RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Blue Book, December 1946, with "Assassination at Christmas"
Steel clashed and bugles blared in the
Antioch of December 362...
and the strange Sphinx Emerald flashed again to potent life.
"FEAR," Philip thoughtfully observed, "is the keynote of everything here in this room, in this city of Antioch, in this part of the world. Insensate panic—"
"At this season? At Christmas itself?" broke in Lady Glendufa. "But that is wrong. It is wicked!" Her challenging eyes swept the circle of faces. "Nothing will happen. We're wasting our time. Nothing can happen, I tell you!"
Philip shrugged, seeing how the others exchanged glances.
"Anything can happen, Glendufa. Fear is contagious. We fear them, and perhaps they fear us. Reason says it's preposterous, but we won't believe reason. We're afraid. We trust neither our rulers nor ourselves. We're afraid, afraid—"
"And why not?" quavered a voice, with excited thrust. "Everything's been overthrown. Around us is pagan, heathen Asia: Soldiers gathering by the thousand. Force that hates us, would love to destroy us. We may well seek some protection—"
A sound crept into the room and hushed the words. The score of people sitting here in conference shivered at it; hands jerked; eyes rolled. Voices screamed thinly like the yapping of wild beasts. Steel clashed; a tumultuous uproar resounded along the city streets and ended in a distant bugle-blare.
"The soldiers are out," growled old farmer Paulus, gnarled hands clenching, shaggy whiskers bristling. "There'll be looting and killing and burning all over the place!"
In a leap of voices others spoke their fears.
Philip glanced at them curiously. Himself a Roman, he had served in the cavalry. Here in Antioch, third greatest city of the Empire and capital of Syria, he found everything strange. Take these Galileans, for example—first named Christians here in Antioch, they still called themselves Galileans—what a queer company they made! The bishop, Meletius, was a good but inefficient fellow. Nearly all the others present belonged to the Gothic colony planted here by Constantine. They had relatives in the Legions, and consequently were the most influential of the community, since the whole army of the eastern provinces was gathering here to march into Parthia in the spring. This Christmas season of the year 362 was one of terror and fear and increasing panic on all sides.
Glendufa was quite calm, he noted; she was always calm, perfectly poised. Her husband was a centurion in the 59th Legion, now in camp just down the river. The Emperor himself was living in the old Roman fortress that dominated the city. No Christmas festival for him or his court! Uncle Constantine had made the empire Christian; his nephew Julian had reversed this, proclaiming tolerance for all religious sects—and thereby loosing the hounds of terror.
Julian was newly come to power; no one was sure of his intent; religious hatreds blazed on all sides. The Christians feared a new persecution; the pagans bitterly feared a Christian revolt—and now blood was running in the streets!
Startled movement swept the room as pounding footsteps sounded on the stairs. The door was flung open. In upon the company broke a deacon, stammering, panting and white-faced. Voices blabbed at him. He threw out both hands.
"No, no danger! There's fighting in the streets, yes. Food riots, that's all."
A surge of relief. From Philip came a strong, hearty laugh.
"Well, we're gathered here to devise some system of protection for Galileans," he said. "So we'd best get about it, instead of shaking in our boots at riot noises."
His caustic words bit into them; quiet settled on the room. Paulus, the craggy old farmer who owned the great olive orchards above the city, began to talk and talk. Philip listened with a sneer in his eyes. He dared not look at Glendufa, lest he break out laughing. She was a fine lissome woman, golden-haired, as sensible as beautiful. He could not blame himself for having fallen in love with her.
Paulus droned on. Antioch, four separate cities forming one, had become the gateway to Far Eastern commerce. Merchants from Parthia, from farther India and all the coasts between, were established here; in some quarters the city was wholly Oriental. More peril there, said the farmer; these people who worshiped strange gods would be quick to slay Christians.
Knowing these Asiatics to be gentle people, Philip listened cynically. He wondered what these good folk would say if they knew the truth about him. Suddenly his eye caught a movement at the door. It opened a little. A face looked in; a hand signaled. He came to his feet abruptly.
"Sorry, friends; I've been sent for; I must leave you," he said. "Let me say just one word: If we Christians want protection, there's only one sensible way of getting it. Send to the Emperor and ask for it! With that advice, I say good night."
He caught a slight smile on Glendufa's lips, and hurried out. On the stairs a man waited—his friend Crates, like himself a member of the Imperial secret service.
"Well, my honest Galilean wolf," jested Crates, "are these sheep of yours plotting to cut all our throats? What weapons have they ready?"
