'Of course!' promised Voldi. 'Anything!'
'The Augusta's
errand in Caesarea is to pick up a royal family, on a pleasure excursion to Rome. You are to show no interest in any member of this royal household.'
'But—why should I?' exclaimed Voldi.
'The man is the ruler of Galilee.'
'Antipas!'
'Correct! Mind you keep your promise. Good-night!'
Voldi had never met anyone with so wide a range of interests as his companionable new friend from Rome. Proconsul Nicator Mencius knew something about everything, classic and contemporary.
The Arabians were not very much concerned about history, not even about their own. Here and there in the high mountains massive sepulchres of their national heroes bore extravagant, weather-beaten epitaphs, but almost nobody tried to decipher them; for, in the opinion of Ishmael's tough posterity, it was as effeminate to be able to read as not to be able to ride. Literacy was left to the professional scriveners whose unenvied occupation was practised mostly by men with crippled feet or weak chests.
There was no written history at all. Vagabond minstrels—rating no better than jugglers—toured the country, attending the auctions, fairs, and festal events, where they chanted the ancient legends and mumbled interminable epic poems extolling the prowess of Arabia's distinguished kings and champions, but there was nothing resembling a comprehensive, sensible, sequential story of the Arabian people; and as for the average Arab's knowledge of the world outside, it was practically non-existent.
The Arab knew that he should hate and despise the Jews. That prejudice he had had in his milk. He never paused to examine it. It was as natural and necessary as breathing and heart-beats. He likewise loathed the Romans, though his attitude toward them was of distrust and suspicion rather than the forthright contempt he felt for the Children of Israel. As for other foreign nations—Egypt, Greece, Persia, Macedonia, Pamphylia, Cyprus, Crete—they were but outlandish names that were rarely on his tongue or in his thoughts. He knew nothing about them—and cared less.
As the grandson of a Councillor, Voldi had been taught to read and write the language of his own people; but it was not much of an accomplishment, for there was almost no Arabian literature, nor did many occasions arise when it was of advantage to know how to write.
At Fara's gentle insistence—and because it gave him a reasonable excuse for spending longer evenings in her company—he had studied Greek under the competent supervision of Ione; and, spurred by their encouragement, he had done very well with the language. As for the contents of those venerable scrolls which they employed as text-books, he had very little interest in them. He was too polite to say so, but privately he considered Aeschylus a morbid old owl, Pindar a windy dreamer, Herodotus a tiresome bore, and Homer a shameless liar.
Mencius was now introducing Voldi to a new world. He did not parade his knowledge. Indeed, he seemed honestly apologetic because he knew so little. But in the opinion of his young friend from Arabia, the Roman's wealth of information concerning past and present world affairs was related to Voldi's meagre store as everything was related to nothing.
This morning, as they rode slowly toward Gaza, now only two miles distant, lagging far enough behind the shuffle-footed caravan to avoid the worst of its dust, Mencius found plenty of entertainment for himself and enlightenment for Voldi by calling attention to certain historic landmarks along the old highway.
'See that huge, tumbled pile of hewn stone over there in the field?' Mencius pointed with his riding-whip. 'That was the great fort where the Philistines made their last stand against Alexander.'
'When was that?' Voldi took no pride in his query.
'Of course you know about the various victories of Alexander, all over the world,' said Mencius.
'Vaguely,' mumbled Voldi, hoping he would not be required to bound or define the word.
'Well—as you undoubtedly recall—he died about three hundred years ago, and this was one of his later conquests. The Philistines made a gallant defence. It ended—over there.'
They drew their horses to a stop and surveyed the ruins.
'Those rocks do not appear to have been there so long,' commented Voldi.
'Granite does not deteriorate as rapidly as the people who quarry it,' observed Mencius, half to himself. 'To look about on the lousy cutthroats who now inhabit this region, one wouldn't suspect that they are descendants of the brave fellows who built that fort and defended it until the last brave man was dead.'
'It's a wonder they haven't hauled that rock-pile away to use in other buildings,' reflected Voldi.
'Oh—they will—sometime,' soliloquized Mencius. 'It is in the nature of nations,' he went on dreamily, 'to rise—and toil—and suffer—and prosper—and fatten—and fall.' After a long pause he continued, 'Then they lie prone in the dust until some strong man appears among them—and commands the old stones and the old bones to rise again. All that these rascally beggars need to put them on their feet is a great leader. He will come—some day. It always happens—in time. Destiny is in no hurry.'
