Marcellus heading the procession on a venerable, half-shed camel, led by the reeking Syrian with whom Demetrius—by pantomime—had haggled over the price of the expedition. This bargaining had amused Marcellus; for Demetrius, habitually quiet and reserved, had shouted and gesticulated with the best of them. Knowing nothing about the money of Gaza, or the rates for the service he sought, the Corinthian had fiercely objected to the Syrian’s first three proposals, and had finally come to terms with savage mutters and scowls. It was difficult to recognize Demetrius in this new rôle.

Far ahead, viewed through the billowing clouds of yellow dust, appeared an immensely ugly twelve-acre square bounded by a high wall built of sun-baked brick, its corners dignified by tall towers. As they drew nearer, a limp Roman banner was identified, pendent from an oblique pole at the corner.

An indolent, untidy sentry detached himself from a villainous group of unkempt legionaires squatting on the ground, slouched to the big gate, and swung it open without challenging the party. Perhaps, thought Marcellus, the lazy lout had mistaken their little parade for a caravan that wanted to be convoyed. After they had filed through into the barren, sun-blistered courtyard, another sentry ambled down the steps of the praetorium and stood waiting until the Tribune’s grunting camel had folded up her creaking joints. Demetrius, who had brought up the rear of the procession, dismounted from his donkey and marched forward to stand at his master’s elbow. The sentry, whose curiosity had been stirred by the sight of the Tribune’s insignia, saluted clumsily with a tarnished sword in a dirty hand.

‘I am Tribune Marcellus Gallio!’ The words were clipped and harsh. ‘I am commissioned to take command of this fort. Conduct me to the officer in charge.’

‘Centurion Paulus is not here, sir.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In the city, sir.’

‘And when Centurion Paulus goes to the city, is there no one in command?’

‘Centurion Sextus, sir; but he is resting, and has given orders not to be disturbed.’

Marcellus advanced a step and stared into the sulky eyes.

‘I am not accustomed to waiting for men to finish their naps,’ he growled. ‘Obey me—instantly! And wash your dirty face before you let me see it again! What is this—a Roman fort—or a pigsty?’

Blinking a little, the sentry backed away for a few steps; and, turning, disappeared through the heavy doors. Marcellus strode heavily to and fro before the entrance, his impatience mounting. After waiting for a few moments, he marched up the steps, closely followed by Demetrius, and stalked through the gloomy hall. Another sentry appeared.

‘Conduct me to Centurion Sextus!’ shouted Marcellus.

‘By whose orders?’ demanded the sentry, gruffly.

‘By the orders of Tribune Marcellus Gallio, who has taken command of this fort. Lead on—and be quick about it!’

At that moment a near-by door opened and a burly, bearded figure emerged wearing an ill-conditioned uniform with a black eagle woven into the right sleeve of his red tunic. Marcellus brushed the sentry aside and confronted him.

‘You are Centurion Sextus?’ asked Marcellus; and when Sextus had nodded dully, he went on, ‘I am ordered by Prince Gaius to command this fort. Have your men bring in my equipment.’

‘Well—not so fast, not so fast,’ drawled Sextus. ‘Let’s have a look at that commission.’

‘Certainly.’ Marcellus handed him the scroll; and Sextus, lazily unrolling it, held it close to his face in the waning light.

‘I suggest, Centurion Sextus,’ rasped Marcellus, ‘that we repair to the Legate’s quarters for this examination. In the country of which I am a citizen, there are certain courtesies—’

Sextus grinned unpleasantly and shrugged.

‘You’re in Gaza now,’ he remarked, half-contemptuously. ‘In Gaza, you will find, we do things the easy way, and are more patient than our better-dressed equals in Rome. Incidentally,’ added Sextus, dryly, as he led the way down the hall, ‘I too am a Roman citizen.’

‘How long has Centurion Paulus been in command here?’ asked Marcellus, glancing about the large room into which Sextus had shown him.

‘Since December. He took over, temporarily, after the death of Legate Vitelius.’

‘What did Vitelius die of?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Not of wounds, then,’ guessed Marcellus.

‘No, sir. He had been ailing. It was a fever.’

‘It’s a wonder you’re not all sick,’ observed Marcellus, dusting his hands, distastefully. Turning to Demetrius he advised him to go out and stand guard over their equipment until it was called for.