"Droning tongues," Philip rejoined, laughing. "All talk. What brought you here?"
"Urgency. There's been some killing in the riots. I've got a dying man who wants you. A Parthian jewel-merchant. He's dying, so hurry!"
"Wants me? A Parthian merchant? By Hercules, are you crazy?"
"Well, he wants some court official—news for the Emperor, secret, urgent news! So I came for you; may be profitable," replied Crates, who was a shrewd fellow with an eye for the main chance. "He knows he's dying, so he'll tell the truth. He's in the street just ahead—I have a couple of soldiers guarding him. He was stabbed during the riot.... So you're having no luck with the Galileans?"
"They're not planning revolt at all. All they want is protection. They're scared."
Crates chuckled as he strode along. "And if they knew you were an imperial spy, they'd tear you limb from limb! Frightened people are always dangerous. Still, your job has compensations. You've quarters in the house of the most beautiful woman in Antioch."
"Bosh! Her husband's a centurion," snapped Philip. The other laughed softly. They swung around a corner and came into one of the two great colonnaded avenues of the city.
Afar lifted the darkly massive bulk of the enormous cathedral Constantine had built here. Close by, a smoky torch was blazing under the colonnades. Two soldiers stood guard. A dark figure lay on the stones, a bearded elderly Parthian. He spoke, as Philip knelt and raised his head.
"Are you—of the court? Are you a Roman?"
"Aye, a Roman." Philip spoke the truth for once. "Aulus Gentius of the imperial household."
The other clasped his arm, came to one elbow, and thrust something into his hand.
"Take this—reward. Swear—swear by the gods to give me burial!"
"I swear by the gods," Philip said gravely. "You shall have fit burial."
"Ah! Tigranes had me murdered—he's behind it—the Emperor will be killed." The gasping voice faltered, then resumed: "Eighth day before the Kalends of January—at the inspection of the troops. Tigranes replaces the driver of the royal elephant—with John of Iconium—to stab—"
The voice failed; the gripping fingers relaxed. Philip looked at the lolling head, put it down, and rose. He turned to the two soldiers and passed them some coins.
"Take care of this man's body. Have it decently buried tomorrow."
"More fool, you," said Crates.
"I promised; therefore it must be done. You hear what he said?"
"Yes. I know a wineshop that's open. Come along."
Philip fell into step, with an ironic smile. The eighth day before the Kalends—why, that would be Christmas itself! And Julian was to be assassinated that day, eh? Blame the Christians, of course; turn loose the legions to loot and massacre....
They found the wineshop, ordered wine. Crates was small, slender, vulpine, a good man. Philip was stocky, dark, with strong features well carven, level dark eyes. Barely thirty, he had won an enviable position as the best of the secret household servants of the Emperor.
"Ha! We've rung the bell," said Crates. "What to do about it? Denounce this Tigranes, whoever he is? That's folly; he'd slip out of it. Might squeeze him for a fat sum."
"Be damned to him—just some Parthian agent," Philip grunted. "This John of Iconium is the actual assassin. Who is he?"
"The name's vaguely familiar, but I can't finger him."
Philip gulped his wine. "Well, there's no rush. Four days before it comes off. Suppose we cast about for information tomorrow, and meet tomorrow night?"
"Agreed." Crates gave him a sharp look. "Suppose we just kept quiet?"
A startling thought, tempting too. Philip half smiled as he pictured it: the streets filled with savagely rejoicing men; the Emperor dead, the bearded Julian upon whom the clean-shaven Antiocheans heaped ridicule; whispers spreading that Christians had killed him; and then the Legions let loose upon the city in merciless fury. That was how history was made. Then his smile faded.
"Scratch it," he said. "I was a soldier. I keep my oaths."
Crates sighed. "Yes, you have old-fashioned notions about honor and so forth. Well, we have the chance of a lifetime to line our pockets."
"Right. Can't afford to miss it. Sleep on it, then. Where do we meet?"
"Why not here, an hour after dark?"
So agreed, they went their ways; the evening was still young. Philip had said nothing about the hard little cloth-wrapped object given him by the dying Parthian. He went home and sought his room. The house was large, sheltering Glendufa and her husband, her elder sister and family, and a brace of lodgers.