'Mencius, you have the mind of a prophet,' said Voldi soberly. 'Or are you just guessing?'
They spoke to their horses and rode on a little way before Mencius replied.
'No, Voldi, I am not a prophet; nor am I guessing. The earth is a vast theatre with many stages on which companies of actors present the same old play—a tragedy in five acts. Sometimes the company puts it through to the end at breath-taking speed, if the man who enacts the principal role is very audacious and impetuous. You take Alexander, for example. That was a one-man show. He conquered the whole world, and when he died his Empire—as a military power—vanished overnight. There wasn't enough left of his army to give police protection to his own town.'
'I had thought that the Greeks held him in high honour,' remarked Voldi.
'So they do,' declared Mencius, 'and very properly, too. They lost their rating as conquerors, but they gained something much more valuable—the world's respect. Everywhere they went, they carried their culture. They became known as the wise ones of the earth! Moreover—their wide acquaintance with the other nations opened their own eyes to the fact of their superiority as intellectuals. It made the Greeks conscious of their cultural supremacy and more eager than ever to develop their talents.' After a pause, he added, 'Militarily, of course, Alexander's whirlwind campaigns accomplished little. His was a very brief dynasty.'
'It usually takes much longer, then, for the actors to finish the old play,' surmised Voldi, anxious to hear more of this unfamiliar talk.
'Anywhere from three or four generations to half a dozen centuries,' said Mencius. 'Consider the case of these Philistines: they had been smashed before; eleven centuries ago. The end of that play was quite dramatic. . . . You've heard of Samson, I suppose.'
Voldi shook his head and grinned; and Mencius, having found his polite supposition incorrect, proceeded to tell the story. The Philistines had had everything their own way for a handful of centuries. Then a powerful leader had developed in neighbouring Jewry.
'It takes only one strong man, you know, to do the trick,' continued Mencius. 'If he is bold enough, successful enough, his people will follow him and fight for him. But he had better stay in the saddle! That's the only trouble with a one-man show. The great man becomes so infatuated with his personal conquests that he neglects to build up a few successors to take over in the event of something happening to him. . . . The Philistines were quite unprepared to compete with a man of Samson's stature. They had grown rich, soft, over-confident—and, of course, corrupt. Samson bore down on them with the courage and voice of a mad bull! . . . There are plenty of legends about him; most of them lies, no doubt, but immensely entertaining. One old story has it that he single-handedly slaughtered three hundred Philistine braves with the jaw-bone of an ass.'
'An odd weapon,' commented Voldi.
'Yes—but not altogether inappropriate. The big fellow was a noisy braggart and buffoon, without a trace of dignity or common sense. It delighted him to make monkeys of the haughty Philistines; he loved to play pranks on them. His roars of laughter could be heard for a mile.'
'What sort of pranks?' Voldi wanted to know.
'Oh—theatrical displays of his physical strength. One night he lifted the city gates of Gaza off their hinges and carried them away on his shoulders. . . . Then, when he had all Philistia beaten and shamed, he made the customary mistake of successful warriors, rested on his oars, enjoyed his fame, and strutted about the city with his head held high. Presently he became enamoured of a beautiful and designing woman.'
'Of Philistia?' inquired Voldi.
Mencius nodded—and scowled.
'It's strange,' he went on bitterly, 'how many strong men have been taken in by women. It hasn't been so very long since our brave Marcus Antonius, with the applause of the Empire in his ears, traded his fame for the smiles of that scheming little Egyptian slut Cleopatra! A great man he was—until he threw himself away.'
'I gather that your admiration for Cleopatra is under control,' drawled Voldi, for something to say.
Mencius growled—and went on with Samson.
'This Philistine girl, Delilah, soon had the big clown eating out of her hand. When the time was ripe she betrayed him to her fellow countrymen and they took him into camp. His cohorts made no effort to rescue him.'
'So—that was the end of the Fifth Act?' asked Voldi.