Sextus mumbled some instructions to the sentry, who drifted away.

‘I’ll show you the quarters you may occupy until Commander Paulus returns,’ he said, moving toward the door. Marcellus followed. The room into which he was shown contained a bunk, a table, and two chairs. Otherwise it was bare and grim as a prison cell. A door led into a smaller unfurnished cubicle.

‘Order another bunk for this kennel,’ growled Marcellus. ‘My slave will sleep here.’

‘Slaves do not sleep in the officers’ row, sir,’ replied Sextus, firmly.

‘My slave does!’

‘But it’s against orders, sir!’

‘There are no orders at this fort—but mine!’ barked Marcellus.

Sextus nodded his head, and a knowing grin twisted his shaggy lips as he left the room.

It was a memorable evening at the fort. For years afterward the story was retold until it had the flavor of a legend.

Marcellus, accompanied by his orderly, had entered the big mess-hall to find the junior officers seated. They did not rise, but there were no evidences of hostility in the inquisitive glances they turned in his direction as he made his way to the round table in the center of the room. A superficial survey of the surrounding tables informed Marcellus that he was the youngest man present. Demetrius went directly to the kitchen to oversee his master’s service.

After a while, Centurion Paulus arrived, followed by Sextus who had apparently waited to advise his chief of recent events. There was something of a stir when they came striding across the room to the center table. Sextus mumbled an ungracious introduction. Marcellus rose and was ready to offer his hand, but Paulus did not see it; merely bowed, drew out his chair, and sat. He was not drunk, but it was evident that he had been drinking. His lean face, stubbly with a three-days’ beard, was unhealthily ruddy; and his hands, when he began to gobble his food, were shaky. They were also dirty. And yet, in spite of his general appearance, Paulus bore marks of a discarded refinement. This man, thought Marcellus, may have been somebody, once upon a time.

‘The new Legate; eh?’ drawled Paulus, with his mouth full. ‘We have had no word of his appointment. However’—he waved a negligent hand, and helped himself to another large portion from the messy bowl of stewed meat—‘we can go into that later; tomorrow, perhaps.’ For some minutes he wolfed his rations, washing down the greasy meat with noisy gulps of a sharp native wine.

Having finished, Paulus folded his hairy arms on the table and stared insolently into the face of the young interloper. Marcellus met his cloudy eyes steadily. Each knew that the other was taking his measure, not only as to height and weight—in which dimensions they were approximately matched, with Paulus a few pounds heavier, perhaps, and a few years older—but, more particularly, appraising each other’s timber and temper. Paulus drew an unpleasant grin.

‘Important name—Gallio,’ he remarked, with mock deference. ‘Any relation to the rich Senator?’

‘My father,’ replied Marcellus, coolly.

‘Oh-ho!’ chuckled Paulus. ‘Then you must be one of these club-house Tribunes.’ He glanced about, as conversations at the adjoining tables were throttled down. ‘One would think Prince Gaius could have found a more attractive post for the son of Senator Gallio,’ he went on, raising his voice for the benefit of the staff. ‘By Jove—I have it!’ he shouted, hilariously, slapping Sextus on the shoulder. ‘The son of Marcus Lucan Gallio has been a bad boy!’ He turned again to Marcellus. ‘I’ll wager this is your first command, Tribune.’

‘It is,’ replied Marcellus. The room was deathly still now.

‘Never gave an order in your life; eh?’ sneered Paulus.

Marcellus pushed back his chair and rose, conscious that three score of interested eyes were studying his serious face.

‘I am about to give an order now!’ he said, steadily. ‘Centurion Paulus, you will stand and apologize for conduct unbecoming an officer!’

Paulus hooked an arm over the back of his chair, and grinned.

‘You gave the wrong order, my boy,’ he snarled. Then, as he watched Marcellus deliberately unsheathing his broadsword, Paulus overturned his chair as he sprang to his feet. Drawing his sword, he muttered, ‘You’d better put that down, youngster!’

‘Clear the room!’ commanded Marcellus.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind now as to the young Tribune’s intention. He and Paulus had gone into this business too far to retreat. The tables were quickly pushed back against the wall. Chairs were dragged out of the way. And the battle was on.