Lighting his lamp, Philip sat down and produced the mysterious gift. He unfolded the cloth and stared at the green thing revealed. An emerald? That Parthian had been a jewel-merchant. Emerald it must be, yet it was incredible. This stone was enormous, and of cabochon shape. Smears of oil showed it was newly cut and polished, still uncleaned. The color was poor, denoting an Egyptian stone, but—but—
The Roman gripped his fists as he stared, then moved the lamp closer and bent to look more sharply. Inside the stone were flaws that came together, forming a shape. He had been in Egypt and seen the Great Sphinx; some said there was a second like unto it, up in the desert hills east of the Nile. Here was the image of it made by the flaws—no vague shape but a distinct and clear- cut Sphinx! A jewel unique, a freak of nature!
Then his thoughts strayed, though he found a certain fascination in looking into the stone. Fortune had this night given him and Crates a tremendous chance at gain, provided they did not muff it. Philip had been raised in a hard army school; he was no angel. The old Roman conception of duty had perished hundreds of years ago; and now, with the breakdown of morality and ethics that had engulfed the Empire, duty was a joke. A thing was right, these days, if it paid. Do whatever you liked, if you could get away with it. Betray anyone, if it was to your interest.
THE secret bequeathed by the dying Parthian could yield untold
wealth, with proper manipulation. The Emperor was a good soldier,
had won great victories; he was a brawny big man, well
intentioned, straightforward, simple in mind; but he had only
been a year on the throne. The sons of Constantine had murdered
his father and all other relatives. He did not love the
Christians, for he clung to the old gods. Were he to die
suddenly, anyone in the secret could cash in heavily. Philip had
sworn fealty; should he keep his oath, or no?
The light falling across the huge emerald wakened odd fancies in him. Queerly enough, he found himself thinking about his father. Aulus—this was the real family name—had died long ago in the wars of Constantine. A veteran cavalry officer, he had been a hard, grim man, winning nothing except a soldier's fame. Things he had said, things he had done, came flooding into Philip's mind. Why? He could not say; perhaps the emerald had bewitched him. A long while he sat, until sounds from below told him Glendufa was back.
He went down and found her warming before the fire in the main room. It was a chill, rainy night. Her broidered woolen garments sparkled with the wet.
"What's happened?" she exclaimed. "Philip! You look as if you'd been seeing angels!"
"Sit down," he said, unsmiling, and held a chair for her, then put the pottery lamp on the table close by. "Did they reach any decision?"
"Yes. They took your advice. They chose you and Paulus to go to the Emperor."
"Very well," he said carelessly. "Glendufa, you're a lovely woman, and wiser than any I ever knew."
"You had a mother," she said significantly.
"She died when I was a child. Tonight I need your help and advice. The gods have dropped fortune into my lap."
"The gods?" Her brows lifted. "Strange words for a Galilean to use."
"I'm no Christian; there's the truth for you," he said calmly. "I'm an officer of the imperial service. My present task is to spy on the Christians here and learn if they mean to revolt. Well, I'm tired of lies. You've nothing to fear from me."
She smiled a little. She could read the trouble in his eyes, the strange conflict in his heart. She put out her hand, and he took it.
"I think a great deal of you," he said. "You like me a little."
"With much affection, Philip," she said simply. "That is not your real name, of course, and I knew you were not a Christian."
This caught him up with a jerk. "What? You knew?"
She pressed his hand. "Yes. The 59th was in Macedonia three years ago; my husband saw you then, and recognized you here."
Philip flushed. The quiet words shamed him.
"I'm a fool," he said.
"On the contrary, a very fine man, my dear. What's that in your hands?"
He gave her the emerald and told how he had come by it. She held it to the lamp-glow and caught her breath, and sat looking at it. In the silence, he got himself in hand. Love or no love, he was not a fool. His very love for her told him that her quiet poise and strength held her above any intrigue.
"There's a plot to kill the Emperor," he went on presently. "Christians would like nothing better than to see him dead. I can profit tremendously by it—if I keep silence."
She turned from the emerald to look at him—completely, intently, studying his hard, strong features, and waiting. Her waiting compelled him to go on.
"The Christians could profit. Or the blame might be cast on them. Anything—"
"Anything is possible, even honor," she said quietly.
He started. His eyes lifted to her amazedly.
"Why, that's the very thing my—my father said! They were caught in a trap, some of the 23rd—his Legion. Some said to surrender; some said to fly. Anything, said he, was possible, even honor. They stayed. He died there. Were your words mere accident?"
She nodded. "Yes. I give them to you as my answer, my advice. Now I'm off to bed; there's all the housework for early morning. Pleasant dreams!"
She was gone. Dazedly, Philip pocketed the emerald, covered the fire, picked up the light and went back to his own room. There, he put the emerald on the table between the two lamps, and sat down, looking at it again, looking into it.
