Reaching the ship's waist, the haughty Mencius marched aboard, passing between a double line of sailors and petty officers without seeing them, and stood stiffly before the greying Commander, whose pose was as icily formal. Voldi was not introduced. Bowing, the Commander wheeled about and walked briskly aft, with Mencius striding beside him, and Voldi—at a disadvantage and a bit offended—tagging behind them.
When they had entered the Commander's spacious cabin and the door had been closed, the mood of the Romans instantly changed. They whacked each other on the shoulder playfully.
'Fulvius, my lad,' shouted Mencius. 'It's a treat to see you again!'
'High time you turned up, you lazy tramp!' rumbled the Commander. 'I've been rotting in this pest-hole for a week!'
'Serves you right! You have been spoiled with luxury!' Mencius peeled off his tunic and tossed it on to Fulvius' bunk. 'Now I want you to greet an Arabian friend of mine. . . . Voldi, meet my good Fulvius.'
The Commander, with candid lack of interest, pursed his lips and nodded.
'Perhaps I should have added, Fulvius,' continued Mencius, 'that Voldi saved my life, at the risk of his own, in a bloody battle with highwaymen.'
At that Fulvius' eyes brightened—and he smiled amiably.
'Welcome to my ship, Voldi!' he said.
In gay spirits, Mencius became oratorical in his further introduction of his friends.
'Here's where two of the finest and bravest have found each other!' he exclaimed. 'Here's where the high mountains and the deep sea clasp hands! Here's where a gallant Arabian who knows all about horses and daggers meets a Roman who knows all about ships and storms! Here's where—'
'If you're going to compose an ode, Mencius,' broke in Fulvius, 'let's have some wine to wash it down. Odes are hard enough to bear, in any case.' He opened the door a little way and growled with all the irascibility of an old dog, presumably addressing a slave. They sat down, and presently the wine arrived.
'Was it really much of a fight?' inquired Fulvius, eager for some gory details.
'I was having it out with three bandits, alone and in the dark,' explained Mencius. 'Suddenly, Voldi appeared and joined in the battle. They would have finished me promptly but for this foolhardy fellow.'
Fulvius beamed toward Voldi and drawled, 'Well—even if you do stick your nose into other people's business, you shall have a drink.'
For three whole hours, over their dinner, the talk had been a recital of the Romans' recent experiences, spiced with persiflage; and at length Mencius and Voldi were shown to their bunks in an adjacent cabin.
'What are you thinking about so seriously?' inquired Mencius, tugging off a boot.
'You,' replied Voldi, with a brief chuckle. 'You astonished me today, Mencius. You play so many parts—and all of them so very well.'
'Perhaps you are referring to our public formalities, as compared with our unconventional behaviour in private?' asked Mencius, amused.
'I shouldn't have known you for the same man!' said Voldi.
'It's only good usage among us,' said Mencius. 'It's the Roman way of enforcing discipline. We officers have to be high-handed with our subordinates; and, in their presence, severely dignified in our attitude toward one another. It's a serious and dangerous business, Voldi, keeping slaves and mercenaries in control.'
'Ever try the other way,' ventured Voldi, 'getting acquainted with your men and showing them that you trust them?'
'No; I never tried that, personally,' admitted Mencius; 'but it has been tried and it doesn't work. Give the average man an inch and he'll take a mile. Let the commanding officer show himself to be friendly and he is immediately suspected of being soft—if not scared.'
'Our officials in Arabia do not strut and bark,' said Voldi.
'Of course not!' agreed Mencius. 'Why should they? Your King Zendi can eat with shepherds if he wants to, and they love him for it. But you're all Arabians: one big family! Look what we have to deal with, Voldi! In my caravan there are rascally Philistines, sullen Parthians, slit-eared Macedonians, and all manner of scheming ruffians! And on this ship—why, if good old Fulvius relaxed his vigilance for a moment, the riffraff of a dozen nations would stick him in the back and toss him overboard! That's why we're cold and haughty and severe! It's the Roman method of government—all the way down the line from the Emperor to the overseer of my caravan!'
After a reflective moment, Voldi said, 'What if all the riffraff in the Empire organized?'
