'You take this fine-looking boy, Pincus; obviously well-to-do, undoubtedly from one of their better families, gracious, bright; I'll wager you five hundred sesterces he can't write his own name!'
'I wouldn't mind taking you up on that, your Excellency,' said Pincus. 'But how are you going to find out?'
'Why don't you ask him?' suggested Voldi, with a grin.
The awkward incident, which might so easily have given serious offence, really speeded their friendship. Mencius, experienced in diplomacy, humbly admitted that any attempt at apology would only add to their trouble, which prompted Voldi to say: 'You were right, sir, about Arabia. I should not have listened; but—well, sir, I couldn't get away. My knowing Greek was accidental—not intentional, I assure you!'
Pincus, who had been trying hard to maintain his composure, gave way to a whoop of laughter. The whole episode had been too ridiculous to be viewed soberly. Voldi, too, thought it was funny. Mencius recovered slowly from his embarrassment. It was with the dignity of refinement and respect that he formally presented Pincus as the manager of the caravan with which he was travelling.
When the younger Roman had gone, with instructions to take his caravan on to Gaza tomorrow and wait there at the port, Mencius and Voldi talked. They had supper together. It was late in the evening when they parted. Their acquaintance had ripened quickly into friendship. They both felt it.
Mencius, perhaps without realizing it, had opened some gates for the untravelled young Arabian. Voldi, utterly fascinated, had encouraged the Roman to talk of his far voyages. The better to explain the nature of his journeys, Mencius confided without reserve that he was an agent of the Emperor, engaged in various errands—of investigation, mostly, and organization, too. He had been on this present roundabout trip for many months: sailing from Brindisi to Crete in charge of a fleet of ten Empire ships, he had hustled the procrastinating Cretans into their mines for iron which he had sent to Rome. He had kept one of the ships and had sailed to Cyprus, where he had organized a caravan to bring copper from the mines of the interior; and, when his fleet had returned—in ballast—from Rome, he had accompanied the copper to Caesarea, where it was to be used in building the extensive docks.
'You should spend a few days in Caesarea, Voldi, seeing you are intending to ride up the coast,' advised Mencius. 'The Empire is doing great things there! A two-mile-long stone breakwater; magnificent harbour; destined to be one of the greatest ports on our sea.'
'I had not realized that the Jews had so much to export,' remarked Voldi.
'Nor have they,' agreed Mencius, lowering his voice; 'but the day will come when the Empire will develop Jewry. Then there will be trade—in plenty.'
'Meaning that Rome intends a complete subjugation of Judaea?'
'Well'—Mencius debated how best to say it—'when you've seen the new wharves at Caesarea, I think you will come to that conclusion. . . . However, I surmise that any calamity to the Jews would not inconvenience you Arabians very much.'
'I don't know, sir,' said Voldi vaguely. 'We were persuaded to think so, many years ago, and made a brief alliance, which we regretted.'
Mencius nodded—and shrugged.
'Of course; I remember. Herod got scared. Married that cad Antipas to your sweet little Princess—broke her heart; sent her home. . . . I had a glimpse of her, once. Beautiful! It has always been a mystery to me, Voldi, why you Arabs didn't raise more hell about that!'
Voldi flushed a little and muttered that the Arabs were sometimes a bit tardy about paying their debts. After a pause, he added, 'It's a long story, Mencius.'
'I'd like to hear it,' declared Mencius with an unexpected enthusiasm that proved somewhat disconcerting to the Arabian, who dismissed the matter with a careless flick of his hands.
'Tell me more about your trip,' he said. 'You unloaded the copper at Caesarea, and—'
'No; I did not unload the copper. As I told you, I had taken my stallion, Brutus, with me. How the big fellow hated those voyages! I left the fleet in the hands of its commander, Fulvius, and rode south to Gaza. There, according to previous arrangement, I found my young fellow, Pincus, with a camel-train ready to start for Engedi. We had dropped Pincus off at Gaza on our north-bound trip to Caesarea. . . . I wanted to see how much of a working force we had in the salt-fields and whether our resources there were adequate.'
'And now you're headed back to Rome?' asked Voldi.
'No; not quite yet. We load the salt and see it on its way. That will take a week, probably. Then I am riding back to Caesarea to join my friend Antonius, who will be sailing
The Augusta
to Rome. I've had enough of these cargo ships: I'm going home in style.