To do him justice, he had been lifted out of any love-making intent, though he did love her. She was not the sort of woman for that. She had twice shocked him; the second time with the very words of his long-dead father. Now, again fascinated by the emerald depths, thoughts of his father recurred. He had always venerated the memory of that man. Why the emerald should bring him to mind, Philip did not know; but so it did. Gradually a change crept into his entire mental makeup. The cynical, grasping, hardened promptings died away; whether the memories of his father wakened them, or whether it were some magic in the glittering green beryl acting upon his mind, a train of glowing fancies came like a procession of splendor-flashes that hinted at such old, half-forgotten things as soldierly honor, manly virtues, unpleasant actions done because duty demanded.
Perhaps, he thought later as he lay abed, Glendufa had started this train of thought. "Anything is possible, even honor"—words applicable to herself also. She too might be fighting off some temptation.
NEXT morning he slipped out of the house early. He had to see
the Emperor sometime this day to make report; he had to see
Paulus and arrange with him the visit to ask for protection; more
important, he had to look up John of Iconium and
Tigranes—find out who they were. Tigranes was a common
Parthian name and must belong to some merchant.
He set to work searching bazaars, talking with lesser spies of the Intelligence Bureau, delving into the camel camp outside the city walls, drinking at the caravanserais which catered to Oriental custom. By noontime, he began to think half the population of Parthia must be named Tigranes, and he found no one who knew anything of a John of Iconium. Antioch the Golden, as it was named, gave his searchings no reward. And, since it contained nearly a quarter-million souls, this was small wonder.
With afternoon, he took his way to the castle and was at once admitted to the presence of the Emperor. Julian dismissed his scribes, who were taking down his dictation on a book against the Christian sect, and welcomed the visitor warmly.
"Well, Aulus, have you any information on these Galileans?"
"Plenty," rejoined Philip. "It all boils down to one word. They're honest."
Julian laughed. "Good! In Alexandria they're pestilent philosophers, in Constantinople braggarts and fighters—and here in Antioch, honest. And no plots at work?"
"Only one. They're frightened of persecution and have decided to send two deputies to beg your protection. I'm one of the two. When will it please you to receive us?"
Julian broke into hearty laughter.
"A beautifully ironic game, eh? You, an imperial spy, one of the delegates! By all means—let's see, now. Make it the feast they celebrate—Christmas. Come to me here in the morning before I leave to inspect the troops. That's the eighth day before the Kalends of January. I'll have a decree of protection all written out and sealed for you."
Philip, smiling, thanked him and turned in a detailed report previously written out. The Emperor discussed with him the idea of quartering certain legions in the city.
"Food riots like that of last night are disturbing," he said. "And there's a sense of fear, almost of panic, spreading. Where fear grows, we seldom find reason. It impels fantastic things; the greater the fear, the more fantastic are its effects.
"Quite true," said Philip. "A good many of the city folk have relatives in the 59th—move it into the city and they'd feel safer. That is, in the Gothic quarter."
Julian nodded approval and made a note. This fantasy of panic, as he termed it, disturbed him. Nineteen different rumors of plots against his life had come in: he laughed at them, but not at their cause. Hence, for the coming inspection, he had ordered out the full equipment of forty war-elephants and would use one of them himself, to make an impressive show. The narrow citadel gate was now being widened to admit this imperial chariot on four legs.
Philip departed thoughtfully. Here was corroboration of the story told by the dying Parthian. John of Iconium would be the driver of that elephant, no doubt.
That evening came a more abrupt crisis than he had anticipated. He reached the wineshop early, got a corner table, and sipped his wine reflectively. The sort of work he was doing disgusted him. Only today Julian had called him an imperial spy; quite true, and it put him to shame. It was not easy to leave the imperial household service, however. He had taken it as a stopgap and found himself bridled.
Nice if he could get out of it now—and could pick up some money. There was an opening in Alexandria with a construction firm, Romans like himself. Just then he glanced up and saw Crates coming in the door. Behind him followed two armed men, Parthians by their looks, who went to the bar. Crates had nothing to do with them, of course—but Philip sensed a sudden tautness. His nerves jumped; he became alert, wary. He knew that Crates was capable of anything. Here, indeed, anything was possible—except honor.
They shook hands. Crates ordered wine, sighed and relaxed.
"Well, any luck?"
"Not a stroke," confessed Philip.
Crates laughed.
