Authors: Unknown
'Well, go on then about the fountains,' urged Marcellus, for the sight
of the water had made him impatient for a bath.
'Pilate's wife was responsible for it. They had been down in Crete for
many years where Pontius had been the Prefect. You can grow anything in Crete,
and the lady was dismayed to find herself in such an arid country as Judea. She
begged for gardens. Gardens must have water. To have so much water there must
be an aqueduct. Aqueducts are expensive. There was no allowance to cover this
item. So--the new Procurator helped himself to some funds from the Temple
treasury, and--'
'And the battle was on,' surmised Marcellus.
'You have said it, sir,' declared Paulus, fervently. 'And it stayed on
for seven exciting months. Pilate nearly lost his post. Two thousand Jews were
killed, and nearly half that many Romans. It would have been better, I suppose,
if Tiberius had transferred Pilate to another position. The Jews will never
respect him, not if he stays here for a thousand years. He makes every effort
to humour them, remembering what they can do to him if they wish. He is here to
keep the peace. And he knows that the next time there is a riot, his term of
office will expire.'
'It's a wonder the Jews do not raise a general clamour for his removal,'
speculated Marcellus.
'Ah, but they don't want him removed,' laughed Paulus. 'These rich and
wily old merchants and money-lenders, who pay the bulk of the taxes and
exercise a great deal of influence, know that Pilate is not in a position to
dictate harsh terms to them. They hate him, of course, but they wouldn't like
to see him go. I'll wager that if the Emperor appointed another man to the
office of Procurator, the Sanhedrin would protest.'
'What's the Sanhedrin?' inquired Marcellus.
'The Jewish legislative body. It isn't supposed to deal with any matters
except religious observances; but--well--when the Sanhedrin growls, Pontius
Pilate listens!' Paulus shouted to the squatting camel-boys, and the apathetic
beasts plodded on. 'But I do not wish to convey the idea, sir,' continued the
Centurion, 'that Pilate is a nobody. He is in a very unfortunate predicament
here. You will like him, I think. He is a genial fellow, and deserves a more
comfortable Prefecture.'
They had moved on then, around the corner, to the section of the vast
barracks assigned to the garrison from Minoa. Three sides of the great
quadrangle had been equipped for the accommodation of troops, the local
constabulary occupying less than a third of it. Now the entire structure was
filled almost to capacity. The whole institution was alive. The immense
parade-ground, bounded by the two-storey stone buildings, was gay with the
uniforms of the legions arriving from the subordinate Palestinian forts. The
banners of Cæsarea, Joppa, and Capernaum, topped by the imperial ensign, added
bright colour to the teeming courtyard.
Marcellus was delighted with the appointments of the suite into which he
was shown. They compared favourably with the comforts to be had at the
Tribunes' Club in Rome. It was the first time he had been entirely at ease
since the night he had left home.
After a while Paulus came in to see if his young Commander had
everything he wanted.
'I am writing some letters,' he said. 'The
Vestris
should arrive
at Joppa by tomorrow or next day, and will probably sail for home before the
end of the week. You remember, sir, she was just coming into the harbour at
Gaza as we passed through.'
'Thanks, Paulus, for reminding me,' said Marcellus. 'It is a good
suggestion.'
He had not written to Diana since the night of his departure on the
galley to Ostia. That had been a difficult letter to compose. He was very
deeply depressed. After several unsatisfactory attempts to tell her how sorry
he was to leave her and with what impatience he would await their next
meeting--in the face of his serious doubt that he should ever see her
again--his letter had turned out to be a fond little note of farewell,
containing neither fatuous promises nor grim forebodings. The lovely Diana
would be cherished in his thoughts, he wrote, and she was not to worry about
him.
Many times on the long voyage to Gaza, he had begun letters that were
never finished. There was so little to say. He would wait until there was
something of interest to report. On the last day before making port, he had
written a letter to his family, dry as the little ship's log, promising to do
better next time.