The Augusta
is the Emperor's pleasure barge—and a beautiful ship she is, too.'
When they separated, near midnight, they felt as if they had been friends for years. Mencius was leaving at dawn, anticipating that he might have to lead his horse most of the day. They parted reluctantly. Each man laid his right hand on the other's left shoulder in a comradely farewell.
'If ever you find yourself in Rome, Voldi . . .' Mencius was saying.
'Unlikely, sir, but you may be sure I should try to find you. . . . By the way—how would I do that?'
'Inquire at The Praetorium. They will direct you. Ask for Proconsul Nicator Mencius.'
'And when you come to Arabia, Mencius, our home is yours. Go to the King's encampment for directions.'
'Am I correct in surmising, Voldi, that your family is prominent in Arabia?'
'My grandfather, Mishma,' replied Voldi, 'is King Zendi's Chief Councillor.'
* * * * * *
It was noon before Voldi resumed his journey. Fara would unquestionably have ridden through Lachish, and since it was clear that she had not tarried in Hebron, it was almost certain that she must have stopped here.
He had had no opportunity to speak to the innkeeper on this subject, for Mencius had been standing by, but this morning Voldi pressed his inquiries.
The innkeeper wanted to be obliging, though he professed to have no knowledge of the young Arabian who had passed this way. Certainly he had not stopped for accommodation at his house. It was possible, of course, he admitted, that the young man might have paused to ask questions at a private home and had been offered lodging for the night. That happened occasionally. He even volunteered to accompany his generous guest on a tour of the homes where travellers had been welcomed. But no helpful information was arrived at, though much valuable time was consumed. Voldi's heart was heavy as he gave up the quest in Lachish and rode on.
It was a monotonous journey. A mile west he came upon evidences of the recent encampment of Pincus' caravan. Three miles farther on he came to the tumbledown village of Melissa, where, without any hope at all, he stopped to ask the usual questions, to which the replies were bucolic stares, scowls, and a spitting on the ground.
The sun was setting when a stone guide-post advised him that Gaza was still eight miles distant. Twilight came on rapidly. A quarter moon helped a little, but it would be a long way to Gaza. And Voldi had no relish for arriving in the night, seeing you could easily have your throat cut there in the daytime.
As he plodded along in the thickening gloom, he saw—on the highway some two hundred yards ahead—a group of dim figures engaged in combat. There was an unmistakable sound of clashing swords, together with brief barks of warning and savage encouragements.
For an instant Voldi was undecided whether to ride into this mêlée, which might turn out to be a fight between rival groups of ruffians. He drew the gelding to a stop. Now he saw a white horse being tugged off the highway, and the reason for the commotion was clear. Spurring Darik to a gallop, he found himself within a few yards of a desperate fight in which Mencius was valiantly but hopelessly defending himself against three!
Flinging himself out of the saddle, he rushed into the fray. One of the stalwart robbers turned to meet him with a broadsword raised high. Voldi did not wait for it to descend on him, but leaped for it. Gripping the man's wrist with his left hand, he held the sword suspended for the instant required to drive his dagger deep into the shoulder of the sword-arm. With a scream of pain and rage, the bandit tried to strike. This time the dagger caught him in the left breast. It had found its mark. As the body sagged, Voldi flung it aside and dashed on into the battle which Mencius was plainly losing; for one of his two remaining assailants had moved to the rear of him and was preparing to strike.
'Behind you, Mencius!' he shouted. 'I'll take this fellow!'
As Mencius wheeled about to parry the blow, the robber who had been facing him shifted his attention to the newcomer. Apparently satisfied that his fellow-bandit would deal successfully with the wearied Roman, he seemed disposed to take his time—and enjoy the slaughter of this youthful intruder.
'What have you there, youngster—only a dagger? What do you expect to do with it?'