"Ha! I've a different tale to tell—vastly different. I was approached. Our talk with the fellow last night was noted. I've had an offer. Oh, they felt me out carefully, delicately! It was beautiful work, and I played up to it."
"He's not sure of me," thought Philip, and veiled his eyes, looking down at his cup. Something smelly here; those two fellows were with him, all right. "I'll be in a pinch if I don't watch my step!" he reflected.
"I don't get it," he answered. "What sort of offer?"
"Money. Heaps of it. Parthia has gold to burn, you know, and is afraid of Julian. Well, the point is that I stalled, said I'd have to play ball with you, and so forth. If you say the word, we can get taken here and now to Tigranes. I don't know who he is, but suspect he's merely a Parthian agent. The offer is ten thousand gold-pieces to each of us, for silence. Paid tonight on the nail, if we accept."
"Oh!" A fat sum, thought Philip. "And if we refuse?"
"I don't know. Didn't ask, in fact. Tonight is the deadline. I suspect some of the court officials are in the game, because the fellow who talked with me knew all about you and me both, and the offer includes a good position at court later on."
Philip sipped his wine. A pinch, sure enough. Crates had accepted the bribe; those Parthians had come along to silence Philip with their weapons if he refused.
"You tempt me," he said slowly. "It's a big sum. And, you say, in cash?"
"I saw the gold coins."
Damning words; he must have seen Tigranes as well, then. A short laugh escaped Philip, and he emptied his cup.
"If you think my old-fashioned honor, Roman virtue and so forth, are proof against that sum, think again! Get your guide. Let's go. I want to see the money myself."
Crates started up. "You're for it?"
"Definitely."
Crates spoke to one of the Parthians, who accompanied them outside and then set forth at a brisk stride. They followed him through the dark streets and came into the bazaar quarter of little shops and Asiatic faces, and ended at a dark entry to a rug shop. The guide knocked and spoke, the door was opened, he slipped inside. Crates followed, then Philip. A lamp glimmered on a dark passage; then a curtain was pulled aside and they stepped into a lighted room heaped with piles of rugs, where a man sat at a desk.
He was a dark, clean-shaven, alert man with jet eyes, and a strong, sure smile.
"Greetings," he said, calling them by name as though an old friend. His gaze settled on Philip. "So you found no trace of me today, eh? You sought earnestly enough."
"You seem oddly aware of my doings," Philip replied.
"You Roman spies are like children," said Tigranes. Philip bit his lip. "We need not waste words. Your friend has told you the terms. Are they agreeable?"
"Yes, with a slight change. Give me five hundred pieces of gold, to pay my debts, and the balance in an order on Lazar Brothers, the banking-house with branches everywhere." Philip spoke calmly. "And you have no assurance that I will not take your money and then betray you."
Tigranes smiled at him. "No? My friend, you are welcome to try, if you like. We have friends everywhere in the imperial household. We would know it immediately; you would die very quickly—and that is all. You would not like to lose a promising future?"
Philip chuckled. He rather liked this fellow who called him a spy. An efficient man.
"Assuredly not," he said. "Together with another deputy from the Christians here, I'm to visit the Emperor just before he leaves for the inspection."
"Yes. You made the appointment today, I understand," Tigranes said carelessly, and Philip felt cold sweat on his palms. Probably a secretary of Julian was in the plot. "When the thing is done, the blame will be thrown on the Christians, so you had better sever your connections with them quickly. It is agreed, then?"
"Agreed." Philip nodded coolly. "I admire your efficiency."
Tigranes smiled. "The tribute is appreciated." He touched a small bell. A slave entered, received instructions, and went out. "The money will be brought. The sum promised you, Crates, will be delivered in the morning at your quarters. Satisfactory?"
"Entirely," said Crates, beaming. "About the positions to be given us later—"
"That will be arranged by the officials in concert with us," said Tigranes. "They will approach you in the matter, so fear not. Ah, here is the money."
The slave re-entered, and placed on the desk a leather bag. Tigranes waved to it and smiled at Philip.
"Yours, my friend. You will find the sum exact. Anything else?"
"Nothing, except my thanks." Philip took the heavy little bag. "May the gods favor us all! In case I need to reach you—"
"This is the shop of Permanes the rug-merchant."
A WORD of farewell, and the two friends departed. Out in the
street again, Crates laughed in relief.
"Good, good! I'm glad you became sensible."
"Perhaps it's my throat," said Philip. "I've had a bit of fever—the damp nights here have hit my throat. At any rate, the money will help cure me! Well, good night, and take care of yourself!"