At the beginning of the engagement, it appeared to the audience that Paulus had decided to make it a brief and decisive affair. His command of the fort was insecurely held, for he was of erratic temper and dissolute habits. Obviously he had resolved upon a quick conquest as an object lesson to his staff. As for the consequences, Paulus had little to lose. Communication with Rome was slow. The tenure of a commander’s office was unstable and brief. Nobody in Rome cared much what happened in the fort at Minoa. True—it was risky to kill the son of a Senator, but the staff would bear witness that the Tribune had drawn first.

Paulus immediately forced the fight with flailing blows, any one of which would have split his young adversary in twain had it landed elsewhere than on Marcellus’ parrying sword. Entirely willing to be on the defensive for a while, Marcellus allowed himself to be rushed backward until they had almost reached the end of the long mess-hall. The faces of the junior officers, ranged around the wall, were tense. Demetrius stood with clenched fists and anxious eyes as he saw his master being crowded back toward a corner.

Step by step, Paulus marched into his retreating antagonist, raining blow after blow upon the defensive sword until, encouraged by his success, he saw his quarry backing into a quite hopeless position. He laughed—as he decreased the tempo of his strokes, assured now of his victory. But Marcellus believed there was a note of anxiety in the tone of that guttural laugh; believed also that the decreased fury of the blows was not due to the heavier man’s assurance—but because of a much more serious matter. Paulus was getting tired. There was a strained look on his face as he raised his sword-arm. It was probably beginning to ache. Paulus was out of training. Life at Minoa had slowed him up. We take things easy in Gaza.

As they neared the critical corner, Paulus raised his arm woodenly to strike a mighty blow; and, this time, Marcellus did not wait for it to descend, but slashed his sword laterally so close to Paulus’ throat that he instinctively threw back his head, and the blow went wild. In that instant, Marcellus wheeled about quickly. It was Paulus now who was defending the corner.

Marcellus did not violently press his advantage. Wearied by his unaccustomed exercise, Paulus was breathing heavily and his contorted mouth showed a mounting alarm. He had left off flailing now; and, changing his tactics for a better strategy, seemed to be remembering his training. And he was no mean swordsman, Marcellus discovered: at least, there had been a time, no doubt, when Paulus might have given a good account of himself in the arena.

Marcellus caught sight of Demetrius again, and noted that his slave’s face was eased of its strain. We were on familiar ground now, doing battle with skill rather than brute strength. This was ever so much better. Up till this moment, Marcellus had never been engaged in a dueling-match where his adversary had tried to hew him down with a weapon handled as an axe is swung. Paulus was fighting like a Roman Centurion now; not like a common butcher cleaving a beef.

For a brief period, while their swords rang with short, sharp, angry clashes, Marcellus gradually advanced. Once, Paulus cast his eyes about to see how much room was left to him; and Marcellus obligingly retreated a few steps. It was quite clear to every watcher that he had voluntarily donated Paulus a better chance to take care of himself. There was a half-audible ejaculation. This maneuver of the new Legate might not be in keeping with the dulled spirit of Minoa, but it stirred a memory of the manner in which brave men dealt with one another in Rome. The eyes of Demetrius shone with pride! His master was indeed a thoroughbred. ‘Eugenos!’ he exclaimed.

But Paulus was in no mood to accept favors. He came along swiftly, with as much audacity as if he had earned this more stable footing, and endeavored to spar Marcellus into a further retreat. But on that spot the battle was permanently located. Paulus tried everything he could recall, weaving, crouching, feinting—and all the time growing more and more fatigued. Now his guard was becoming sluggish and increasingly vulnerable. On two occasions, the spectators noted, it would have been simple enough for the Tribune to have ended the affair.

And now—with a deft maneuver—Marcellus brought the engagement to a dramatic close. Studying his opportunity, he thrust the tip of his broadsword into the hilt-housing of Paulus’ wearied weapon, and tore it out of his hand. It fell with a clatter to the stone floor. Then there was a moment of absolute silence. Paulus stood waiting. His posture did him credit, they all thought; for, though his face showed the shock of this stunning surprise, it was not the face of a coward. Paulus was decisively defeated, but he had better stuff in him than any of them had thought.