Immediately Voldi showed him what he expected to do with the dagger. The savage thrust, with his full weight behind it, was so swift, so recklessly ruthless, that the older man had no chance to assume a defensive position. The young Arabian had come at him with a rush that upset his calculations. The big fellow, who had planned to enjoy the murder, was left no time to indulge in this luxury. It was only an eight-inch dagger-blade against a three-foot broadsword, but it was a bold and busy little dagger that laid open the sword-arm, pierced the hand that moved instinctively to clutch the wound, and drew a deep semi-circular furrow from forehead to chin; all this in one bewildering moment. Voldi stepped back quickly to avoid the last determined effort at defence, but the tip of the descending broadsword slashed his upper arm. He could feel the warm blood soaking his sleeve. He decided that the robber must pay hard for that cut; but as he moved in to finish him off the big fellow crumpled.
Meantime, Mencius had driven his antagonist off the highway and had him backed up against the low stone fence, where he dropped his sword and shouted for mercy, a favour that the Roman was pleased to bestow, for he was thoroughly spent and wounded. Voldi looked at the bleeding hand and was happy to see that the cut was superficial.
'If you hadn't turned up exactly when you did, Voldi—they would have killed me.' Mencius, still breathing heavily, leaned against his friend for support.
'Have they got your money?' asked Voldi.
'Yes—and my horse.'
'Here, you!' shouted Voldi to the weary robber who had slumped down on the wall. 'If you have the Roman's wallet, hand it over. If not—go through your friends' pockets and find it. And be quick!'
Heaving himself to his feet, the bandit obeyed. Mencius' money was found in the blood-soaked tunic of the first robber Voldi had encountered. The recumbent man did not protest when they relieved him of the wallet. He lay very still. Mencius picked up his limp hand.
'The rascal's dead, Voldi!' he muttered.
Voldi was stooping over to peer into the grey face. Mencius interposed an arm and pushed him away.
'You don't want too clear a remembrance of him, Voldi,' he explained. 'It's easy to see you never killed a man before.'
'You mean—he may haunt me?'
'Well, you haven't seen the last of him. They come back in the night—and waken you. Sometimes they bring small children along and weeping women.'
'But, Mencius!' stammered Voldi. 'The fellow had no right to live!'
'True, but it makes no difference. They return! . . . But come—let's see what is going on here.'
The ambulatory robber had half-led, half-dragged his injured friend to the roadside and across the stone fence into the pasture where the horses were tethered. The shadowy figure who had taken charge of the white stallion had abandoned him and was running through the field to join his companions. Brutus had made no attempt to leave, and was quickly taken in hand.
'Give me a lift, Mencius,' said Voldi, after an unsuccessful effort to mount.
'You've been hurt, Voldi!' exclaimed Mencius. 'Why didn't you tell me? Your sleeve is wet with blood.'
'I know. Perhaps we had better bind it up.'
'We will stop at the Fort of Minoa,' said Mencius, as he applied a bandage to Voldi's dripping wound. 'I know the Commandant, an old friend of mine, Legate Vitelius. I used always to stop there on these trips; but—not lately. The fort's badly run down, dirty, no discipline. Poor old Vitelius is a wine-bibber; never dead drunk, never cold sober; just stupid—all the day long.'
It was midnight before they reached the huge, ugly, shabby, high-walled rectangle with the faded Roman banners suspended over the gates. Sleepy sentries admitted them without much questioning. Legate Vitelius, shaky and dull but sober enough to be affable, was summoned from his bed; heard the travellers' story, routed out the regimental surgeon, and had the wounds cleansed and dressed.
Voldi and Mencius shared a commodious chamber. Neither seemed ready to sleep. The excitement of their encounter was still with them.
'I feel as if I had known you always, Voldi,' murmured Mencius. 'You saved my life tonight! I am deep in your debt! What can I ever do to repay your kindness, my friend?'
Somewhat to his own surprise, Voldi impulsively raised up on his elbows, and said, 'I need your counsel. I am in a serious dilemma. I want to confide in you!'
Propping himself up on his pillows, Mencius gave full attention as Voldi told his almost incredible story—of Fara's childhood vow and her disappearance and his own desperate search for her.
'I don't know, Voldi,' muttered Mencius, shaking his head, when the tale had been told. 'I doubt whether she could make such a journey without being apprehended. But she's surely worth looking for; and if love and courage can find her, you will succeed!'
Before they slept, Voldi had promised to wait in Gaza until Mencius had dispatched his fleet, and together they would ride to Caesarea.
'But I must exact a promise of you, Voldi, if you are going with me to Caesarea.' Mencius' tone was serious.