They separated and Philip went straight home. Glendufa met him—farmer Paulus had been here to see him and was highly nervous about the visit to the Emperor.
Philip laughed.
"Dear lady, that comes the third day from now—and a lot more comes then, too. Send him word to come here tomorrow; I'll be here all day. In fact, I'll be very ill. Make no secret of my illness. Send for a couple of physicians. Arrange to give me an hour in the morning, and to visit your husband in the camp downriver tomorrow afternoon."
She eyed him sharply. "Have you been drinking?"
"Yes. Drinking treachery and betrayal, of which this bag of gold is proof." He slapped the leather bag blithely. "Now I'm going to drink common sense and good counsel for an hour, before turning in."
"I want to talk to you," she said.
"Not tonight. I have sore need of advice from my father, God rest him!"
He left her staring after him and went to his own room. The very sight of her, the sound of her voice, tempted him. He was afraid of himself.
When his lamp was lighted, he sat down at the table, got out the emerald, and settled down to look into it and study it. He had made vague, tentative plans; he forgot them, a sense of composure gradually settled on his mind. Those green reaches within the beryl wrought their enthralling spell and shut away everything else. Across his thoughts drifted his last sight of his father, sword-girt, cuirass-clad; it seemed the older man gave him a smile, a penetrating look, a nod. Sheer hallucination, of course. He had sense enough to know as much; still, one always likes to pretend.
Queer how his father had lived and died, a plain, ordinary army man, getting nothing out of it. Uncompromising, too; either a thing was right or it was wrong. Few men could live that simple philosophy! It was hard to live, at times.
"Like me with Glendufa," reflected Philip. "I love her. I want her with all of me; want to live this life with her, give her everything that centurion can't give her. I don't give a damn if it's wrong—but she does. Therefore I must too. And therefore all I can do is to clear out—unless I take the easy, selfish course. But I'll have to clear out. Tigranes called me a spy; he was right. I've come down far. I'll have to climb back up again."
He thought his father was laughing grimly. He looked a while longer, then put out the light, stretched himself on the bed, and fell asleep.
SUNLIGHT woke him. He rose, dressed, opened the bag of gold
and shoved a handful of coins into his pocket—heavy, broad
pieces. He went down to the kitchen and breakfasted. In an hour,
said Glendufa, she would be ready to talk. He nodded and returned
to his room and there, very carefully, covered a scrap of vellum
with writing. He had just finished when a servant came to tell
him that Paulus was here asking for him.
"Bring him up here."
Paulus climbed up and came in. Philip shook hands, gave him a chair, and started in.
"Look, my brother. I have been given an appointment with the Emperor. We're to see him Christmas morning, just before he leaves the castle to inspect the troops. That means we meet here at eleven. That suit you?"
"Of course," said the craggy farmer. "Whatever you say will suit me."
"Then come with a horse for each of us. We must ride, as befitting the dignity of delegates. Here, take this." Into the horny palm Philip put a dozen gold pieces. "That farm of yours is just outside town in the upper valley, I think?"
"Aye, where there's no lack of water for the olives."
"Good. I want you to get two good fast horses for me and have them at the farm. Also water-skins and an outfit of simple white robes such as the desert men wear. I may have to leave here in haste and must neglect nothing. There are rumors of plots and killings. You'll be safe, but I may be in danger."
Paulus scratched his whiskers nervously. The idea of seeing the Emperor face to face was exciting; the supposed peril of the interview disturbed him terribly. He was jumping with alarm and anxiety.
"Oh, aye, about the horses—well and good. Nothing easier," said he. "And shall I wear my best clothes to the interview?"
"The best you have," said Philip. "Horses for it, remember. And two horses for me out at your farm. We'll go there from the castle. Is that enough money?"
"Enough and double," said Paulus, and departed.
Now Philip sought Glendufa, found her awaiting him, and closed the door. He gave her two of the gold pieces.
"For the physicians when they come. Keep them a little and dismiss them. I merely want to make sure that the people watching me think I'm ill."
"Very well. I can see my husband this afternoon. Now what's it all about?"
"The assassination of the Emperor, for which the Galileans are to be blamed," said Philip, watching her. "I'm very much tempted to let it go through and seize the opportunity to carry you off. Unfortunately, my father would disagree, and I doubt whether you would welcome a new life under such auspices, so I've decided on something else."
She went from white to red as she met his eyes. "You're serious?"
"Deadly serious, my dear," he rejoined. "I'm helpless to avert the killing. My companion Crates is in the plot. So are others of the imperial household, who are conniving with certain Parthians. No one can save Julian except the army officers. They must take action at the last minute—short, sharp, decisive action. Give your husband this information; here are the salient points written down for him."
