'He has been going about for ages, Voldi,' said Mencius, slowly measuring his words. 'Up and down, across the world, in every era, in every country—patiently searching for men with lamps in their hands, larger lamps than those of their neighbours or their fathers. And this light-giving god touches the wicks of these unusually capacious lamps with his divine torch.'
'Go on, please!' insisted Voldi, when Mencius, having seemed to have made an end of his strange discourse, was counting the sullen, nodding camels as they passed.
'That's about as far as I've gone into it,' confessed Mencius vaguely. 'My favourite god, the Torchbearer, wants the world to have more light, for men to see by—so he keeps on looking for lamps. It must be a very disappointing quest. I marvel at his perseverance. Only a few men—widely separated by leagues and centuries—have borne lamps worthy of the divine fire; and such light as they have kindled has brightened the way for a mere handful of adventurers. As for the multitudes, they still stumble along in the old darkness. Sometimes the Torchbearer lights a large lamp that attracts smaller lamps. Plato brings his lamp to Aristotle, and there is an unprecedented brightness on the path—for a few, for a while. For a little while.'
'But—the mass of the people, they will keep on groping through the dark,' mused Voldi. 'Is that what you believe?'
'I'd much rather not, of course,' sighed Mencius. 'It would please me to hope that the Torchbearer might some day come upon the one great man—with the one powerful lamp that would illumine the highway for us all! But history does not encourage that hope.'
The camel-train had passed now and the dust was clearing. They rode, in thoughtful silence, on to the highway. Mencius pointed to a graceful tower in the distance.
'Askelon!' His tone was almost reverential. 'Now you will see what the Maccabee money made of a squalid, dilapidated little town.'
'The Maccabees must be a great-hearted family,' remarked Voldi.
'That depends on one's point of view,' drawled Mencius. 'According to general opinion the Maccabees are tyrants. Wealthy patrons of the arts,' he added, 'are not necessarily great-hearted. The finest architecture and sculpture in the world may be found in Rome, but plenty of people could testify that we Romans are not benevolent.'
* * * * * *
Two days later, at sundown, the travellers arrived in the amazing city of Caesarea. If Voldi had been bewildered by the transitions from dirty and degraded Gaza, of the Philistines, to the marble splendour of beautiful Askelon, of the Greeks, and to the frowsiness of decayed Joppa, of the Judaeans, he was now even more astonished by the feverish confusions of this rapidly rising metropolis, which, according to Mencius, would one day be the focal point from which the Empire would move toward the utter subjugation of all Jewry.
Heretofore the Emperors had insisted only upon tribute in cash. The Jews were sheep to be shorn annually but not converted into mutton. Presently the Romans would want more than Israel's fleece. They would march in and take everything, Mencius had declared; and when Voldi had inquired whether this threat was a secret, his friend had replied airily, 'Secret? Not at all! The Jews know the invasion is sure to come! Preparations for it are going on right under their noses!'
Too tired that night for sight-seeing, they had ridden through the congested streets to the principal inn, The Agrippa, recently built by the Romans to accommodate three hundred guests. It was situated in the very heart of the city and crowded to capacity; but Mencius had a friend in the management and a room was found for them.
After an excellent supper, they strolled through the spacious, newly furnished foyer, where scores of opulently dressed Romans of self-assured and distinguished bearing stood in conversing groups or lounged in the richly upholstered chairs and divans. This unfamiliar view of flamboyant wealth dazzled Voldi's senses. He wasn't quite sure whether he was infatuated or infuriated. Every man in sight was extravagantly garbed and groomed. The air was heavy with pomades. Jewels flashed on well-kept hands. It was true then: the Romans were not only men of the world, they were the important, the impressive men of the world! It belonged to them—there could be no doubt of that!
Voldi's memory—which he suspected of something like disloyalty—rolled back for a glimpse of King Zendi and his Council, carelessly clad in their unadorned burnouses; grave, hard-muscled men who despised ostentation. How their thin, haughty nostrils would have flared in contempt of this gaudy show! But—wasn't it costing Arabia a pretty penny to maintain that attitude of scorn for prosperous people? Voldi wondered whether proud poverty wasn't, in the long run, more expensive property than ropes of pearls.
Suddenly a tall, handsome, close-cropped Roman—on the left breast of whose scarlet tunic the imperial black eagle was appliquéd—detached himself from a small party of friends and came forward beaming a welcome.