The early days at Minoa had been eventful enough to furnish material for
a letter, but his new duties had kept him occupied. Tonight he would write to
Diana. He could tell her honestly that things were ever so much better than he
had expected. He would explain how he happened to be in Jerusalem. He would
tell her that he was handsomely quartered, and describe the appointments of the
Insula. It would need no gilding. Marcellus's dignity, sadly battered by the
punitive assignment to discredited Minoa, had been immeasurably restored. He was
almost proud of his Roman citizenship. He could write Diana now with some
self-confidence.
For two hours, under the light of the three large stone lamps bracketed
on the wall beside his desk, he reviewed the important events of his life at
Minoa. He didn't say how arid, how desolate, how altogether unlovely was the
old fort and its environs; nor did he exhaust the details of his first day's
experience there.
'The acting Commander,' he wrote, 'was a bit inclined to be surly, and
did not overdo his hospitality when I arrived; but a little later he decided to
co-operate, and we are now the best of friends. I quite like this Centurion
Paulus. Indeed I hardly know what I should do without him, for he knows all the
traditions of the fort; what things must be done, and the right time and way to
do them.'
Marcellus was enjoying his work on the letter. It gave him a glow of
pleasure to inform Diana of these things which now made up his life. It was
almost as if they belonged to each other; almost as an absent husband might
write to his wife.
The scroll, when he should paste the sheets of papyrus end to end, would
be a bulky one. Before it quite outgrew its spindle-rims, he must bring it to a
close with something from his heart. This was not quite so easy to do.
For a long time he sat deliberating what should be his proper attitude.
Should he obey his feelings and tell Diana, without reserve, how much she had
been in his thoughts, how dear she was to him, and how ardently he wished their
separation was over? Would that be fair? Diana was young, so full of life. Was
it right to encourage her in the hope that he might be coming home some day to
claim her? Was it right to let Diana believe that he entertained that hope
himself? Might it not be more honest to tell her frankly that there was no
likelihood of his return for a long time, years, perhaps? Of course, Diana
already knew the circumstances. And he had casually mentioned of Paulus that he
had been sent to Minoa eleven years ago; and had not been home since his appointment.
She could draw her own dismaying conclusions. At length, Marcellus finished his
letter almost to his satisfaction.
'You know, Diana, what things I would be saying to you if we were
together. At the far distance which separates us--in miles, and who can tell
how much of time?--it is enough to say that your happiness will always be mine.
Whatever things make you sad, dear girl, sadden me also. A ship, the
Vestris,
is reported to be arriving at Joppa. She called at Gaza. I am impatient to
return to the fort, for I may find a letter from you there. I fondly hope so.
Demetrius will come in tomorrow morning and deliver this scroll to the Insula's
courier who meets the
Vestris.
She sails soon. Would I were a
passenger!'
Demetrius had never been so restless. Of course, whenever he had paused
to contemplate his hopeless position in the scheme of things, his life held out
no promise. But gradually he had become inured to his fate. He was a slave, and
nothing could be done about it. Comparing himself to a free man, his lot was
wretched indeed; but when he contrasted the terms of his slavery with the cruel
conditions imposed upon most of the people in bondage, he was fortunate.
In the house of Gallio, he had been treated with every consideration due
to a servant. And his life had become so inextricably related to the life of
Marcellus that his freedom--even if it were offered him--might cost him more in
companionship than it was worth in liberty of action. As for his deep affection
for Lucia, it was, he knew, wholly unrequited. He couldn't have had Lucia, if
he had been as free as a sea-gull. Such common-sense reflections as these had
saved his mind and reconciled him to his destiny.
Now his bland little philosophy had ceased to comfort him. Not only was his
small world in disarray, but the whole institution of human existence had
become utterly futile, meaningless, empty, a mere mockery of something that had
had sublime possibilities, perhaps, but had been thrown away; lost beyond
recovery!