He gave her the vellum, then launched into a description of the plot as he knew it and told where Tigranes was located.
"He must be seized. There must be no errors, no time wasted," he went on. "I myself will take the assassin in hand, because this will be a sop to my pride—a bit of action that will restore my self-respect, as it were." He smiled whimsically as he spoke. "All the rest, I leave to your husband. Other officers will be glad to join him. Julian is the idol of the army. And, I may say, he has promised that when Paulus and I see him he'll give us an edict of protection for the Christians here. Paulus doesn't know it yet."
"He—the Emperor—has promised you?" she said. "You know him?"
"Of course. Now, you understand—the action must be taken at the last minute, at noon, Christmas. It must be sweeping and complete, so far as possible. Not a soul can be trusted. Let your husband take full credit—I want none."
A servant knocked. There was a man here asking for Philip, he said. Glendufa went to see him and came back with a strip of vellum, saying that when she said Philip was ill, the man left this for him. It was the promised order on Lazar Brothers or their agents for the balance of the gold. Philip read it, laughed, and tucked it away.
As he stood up, Glendufa came to him, looking at him.
"I don't know what to say," she breathed softly. "You're a strange man, a remarkable man, and I like you. I'll carry out the errand, be sure of that."
She leaned forward and kissed him frankly and unskimpingly, perhaps secure in the feeling that he would understand.
Philip went to his own room and stayed there all afternoon. He had excellent company, for the sun appeared, pouring in at his window, and struck the Sphinx emerald into a glory of green depths and exquisite refractions. A long while he sat poring over the bit of beryl. As before, it left his mind composed, quiet, gratefully reassured.
Perhaps this was because he had chosen his course and there was no backing out. He knew this jewel was an exceptional, unique thing; but he had no belief in magic. Therefore he reasoned that its singular effect upon his mind must be a purely normal matter—as one sees figures in the leaping flames. Imagination, in other words. If so, very well. He was certain that the thing fascinated him beyond words. He meant to head for Alexandria, and Egypt was the land of the Sphinx.
"So, then, you go with me," he said, smiling a little. "And it may be that a new life awaits us both there, my precious emerald!"
A coruscation in the green depths winked back at him, and he laughed delightedly.
THAT evening he saw Glendufa briefly. All was well, she said;
her husband had the matter in hand. There was no chance for
private talk. The bishop, Meletius, had come to give Philip long-
winded advice about approaching the Emperor and the arguments to
use in seeking protection, and so forth. Philip listened blandly
and said yes to everything. A saintly man, this bishop, but
scarcely interesting.
The time passed draggingly, chiefly in avoidance of his hostess; to Philip, the memory of that kiss was burning temptation. When he wakened on Christmas morning, it was with a sigh of relief at the end of suspense. The day was dark, cloudy, chill with threatening rain. He made no pretence, took no part in the celebration of the Christians, but kept to his room.
As morning advanced, he made his simple preparations. The emerald he safely pouched, together with a goodly store of gold and his precious draft on Lazar Brothers. A light cuirass of metal links, sword at waist, and a voluminous military cloak that covered these; he was ready. He watched the time carefully, went downstairs, and when Paulus came up the street on horseback, with a led horse, he stepped forth and greeted the grizzled farmer, who was in festive garb.
"Let's be gone," he said, swinging into the saddle. "To the castle!"
Paulus was excited, nervous, on edge. At the castle gates, Philip noted more guards than usual. A group of the 59th stood about, talking and laughing. Excellent; this showed that things were moving. The two were passed into the courtyard. Philip spoke softly, as they dismounted.
"I've had a tip to look out for trouble. If anything goes wrong, jump for the horses and ride out of the city. Make for your farm."
This did not reassure the farmer in the least.
At one side was the towering bulk of a huge war-elephant, his trappings bearing the imperial emblems. Soldiers and grooms and court officials were crowded around him. While elephants were no novelty, this was a magnificent beast chosen to carry Julian himself. Philip glanced at the throng. Somewhere there must be John of Iconium!
A chamberlain led him and Paulus into the antechamber of the imperial suite. Here were officers of the staff chatting in groups. There was a wait: Philip wondered how many of these fine- feathered officers were in the plot. At last came a chamberlain, and the two delegates were led into the private rooms of the Emperor.
Julian, who was dressing, greeted them affably. Paulus fumbled out some words about the Galileans and their faithful service and their apprehensions of danger. Julian took his hand and pressed it.