'Slaves are hard to organize, Voldi. The Parthians would insist on having a Parthian as the great emancipator. The cut-throats of Sicily would follow only a Sicilian. It would take a very strong man to unite the Empire's provincials!'
'Like Alexander, maybe?' wondered Voldi.
'Much more powerful than Alexander! He would have to appeal to something that all these polyglots possess in common. I'm sure I don't know what that would be.' Mencius leaned over toward the table and snuffed out the lamp. 'Let's go to sleep, Voldi,' he said drowsily. 'It's too big a problem to settle tonight.'
After a quiet moment, he asked, 'Have you your dagger in bed with you?'
'No,' said Voldi.
'Better get it,' advised Mencius.
'Is that a Roman custom?' asked Voldi, suppressing a chuckle.
'He is an impoverished and forsaken Roman,' replied Mencius soberly, 'who dares go to sleep without a dagger strapped to his wrist.'
* * * * * *
Now they were riding north on the broad and busy coast highway, their horses frisky after a three-day rest at the port; eventful days for Voldi, who had never seen a ship before and knew nothing of the ways of seafaring men.
Seemingly endless files of slaves, each with a huge cake of Dead Sea salt on his shoulder, had plodded up the gangways and down the ladders into the dark holds of eleven sturdy ships. There was no haste, nor was there any rest for these empty-faced toilers. Overseers stood, small distances apart, along the wharf, occasionally flicking their bull-whips expertly, as if to keep in practice, but not often letting the lash bite into a slave's bare hide. It was enough for the burdened men to know that the whips were in experienced hands.
As each ship was loaded and the hatches battened down, she would move slowly away from her temporary berth and find a mooring half a mile away in the quiet harbour, and another vessel would be warped into the vacancy at the dock. Voldi spent most of his time alone at the stern of the flagship, listening dreamily to the lap of the waves against the barnacled piles and the screams of careening gulls; more enjoyable entertainment than might be had where the work was in progress. Indeed, Voldi was glad to find any distraction from the sight and sound of that slave-labour. With his belligerent Arabian background, he was anything but thin-skinned; but this monotonous scuff—scuff—scuff—scuff of spiritless sandals had taken on an ominous significance. Some day—according to Mencius' confidential forecast—this hopeless, helpless scuffing of enslaved sandals would suddenly attain a swifter tempo! It would spontaneously break into a run! It would be accompanied by savage shouts for vengeance! And the Empire's Fifth Act would open with a clash of angry metal!
For two hours, on that first day, Voldi had stood leaning against a forward capstan, watching and listening, until he became oppressed by an hallucination that the steady scuff—scuff—scuff—scuff was, even now, this instant, accelerating to a threatening
scuff!
—
scuff!
—
scuff!
—
scuff!
that would raise the curtain for the final events of the old tragedy. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that, after all, the well-merited collapse of the Roman Empire need be of no concern to Arabia. But, on sober reflection, Voldi decided that the wreck of the Empire would be everybody's business; Arabia's too!
Bewildered and moody, he had moved away from the pattern and symbols of this threat, finding a measure of serenity in the blue sky and bluer sea. This sky and this sea had witnessed many an enactment of the inevitably recurrent drama and would doubtless witness many more repetitions of it in the ages to come. Nations would come and go, rise and fall, but the same sky would look down upon these mutations with calm detachment. The tide would roll in twice a day, no matter if all the nations in the world destroyed one another—and themselves. It was comforting to let one's eyes rest upon something that would endure—for ever and ever.
At high noon on the third day, the last laden vessel was ready to put out to sea. Mencius and Voldi stood together on the wharf as the flagship drew in her frowsy hawsers and drifted from the dock. Commander Fulvius, with a letter in his pocket for personal delivery to Mencius' wife explaining his delay, cupped his mouth to shout into a brisk seaward breeze, 'What shall I say if she asks me when to expect you?'
'Tell her you don't know,' yelled Mencius.
More canvas was slowly creeping up the foremast, sailors tugging in unison at the ropes. Pulleys squealed. Fulvius and Mencius, facing each other soberly, stood at attention, thrusting forward stiff right arms in a farewell salute. Voldi, less formally, waved a hand. A much-mended sail was crawling up the mizzen-mast. Out in the bay the other ships were winching up their anchors. The fleet was on its way to Rome.