Marcellus stooped and picked up the fallen broadsword by its tip, drew back his arm with the slow precision of a careful aim, and sent it swiftly—end over end over end through the mess-hall—to the massive wooden door where it drove its weight deep into the timber with a resounding thud. Nobody broke the stillness that followed. Marcellus then reversed his own sword in his hand, again took a deliberate aim, and sent the heavy weapon hurtling through the air toward the same target. It thudded deep into the door close beside the sword of Paulus.

The two men faced each other silently. Then Marcellus spoke; firmly but not arrogantly.

‘Centurion Paulus,’ he said, ‘you will now apologize for conduct unbecoming an officer.’

Paulus shifted his weight and drew a long breath; half-turned to face the tightening ring of spectators; then straightened defiantly, folded his arms, and sneered.

Marcellus deliberately drew his dagger from his belt, and stepped forward. Paulus did not move.

‘You had better defend yourself, Centurion,’ warned Marcellus. ‘You have a dagger; have you not? I advise you to draw it!’ He advanced another step. ‘Because—if you do not obey my order—I intend to kill you!’

It wasn’t easy for Paulus, but he managed to do it adequately. Demetrius remarked afterward that it was plain to be seen Centurion Paulus was not an accomplished orator, which Marcellus thought was a very droll comment.

After Paulus had stammered through his glum, impromptu speech, Marcellus responded, ‘Your apology is accepted, Centurion. Now perhaps there is something else that you might think it timely to say to your fellow officers. I have not yet been officially presented to them. As the retiring Commander, it is, I feel, your right to extend this courtesy.’

Paulus fully found his voice this time, and his announcement was made in a firm tone.

‘I am introducing Tribune Marcellus Gallio, the Legate of this legion, and Commander of this fort.’

There was a concerted clatter of swords drawn in salute—all but the sword of paunchy old Sextus, who pretended to be adjusting his harness.

‘Centurion Sextus!’ called Marcellus, sharply. ‘Bring me my sword!’

All eyes watched Sextus plod awkwardly over to the big door and tug the sword out of the thick planking.

‘Bring the sword of Centurion Paulus, also!’ commanded Marcellus.

Sextus worked the second broadsword out of the timber, and came with heavy feet and a dogged air. Marcellus took the heavy weapons, handed Paulus his, and waited to receive Sextus’ salute. The hint was taken without further delay. Paulus also saluted before sheathing his sword.

‘We will now finish our dinner,’ said Marcellus, coolly. ‘You will restore the tables to their places. Breakfast will be served to the staff tomorrow morning at five. All officers will be smooth-shaven. There will be an inspection on the parade-ground at six, conducted by Lieutenant-Commander Paulus. That will do.’

Paulus had asked, respectfully enough, to be excused as they returned to their table, and Marcellus had given him permission to go. Sextus was trailing along after him, without asking leave; and upon being sharply asked if he had not forgotten something, mumbled that he had finished his dinner.

‘Then you will have time,’ said Marcellus, ‘to clear the Commander’s quarters, so that I may occupy those rooms tonight.’

Sextus acknowledged the order and tramped heavily to the door. Appetites were not keen, but the staff made a show of finishing dinner. Marcellus lingered at his table. At length, when he rose, they all stood in their places. He bowed and left the room, followed by Demetrius. As they passed the open door of the Commander’s rooms, on their way to the quarters which had been assigned them earlier, it was observed that a dozen slaves were busily engaged in making the place ready for occupancy.

After a few minutes, the men came and transferred their various gear to the Commander’s quarters. When they were alone, Marcellus sat down behind the big desk. Demetrius stood at attention before him.

‘Well, Demetrius?’ Marcellus raised his brows inquiringly. ‘What is on your mind?’

Demetrius brought the shaft of his spear to his forehead in salute.

‘I wish to say, sir, that I am much honored to be the slave of the Commander of Minoa.’

‘Thanks, Demetrius,’ smiled Marcellus, wearily. ‘We will have to wait—and see—who commands Minoa. This is a tough outfit. The preliminary skirmish was satisfactory; but—making peace is always more difficult than making war.’

For the next few days the nerves of the legion were tense. The new Legate had demonstrated his determination to be in full authority, but it was by no means clear whether that authority would be maintained on any other terms than a relentless coercion.

Paulus had suffered a severe loss of prestige, but his influence was still to be reckoned with. He was obeying orders respectfully, but with such grim taciturnity that no one was able to guess what was going on in his mind. Whether he was not yet fully convalescent from the wounds dealt to his pride, or was sullenly deliberating some overt act of revenge, remained to be seen. Marcellus had formed no clear opinion about this. Demetrius planted his bunk directly inside the door, every night, and slept with his dagger in his hand.