"Yes, yes. You're an honest man; I can see that for myself," he said. "Of course I don't know the half of what goes on in this city of yours. I've been thinking about you Galileans, however. I want to assure you of my protection. I've even drawn up an edict to that effect. Isn't this one of your religious festivals?"
"It is the day we celebrate as the birthday of Christ," said Paulus.
"Ah, yes—the birthday of your god, eh? Well, you're free to worship him or anyone else." Julian beckoned a hovering secretary and took from him a folded vellum. He handed this to Philip. "Here you are, duly drawn up and sealed."
An expression of thanks, and the two delegates departed, Paulus smiling and jubilant. As they came into the courtyard, Philip took Paulus' arm.
"Go to the horses; be ready. I heard someone say we were to be stabbed before we got away. They mean to murder us. Let me see what I can do to prevent it."
He turned abruptly toward the group surrounding the elephant. Paulus, shocked and horrified, gawked after him, then started for the two horses.
Philip came briskly to the group and picked his man at once—a stranger to him, armed and holding a long elephant goad. Coming close to him, Philip tapped his shoulder.
"Are you John of Iconium?" he asked.
The other turned quickly.
"Aye—driver of the imperial elephant. What is it to you?" he replied, dark eyes stabbing suspiciously.
"You're under arrest—" Philip began, but got no farther.
The long goad dropped. Swift as light, the man's hand slid out sword and struck. Only the cuirass hidden under his cloak saved Philip from the shrewd, deadly blow, whose impact knocked him back a pace. The man was upon him with animal ferocity; but then his own sword was out and guarding. Yells went up from those around; they were quickly stilled.
That first instant told Philip that his antagonist was a deadly swordsman, but he was legion-trained, and every legion had its own tricks. He wasted no time in skill, but shifted into the trick he had learned in Gaul with the 12th Legion. A pretended slip to one knee, then up and inside the other's blade, his own point stabbing for the armpit. It took speed and skill—but it worked. The blade drove home. John of Iconium went staggering, a gush of blood pouring from him.
In the same instant, Philip swung around. Others were closing in, steel flashing—he broke into a run and was away. Farmer Paulus was in his own saddle, staring, frightened. Philip gained the other animal and swung up. They went clattering for the gate. Men were running and shouting. The two horses broke through them.
Done! It was done, they were out in the street, clearing the way with furious voice. Paulus swept into the lead and made for the street leading to the east gate. Any pursuit dropped away long ere they reached it. There was no question as they slowed down and rode out, passing the wagons and country folk and seeking the clear road.
"Speed!" called Philip, and the other obeyed.
No pursuit. A mile, two miles, and no dust rose behind them. Paulus slewed out of the road into a track. The gray-green of olive groves lifted ahead, and a house and stables. Paulus was there first, and dismounted, his eyes goggling at Philip.
"You're hurt!" he cried, as the Roman dismounted, his cloak lifting away from him.
"Only a scratch," said Philip, with a laugh. "With that trick, the other fellow's blade usually catches your arm—you can tie it up. Here's the edict Julian gave us. You take care of it. Now for my clothes—"
"Come into the house. I'll show you, then get your horses."
No time was wasted. Paulus asked no questions. He bound up the bleeding arm, showed the heap of garments, and went out to saddle and bring forth the horses. Philip stripped, made sure of his precious pouch, and donned the new garments. When he came outside, Paulus was just leading out the horses, one for riding, the other for load of water-skins and food. Philip took his hand.
"Good man. Thanks. Now fear not—the crisis is past, you're in no further harm. Give my love to Glendufa when you see her. Farewell!"
Queries enough now—Philip ignored them, picked up the reins and rode off. He knew already how to gain the great army highway that ran south through Syria to Paulusium and Alexandria. He was off—he was gone, with no one the wiser, none knowing where to seek him.
Yet—Glendufa had kissed him, and this was no memory to be lightly cast aside.
IT was Christmas Day these things happened. In the following
June, greater things came to pass. For Julian, battling in the
Parthian deserts, was struck by a shaft and killed, and most of
his army destroyed. As one result of this, a new and Christian
ruler was elected, to occupy Constantinople and make it capital
of the Eastern Empire for a thousand years and more.
As a further result, a man in Alexandria named Aulus Gentius hastily packed and got aboard a galley leaving for Antioch. So much the record says, and ends. What became of him, whether he returned, no one knows; but I like to think that he went for a purpose and came not back to Egypt alone.
That kind of man would not.