'By no means!' declared Mencius. 'It was only the end of the Fourth Act! The Philistines went much too far in their vengeful celebration of victory over Samson. That, too, is customary. They made a thorough job of it; roped him and bore him away, burned out his eyes, harnessed him like a donkey, and made him grind corn in the King's mill. Day after day after week after month the hapless fellow plodded round and round hauling the heavy beam, until his big, bare feet wore a path three cubits wide and two cubits deep.'
'Tiresome occupation—for a hero,' observed Voldi.
'One day,' pursued Mencius, '—and this was the last act of the play—the sumptuously furnished balcony of Philistia's praetorium, or whatever they called their capitol, was crammed with banqueting royalty, generals, councillors, and wealthy tax-payers, celebrating a religious festival—in honour of Dagon, I believe, or one of their silly gods—'
'Were they so religious, the Philistines?' broke in Voldi.
'Just on feast-days. I think that's true of all religions—so far as the top layer is concerned. The influential people like to set a good example. It makes the common people more confident of their gods.'
'And more contented with their rags and hunger,' assisted Voldi.
'Up to a certain pitch of starvation—yes,' agreed Mencius—'but that is another story. . . . The paunchy Philistines were hugely enjoying themselves at the banquet-table, when some ingenious fool suggested that they parade poor old Samson in the plaza where everybody could see him—and have a good laugh. So—the flunkeys in the mill haltered him and a small boy led him forth. Suddenly the blind giant felt a surge of his former strength, wrapped his long, bony arms round a couple of the marble pillars supporting the balcony—and pulled the whole house down.'
'Incredible!' shouted Voldi. 'You don't believe that, surely.'
Mencius remained sober-faced and was tardy with his rejoinder.
'Maybe not all of it, Voldi; not the fantastic details. But the fact remains that blind old Samson wrecked Philistia so completely that she took orders from other nations for six hundred years!' Mencius appeared to have ended his speech. They rode on in silence for some time.
'That was indeed a strange story,' mused Voldi, at length.
'No—not so strange, but a bit terrifying. Sometimes, Voldi, I wonder if the Roman Empire may not finish her play in much the same manner. We Romans may be nearing the end of the Fourth Act.' Mencius was talking to himself now, and Voldi had to listen sharply. 'We have gone about, almost everywhere, capturing and roping and blinding other nations' giants and making them grind our corn. Some day—unless History is not to be trusted—they will pull our house down. I hope it doesn't happen in my lifetime.'
'Meaning that your enslaved provincials are growing restless?'
'Slaves are always restless, Voldi. At present ours are helpless. But—there will come a day and a strong man! Then we will play the final act! To predict how long that might take or where the strong man is to come from is a job for a better prophet than I.'
The noon sunshine bounced off the tarnished cupola of a distant tower. Mencius pointed down the descending highway toward the city.
'Well, there she is, my friend, the famous old stronghold of Philistia!'
'Waiting for a strong man to appear—and put her in order again,' said Voldi, after the manner of reciting a lesson.
'Not consciously waiting,' amended Mencius. 'Gaza is too stupid to be aware that she is waiting for anything. Only when the strong man shows up will she know that she has been waiting. . . . And, meantime, while she waits for Destiny to clean her up, we will not drink her stinking water or her wretched wine; nor will we touch her polluted food. We will ride straight on through to the docks. The fleet will be there. We will find plenty to eat and drink on shipboard.'
'And it will be clean food and sound wine, I suppose, seeing it is provided by the Romans,' remarked Voldi, with a slow wink that made his friend grin.
'Yes,' declared Mencius proudly. 'It will be clean and sound! You see—we Romans are still playing our Fourth Act—and doing a good job of it!'
Suddenly, to Voldi's amazement, Mencius shed his quiet complacency and assumed a new role. The tail-end of the long caravan was immediately ahead.
'You are to keep close behind me now!' barked Mencius, over his shoulder, as he spurred Brutus to a sharp trot.
With his spine stiffened to an arrogant posture, he rode past the camel-train, looking neither to the right nor left. Arriving at the docks, with Voldi trailing him, Mencius flung himself off his horse and shouted a laconic order to Pincus. Then he marched with stiff-legged hauteur to the wharf where the flagship of the fleet awaited him, Voldi trudging along behind, feeling much like a convict on his way to prison. Sailors and stevedores obsequiously saluted, but Mencius gave them no attention.