After a week, the tension began to relax a little as the garrison became accustomed to the new discipline. Marcellus issued crisp orders and insisted upon absolute obedience; not the sluggish compliance that had been good enough for Gaza, but a prompt and vigorous response that marched with clipped steps and made no tarrying to ask foolish questions or offer lame excuses.

It had seemed wise to the new Commander to let his more personal relations with the staff develop naturally without too much cultivation. He showed no favoritism, preserved his official dignity, and in his dealings with his fellow officers wasted no words. He was just, considerate, and approachable; but very firm. Presently the whole organization was feeling the effect of the tighter regulations, but without apparent resentment. The men marched with a fresh vigor and seemed to take pride in keeping their equipment in order. The appearance and morale of the officers had vastly improved.

Every morning, Paulus, now second in command, came to the office of Marcellus for instructions. Not a word had passed between them, relative to their dramatic introduction. Their conversations were conducted with icy formality and the stiffest kind of official courtesy. Paulus, faultlessly dressed, would appear at the door and ask to see the Commander. The sentry would convey the request. The Commander would instruct the sentry to admit the Centurion. Paulus would enter and stand straight as an arrow before the official desk. Salutes would be exchanged.

‘It is necessary to replace six camels, sir.’

‘Why?’ The query would snap like a bowstring.

‘One is lame. Two are sick. Three are too old for service.’

‘Replace them!’

‘Yes, sir.’

Then Paulus would salute and stalk out. Sometimes Marcellus wondered whether this frosty relationship was to continue forever. He hoped not. He was getting lonesome in the remote altitude to which he had climbed for sake of maintaining discipline. Paulus was, he felt, an excellent fellow; embittered by this exile, and morally disintegrated by the boredom and futility of his desert life. Marcellus had resolved that if Paulus showed the slightest inclination to be friendly, he would meet the overture halfway; but not a step farther. Nor would he take the initiative.

As for Sextus, Marcellus had very little direct contact with him, for Sextus received his orders through Paulus. The big, gruff fellow had been punctilious in his obedience, but very glum. At the mess-table he had nothing to say; ate his rations with a scowl, and asked to be excused.

One evening, after ten days had passed, Marcellus noticed that Sextus’ chair was vacant.

‘Where is he?’ demanded the Commander, nodding toward the unoccupied place.

‘Broke his leg, sir,’ answered Paulus.

‘When?’

‘This afternoon, sir.’

‘How?’

‘Stockade gate fell on him, sir.’

Marcellus immediately rose and left the table. After a moment, Paulus followed and overtook him on the way to Sextus’ quarters. They fell into step, and marched side by side with long strides.

‘Bad break?’

‘Clean break. Upper leg. Not much mangled.’

Sextus was stretched out on his back, beads of sweat on his forehead. He glanced up and made an awkward gesture of greeting.

‘Much pain?’ inquired Marcellus.

‘No, sir.’ Sextus gritted his teeth.

‘Gallant liar!’ snapped Marcellus. ‘Typical Roman lie! You wouldn’t admit you were in pain if you’d been chopped to mincemeat! That bunk is bad; sags like a hammock. We will find a better one. Have you had your dinner?’

Sextus shook his head; said he didn’t want anything to eat.

‘Well—we’ll see about that!’ said Marcellus, gruffly.

By inspection hour, next morning, the story had spread through the acres of brown tents that the new Commander—who had had them all on the jump and had strutted about through the camp with long legs and a dark frown—had gone to the kitchen of the officers’ mess and had concocted a nourishing broth for old Sextus; had moved him to airier quarters; had supervised the making of a special bed for him.

That day Marcellus became the Commander of the fort at Minoa. That night Demetrius did not take his dagger to bed with him; he didn’t even bother to lock the door.

The next morning, Paulus pushed the sentry aside at the Commander’s quarters and entered without more ceremony than a casual salute. Marcellus pointed to a vacant chair and Paulus accepted it.

‘Hot day, Centurion Paulus,’ remarked Marcellus.