'Nick! You're here at last! The gods be praised for your safe arrival! I was getting anxious.'
They clapped their hands on each other's shoulders.
'Why anxious, Tony? I'm not late. This was the day.'
'No, you're not late. But my distinguished passengers showed up this afternoon, hours before I expected them, and who knows when they might decide to sail! The wishes of Her Highness are never predictable. . . . I hope you've attended to all your business—and are ready to be off at a moment's notice.'
Mencius nodded; and, reaching for Voldi's arm, drew him forward.
'Tony,' he said, 'I want you to meet a young Arabian friend of mine. . . . Voldi, greet my long-time-ago schoolmate, Antonius Lucan, Commander of the Emperor's ship
The Augusta
.'
Voldi bowed briefly. The Commander's eyes narrowed a little. He lifted his forearm perfunctorily and mumbled that any friend of Proconsul Nicator Mencius was his friend also; after which he turned toward his old crony with a quizzical arching of his grizzled brows, plainly inquiring how we happened to have an Arabian on our hands at this particular moment. Mencius was prompt to reply. Voldi had come upon him in the night, on the road alone, badly outnumbered by robbers, and had joined the fray. The reckless Arabian had saved his life; no less!
In response to this speech, the Commander of
The Augusta
bowed to Voldi in recognition of invaluable services rendered to a comrade, and Mencius supplemented his story of the fight with, 'It's amazing—this young fellow's skill with a dagger! I think his parents must have given him a knife to play with when he was a baby.'
Voldi gave a deprecating grin, shrugged slightly, and seemed eager for a change of topic. He was conscious of the old sailor's uneasiness about him. The tension was somewhat relaxed, at this juncture, by the appearance of another urbane, middle-aged Roman—more conservatively dressed than any of the others—who paused to greet Mencius with quiet affability, after nodding to Tony.
'What brings you here this time, Mencius?' he inquired lazily. 'More copper?'
'At present the fellow's not a peddler, Atrius,' drawled Tony. 'He's a tourist, absolutely empty-handed, sailing home with me on
The Augusta.
We're taking His Highness Antipas and his family on their annual excursion.'
Atrius, taking pains to be extravagantly disrespectful, sniffed audibly and wrinkled his nose.
'I wish somebody would explain to me,' he declaimed, 'how the ruler of poor little Galilee rates a free voyage, every season, on the Emperor's pleasure-barge!'
'Psst!' warned Tony. 'I mustn't be seen listening complacently to such talk.' Then, lowering his voice, he remarked, 'You may be sure the Tetrarch will eventually pay his passage. . . . And he is abundantly able to do it—when Tiberius bills him for it.'
Mencius broke in now to introduce Voldi with appropriate explanations of the circumstances accounting for their friendship. Then, to Voldi, 'Should you get into any trouble while in Caesarea, our excellent Atrius—who is the best-known lawyer in the city—will befriend you, I know.'
Atrius, who had been gnawing at his bearded underlip and staring into Voldi's face with undisguised curiosity, chuckled gruffly.
'Arabian, eh? And handy with a blade! Doesn't ask what the fight's about, so long as he can get in there—and gut somebody!' He laughed with evident relish and poked Tony in the ribs with his thumb. 'Hell of a time for an Arabian gladiator to turn up, I must say! . . . What part of Arabia do you hail from, my son?'
'The southern mountains, sir,' replied Voldi stiffly.
'Anywhere near the King's domain?'
'Not very far, sir; a few miles.'
'Your King Zendi seems a popular man.'
'Yes, sir.'
'I dare say you know him,' ventured Atrius. The others were growing restless. The Commander was absently patting his be-ringed left fist with his right palm. Mencius shifted his weight and frowned.
'Voldi's grandfather, Mishma, is the King's Chief Councillor, Atrius.'
'Ah? So!' Atrius grinned. 'Well, if there is anything we can do for you while you are in Caesarea, Voldi, we will be happy to serve you. . . . See you later, Tony. . . . You'll be glad to be home again, Mencius. Wish I were going with you. You will be arriving in time for Saturnalia.'
With the departure of Atrius, conversation lagged; and Voldi, surmising that the two Romans might wish to have some private talk, excused himself and sauntered through the lobbies to the loggia which half circled a pool where a beautifully wrought fountain played. He sat down on a deeply upholstered divan and reviewed the recent conversation. . . . This Atrius might be a good man to know.