He had tried to analyse his topsy-turvy mind and find reasons for his
heavy depression. For one thing, he was lonely. Marcellus had not wilfully
ignored him since their arrival in Jerusalem, but it was apparent that slaves
were not welcome in the officers' quarters except when actually on duty. When
their service was performed, they were to clear out. Demetrius had not been
accustomed to such treatment. He had been his master's shadow for so long that
this new attitude of indifference was as painful as a physical wound.
Again and again he said to himself that Marcellus probably felt unhappy
too, and maybe deplored the necessity to exclude him from his friendship.
Demetrius had been made to feel his slavery as he had never felt it before, not
since the day that he had been sold to Senator Gallio.
But there was another cause for Demetrius's mental distress. It was the
haunting memory of the beseeching eyes into which he had gazed momentarily on
the road into the city. Afterwards, he had sat for hours, in a brown study,
trying to define those eyes, and had arrived at the conclusion that they were
chiefly distinguished by their loneliness. It was so apparent that the little
group of men, who had tried to keep the crowd from pressing too hard, were
disappointed. Whatever it was that the noisy fanatics wanted him to do, it was
the wrong thing. You could see that, at a glance. It was a wonder they couldn't
see it themselves. Everybody there had urged him to lead a cause in which--it
was so obvious!--he had no interest. He was a lonely man. The eyes hungered for
an understanding friend. And the loneliness of this mysterious man had somehow
communicated with the loneliness of Demetrius. It was a loneliness that plainly
said, 'You could all do something about this unhappy world, if you would; but
you won't.'
Three days had passed now, singularly alike in plan. Melas had been
almost too attentive in his capacity of uninvited guide to the sights of the
city. It was inevitable that they should be thrown into each other's company.
Their duties were light and briefly accomplished. As Melas had foreseen, you
looked after your master at mealtime, polished his equipment, helped him into
his complicated military harness in the morning and out of it at night. The
rest of the time was yours.
Breakfast was served at dawn, after which the troops turned out on the
parade-ground for routine inspection. Then a small detachment of each
contingent returned to their respective barracks to be on call while the main
bodies--commanded by junior officers and led by the larger, but no more
splendidly accoutred, Legion of the Procurator--marched smartly into the
street.
It was a stirring sight and Demetrius, his tasks completed for the
morning, liked to watch the impressive parade as, four abreast, the gaily uniformed
soldiers strutted around the corner, stood like statues while the colours were
dipped before the proud portals of the Praetorium, and proceeded down the
avenue to the Temple, passing in their march the pretentious marble residence
of Caiaphas, the High Priest. Caiaphas was not honoured with a salute; neither
was the Temple.
On two occasions Demetrius, attended by Melas as voluntary commentator,
trailed along at the rear of the procession. On an equivalent occasion in Rome,
hundreds would have followed such a parade; but not here. Perhaps the people
were too sullen, perhaps they hated Rome too much. Perhaps, again, they lacked
the vitality to pick up their heels and keep pace with the long steps of the
soldiers. Demetrius had seen plenty of rags and tatters and blind beggars and
hopeless cripples, but never in such numbers or in such dire distress. His own
native Corinth had its share of misery, but its wretchedness was on display
mostly in the port area. Athens--he had been there once with his father and
brothers when he was twelve--had plenty of poverty, but it also had beautiful
parks and exquisite works of art. This Jerusalem--that called itself a holy
city--was horrible; its streets crowded with disease and deformities, and
verminous mendicants. Other cities had their faults; hateful ones, too. But
Jerusalem? Not much wonder the strange man on the white donkey had been lonely!
The return of the troops to the Insula was made by a circuitous route
which bisected the centre of the market district where hucksters and customers
scrambled to give the legionaries plenty of room as they went striding
arrogantly down the narrow street, their manner saying that Emperor Tiberius
mustn't be detained even at the cost of a few trampled toes. If a recumbent
camel, indifferent to the dignity of the Empire, remained seated in the middle
of the road, Rome did not debate the right of way, but opened the formation and
pretended that the sullen beast was an island. Occasionally a balky pack-ass
was similarly deferred to by the armed forces of Tiberius. Everybody else
sought the protection of doorways and alleys.