‘Gaza does not believe in pleasant weather, sir. The climate suits the temper of the people. It’s either hot or cold.’ Paulus tipped back his chair and thrust his thumbs under his belt. ‘The Jews have an important festival, sir. They observe it for a week when the moon is full in the month they call Nisan. Perhaps you know about it.’

‘No—never heard of it,’ admitted Marcellus. ‘Is it any of our business?’

‘It’s their annual Passover Week,’ explained Paulus, ‘celebrating their flight from Egypt.’

‘What have they been doing down in Egypt?’ asked Marcellus indifferently.

‘Nothing—lately,’ grinned Paulus. ‘This happened fifteen centuries ago.’

‘Oh—that! Do they still remember?’

‘The Jews never forget anything, sir. Every year at this season, all the Jews who can possibly get there go to Jerusalem to “eat the Passover,” as their saying is; but most of them are quite as much interested in family reunions, games, sports, auctions, and all manner of shows. Caravans of merchandise come from afar to market their wares. Thousands crowd the city and camp in the surrounding hills. It is a lively spectacle, sir.’

‘You have been there, it seems.’

‘On each of the eleven years since I was sent to this fort, sir,’ nodded Paulus. ‘The Procurator in Jerusalem—I think you know that his office outranks all of the other Palestinian establishments—expects detachments from the forts at Capernaum, Caesarea, Joppa, and Minoa to come and help keep order.’

‘An unruly crowd, then?’ surmised Marcellus.

‘Not very, sir. But always, when that many Jews assemble, there is the usual talk of revolution. They wail sad chants and prattle about their lost heritage. So far as I know, this unrest has never amounted to anything more alarming than a few street brawls. But the Procurator thinks it is a good thing, on these occasions, to have a conspicuous display of Roman uniforms—and a bit of drill-work in the vicinity of the Temple.’ Paulus chuckled, reminiscently.

‘Do we get a formal notice?’

‘No, sir. The Procurator does not trouble himself to send a courier. He takes it for granted that a detachment from Minoa will show up.’

‘Very well, Paulus. How many men do we send, and when do they go?’

‘A company, sir; a full hundred. It is a three-day journey. We should start the day after tomorrow.’

‘You may arrange for it then, Paulus. Would you like to command the detachment, or have you had enough of it?’

‘Enough of it! By no means, sir! This expedition is the only bright event of the year! And if I may venture to suggest, Tribune, you yourself might find this a most refreshing diversion.’

‘On your recommendation, I shall go. What is the nature of the equipment?’

‘It is not very burdensome, sir. Because it is a gala occasion, we carry our best uniforms. You will be proud of your command, I think; for it is a reward of merit here to be chosen for this duty, and the men are diligent in polishing their weapons. Otherwise we pack nothing but provisions for tenting and meals on the way. We are put up in commodious barracks in Jerusalem, and the food is of an uncommonly fine quality, furnished by certain rich men of the city.’

‘What?’ Marcellus screwed up his face in surprise. ‘Do they not resent Roman rule in Jerusalem?’

Paulus laughed ironically.

‘It is the common people who feel the weight of the Roman yoke, sir. As for the rich, many of whom collect the tribute for Tiberius—and keep a quarter of it for themselves—they are quite content. Oh—publicly, of course, the nabobs have to make a show of lamenting the loss of their kingdom; but these fat old merchants and money-lenders would be quite upset if a real revolution got started. You will find that the city fathers and the Procurator are thick as thieves, though they pretend to be at odds.’

‘But this is amazing, Paulus! I had always supposed that the Jews were passionately patriotic, and uncompromising in their bitter hatred of the Empire.’

‘That is quite true, sir, of the common people. Very zealous, indeed! They keep hoping for their old independence. Doubtless you have heard of their ancient myth about a Messiah.’

‘No. What’s a Messiah?’

‘The Messiah is their deliverer, sir. According to their prophets, he will appear, one day, and organize the people to accomplish their freedom.’

‘I never heard of it,’ admitted Marcellus, indifferently. ‘But small wonder. I haven’t had much interest in religious superstitions.’

‘Nor I!’ protested Paulus. ‘But one hears quite a little about this Messiah business during Passover Week.’ He laughed at the recollection. ‘Why, sir—you should see them! Sleek, paunchy old fellows, swathed from their whiskers to their sandals in voluminous black robes, stalking through the streets, with their heads thrown back and their eyes closed, beating their breasts and bleating about their lost kingdom and bellowing for their Messiah! Pouf! They don’t want any other kingdom than the one that stuffs their wallets and their bellies. They don’t want a Messiah—and if they thought there was the slightest likelihood of a revolution against Roman domination they would be the first to stamp it out.’