For some little time after Voldi had strolled away from them, Mencius and Tony found it difficult to sustain an interest in their talk about the forthcoming voyage. Finally Tony blurted out: 'What's this boy doing in Caesarea, Mencius?'
'He is on his way north.'
'Sight-seeing—or business?'
'A little of both, I think.'
'Meaning that you aren't going to tell me.' Tony's voice showed annoyance.
'He confided to me the nature of his errand,' admitted Mencius. 'It is nothing to cause you anxiety. He is looking for a fugitive. I shall be obliged if this much information contents you, Tony. I gave him my word.'
'Very well,' conceded Tony grumpily. 'But I'll expect you to see to it that your blood-letting Arab keeps his distance from my ship! If anybody sticks a knife into the Tetrarch while he is not in my custody, I shall make no protest; but—By Jove!—he's not going to be assassinated on
The Augusta
!'
'It's a wonder the fellow makes these voyages,' observed Mencius.
'He can't rot up there in Galilee all the year round! He'd go crazy! Nothing ever happens. He has no friends among his subjects. They all despise him. . . . However—he may be in for more excitement than he wants presently. His Chief Scrivener was telling me, this afternoon, that something like a revolution is brewing—'
'In sleepy, stupid little Galilee?' scoffed Mencius. 'You're jesting!'
'According to this scribbler, Pamphylios, it's not an uprising against the government—at least not yet. It seems that a young carpenter has been haranguing great crowds. So far, he has said nothing to inflame the people. On the contrary, he has been urging them to be law-abiding and content with their poverty.'
'And how could such soft words collect a crowd?' wondered Mencius.
'Pamphylios says the man has been healing the sick by laying his hands upon them,' said Tony. 'That, of course, is nonsense. Pamphylios admits he has no first-hand knowledge of it. But—the rumour is in the air and all Galilee is buzzing with these stories.'
'Bad time for the Tetrarch to absent himself,' remarked Mencius.
'That's what Pamphylios thinks,' assented Tony. 'But Antipas couldn't be talked out of his customary excursion. Half the year, in Tiberias, he lives on his anticipation of the other half in Rome. The Scrivener says that a deputation of priests waited on His Highness a few days ago, pleading with him to silence the Carpenter; but Antipas made short work of them; told them they had better make their synagogues a little more attractive and useful—and maybe the people wouldn't be congregating in pasture-fields to listen to this carpenter.'
'Not a bad suggestion,' put in Mencius, with a chuckle.
'Any suggestion would be good enough, in the Tetrarch's opinion, so long as he wasn't hindered from going to Rome. He wouldn't miss the pageants and games of Saturnalia—not even if the Sea of Galilee went dry!'
Mencius was soberly meditative for a while.
'Ever hear of the Jewish "Messiah," Tony?' he asked irrelevantly.
Tony shook his head and scowled; muttered that he had given up trying to understand the Jews. Mencius explained briefly; but his friend was uninterested. The Jews had always been too religious for their own good, he said.
'I'm surprised that you have so much concern for such rubbish,' continued Tony impatiently. 'You read too much! You think too much! You know too much! It wouldn't surprise me to hear, some day, that you'd gone off to live in a cave in the mountains, having it out with the gods—and the fleas.'
'I'll admit,' said Mencius, 'a man can live a much happier life by not using his mind at all. . . . I'm going to bed now. I have been all day in the saddle. Doubtless you will be turning in, too.'
'Not quite yet,' growled Tony. 'I've an errand to do first. I must go down to the docks and notify my mate to be on the alert for an Arabian stowaway.'
'You're putting yourself to unnecessary bother,' said Mencius.
'I shall be satisfied if your new friend gives me no more bother than that,' said Tony.
After Voldi had sat alone, staring absently at the fountain for a quarter of an hour, he was joined on the divan by the lawyer, who hoped he was not intruding.
'Expect to be with us for a while?' inquired Atrius casually.
'I am leaving in the morning, sir,' replied Voldi. It had occurred to him that if he showed an inclination to be frank, his explanations might be more readily believed. 'I have an errand in Galilee,' he went on. 'I have been sent to look for a young Arabian who ran away from home and is believed to have gone up into the neighbourhood of the Sea of Galilee. I am to persuade him to return—if I find him.'