In less than an hour Voldi and Mencius were riding through an increasingly fertile and well-kept country, strikingly different from the unproductive and ill-conditioned lands eastward of Gaza. The vineyards showed good care. The houses and barns were larger. The cattle in the pastures were sleek and fat. Mencius swept the rich landscape with a panoramic gesture and discoursed of its value.
'This is what Alexander wanted when he laid siege to Philistia. It has always been coveted by somebody, for it is truly a garden-spot. The owners of these farms and vineyards are temporarily unmolested—but it will not be for long. Voldi, if a man hopes to live at peace in this world he must pitch his tent in a desert so bare that even a bug would starve on it.'
'How do you account for the peace that these prosperous people are enjoying at present?' inquired Voldi.
'That is an interesting and amusing story,' replied Mencius. 'For some time there has flourished in Jerusalem a politically powerful family—the Maccabees. They are rich as Midas and shrewd as Satan. Many years ago they took pains to ingratiate themselves with Herod, backed him solidly in his reign, flattered him with gifts and compliments. Remembering that the war-battered little town of Askelon was Herod's birthplace, they volunteered to rebuild it in splendour. You will see, presently, what they made of it. The King, much gratified, donated a beautiful consulate. Then the Maccabees—with Herod's consent—encouraged a colony of wealthy fugitives from Athens to move in and redeem the neglected countryside.'
'Now that it has been put in order,' remarked Voldi, 'it's a wonder you Romans haven't—'
'That's the amusing part of the story,' broke in Mencius. 'Tiberius would like to have it; but, if he were to take it, he would instantly find himself at war with the Maccabees. He isn't quite ready for that—and the Maccabees know that he knows it. As the matter stands, the Emperor considers himself better off by levying heavy taxes on the Maccabees than risking a costly war with them. That will come—later.'
'In our time?'
'You will think so when you see what is going on at the harbour in Caesarea.'
'Don't the Jews realize what is in store for them?'
'Of course! But they are riven by sects and parties. It's the old story of internal feuds and factions stubbornly refusing to co-operate with one another even in the emergency of saving their own skins!' Mencius was silently thoughtful for a while. 'You may recall my saying, a few days ago, that the strength of a nation always depends upon the leadership of the one powerful man who has it in him to bind all the discordant elements together—and induce them to follow him! Let him be popular enough and they will share his glory or his shame! Well, the Jews have no such man among them. Each fanatical party has its chieftain, but no one of them can command the loyalty of the whole country. For ages the Jews have been expecting a great leader to appear and deliver them from their enemies. Their prophets have spoken of this fabulous person as the "Messiah." Now and again, the various sects have burst into revolutionary flames incited by a "Messiah," but no one of these leaders has lasted very long, not even in the esteem of his own party. They have always ended up in some drab little martyrdom. And within the space of a generation or two nobody remembered what became of the great man's ashes.'
'Apparently the real "Messiah," when he comes, if he comes, will have a big job on his hands,' surmised Voldi.
'According to the Jewish prophets, he is to be something of a divine person. That might be greatly to his advantage.' Mencius' tone was so ironical that Voldi laughed outright.
'I gather that you are not very religious, Mencius,' he remarked dryly.
'As for the traditional host of deities, no: I have no interest in them, much less any faith in them. If they serve any useful purpose, it is only to frighten small children into behaving themselves.'
A heavily laden caravan was bearing down on them from the north, and they drew aside into a cypress-shaded lane to let the long procession pass. Mencius guessed that it was a cargo of grain for embarkation at Gaza, but Voldi refused to be diverted from the serious discussion they had begun.
'Surely, Mencius, you do believe in the existence of some Higher Power,' he said soberly.
'Oh yes!' admitted Mencius. 'It is obvious that a Great Mind—or a group of Great Minds—created the world. Inconceivable that it could have created itself. Whether any High Power is still in control of the world is, in my opinion, doubtful. Humanity's antics do not indicate that any sensible Overseer is in command. . . . Sometimes, however, I find myself privately worshipping a god whom I think of as the Torchbearer.'
Voldi's eyes widened with fresh interest. He urged Mencius to explain what he meant by a Torchbearer.