‘They must be a precious lot of hypocrites!’ growled Marcellus.

‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Paulus, ‘but they set a fine table!’

For a little while, the Tribune sat silently shaking his head in glum disgust.

‘I know the world is full of rascality, Paulus, but this beats anything I ever heard of!’

‘It is rather sickening, sir,’ conceded Paulus. ‘The sight that always makes me want to slip a knife under one of those pious arms, upraised in prayer, is the long procession of the poor and sick and blind and crippled trailing along after one of these villainous old frauds, under the impression that their holy cause is in good hands.’ He interrupted himself to lean over the arm of his chair for a better view of the doorway, and caught sight of Demetrius standing in the hall within sound of their voices. Marcellus’ eyes followed.

‘My Greek slave keeps his own counsel, Centurion,’ he said, in a confidential tone. ‘You need not fear that he will betray any private conversation.’

‘What I was going to say, sir,’ continued Paulus, lowering his voice—‘this political situation in Jerusalem, revolting as it sounds, is not unusual.’ He leaned halfway across the desk, and went on in a guarded whisper, ‘Commander—that’s what holds the Empire together! If it were not for the rich men in all of our subjugated provinces—men whose avarice is greater than their local patriotism—the Roman Empire would collapse!’

‘Steady, Paulus!’ warned Marcellus. ‘That’s a dangerous theory to expound! You might get into trouble—saying such things.’

Paulus stiffened with sudden wrath.

‘Trouble!’ he snarled, bitterly. ‘I did get into trouble, sir, that way! I was fool enough to be honest in the presence of Germanicus! That’—he added, only half audibly—‘was how I—a Legate—earned my passage to Minoa to become a Centurion! But—by the gods—what I said was true! The Roman Empire was consolidated, and is now supported, by the treachery of rich provincials, willing to sell out their own people! This strategy is not original with us, of course! Rome learned the trick from Alexander. He learned it from the Persians, who had learned it in Egypt. Buy up the big men of a little country—and—pouf!—you can have the rest of them for nothing!’ Paulus’ face was flushed with anger, and after his seditious speech he sat with clenched hands, flexing the muscles of his jaw. Then he faced Marcellus squarely, and muttered: ‘Valor of Rome! Bah! I spit on the valor of Rome! Valor of treachery! Valor of gold! Valor of hurling the poor at one another on the battle-field, while the big ones are off in a corner selling them out! The great and proud Roman Empire!’ Paulus brought his fist down with a bang on the desk. ‘I spit on the Roman Empire!’

‘You are very indiscreet, Paulus,’ said Marcellus, seriously. ‘For remarks of that sort, you could have your pelt pulled off. I hope you do not often let yourself go like that.’

Paulus rose and hitched up his broad belt.

‘I had no fear of speaking my mind to you, sir,’ he said.

‘What makes you think I wouldn’t give you away?’ asked Marcellus.

‘Because’—replied Paulus, confidently—‘you believe in real valor—the kind that demands courage!’

Marcellus drew an appreciative smile.

‘It is a wonder, Paulus,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘that the ordinary rank and file do not take things into their own hands.’

‘Pouf! What can they do?’ scoffed Paulus, with a shrug. ‘They’re nothing but sheep, with no shepherd! Take these Jews, for example: now and then, some fiery fellow goes howling mad over the raw injustice, and gets up on a cart, and lets out a few shrieks—but they dispose of him in a hurry!’

‘Who shuts him up? The rich men?’

‘Well—not directly. We’re always called in to do the dirty work. It’s obvious that Rome can’t permit such uprisings; but it is the rich and greedy provincials who nip revolutions in the bud.’

‘Damned scoundrels!’ exclaimed Marcellus.

‘Yes, sir,’ assented Paulus, his gusty storm having blown out—‘but you will find that these damned scoundrels in Jerusalem know good wine when they see it, and aren’t mean about sharing it with the Roman legions. That’—he added, with cool mockery—‘is to encourage us to be on the lookout for any foolhardy patriot who squeaks about the lost kingdom!’