Chapter 13

In travel-worn garb Vergilius went early to see the king. Accustomed
to the grandeur of Rome itself, he yet saw with astonishment the
beautiful groves, the lakes, canals, and fountains sparkling in the
sunlight which surrounded the great marble palace of Herod. In the
shadow of its many towers, each thirty cubits high, Vergilius began to
feel some dread of this terrible king. At least fifty paces from the
door of his chamber, in the great hall above-stairs, he could hear the
growl of the old lion. In Herod was the voice of wrath and revenge and
terror. His words came rolling out in a deep, husky, guttural tone, or
leaped forth hissing with anger. Some officials stood by the king's
door with fear and dread upon their faces. A young woman of singular
beauty was among them.

"O Salome, daughter of Herod," said one, "the king would have you come
to-morrow. He is in ill humor with the plotters."

"And I with him," said she, stamping her foot.

An usher had presented Vergilius at the door. As Herod's daughter
proudly turned away, she came face to face with the young Roman noble.
For one moment their eyes held each other. A chamberlain approached
Vergilius, whispered a few inquiries, and then led him before the king.
Herod was having a bad day.

"Traitors!" he hissed. In a voice like the menacing growl of a savage
beast he added: "May their eyes rot in their heads! Go! I have heard
enough, bearer of evil tidings."

Far down the great chamber in which half a cohort could have stood
comfortably, in a carved chair on a dais, under a vault and against a
background of blue, Babylonian tapestry, sat the king. A priest had
bowed low and was now leaving his presence. The chamberlain announced,
in a loud voice, "Vergilius, son of Varro, of Rome, and officer of the
fatherly and much-beloved Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Augustus."

The king sat erect, a purple tarboosh and crown of wrought gold upon
his head. As Vergilius approached, the dark, suspicious eyes of Herod
were surveying him from under long, quivering tufts of gray hair. His
great body, in its prime, must have been like that of Achilles.

"Stand where you are, son of Varro," said the king, as he moved
nervously. His broad shoulders were beginning to bend a little under
their burden of trouble and disease. The harrow of pain and passion
had roughened his face with wrinkles. His manner was alert and
watchful.

"Have you seen my son?" he inquired, quickly.

"Yes, great sire, and he was well."

"And is he not comely?"

"Ay, and brave with his lance."

"And a born king," said Herod. "I