Chapter 20

The Vestris had done very well on the voyage up from Gaza; had berthed at one of the new wharves in Joppa shortly after dawn on Thursday. The sister-ships of the fleet had discharged their cargo and were swinging lazily at anchor in the roadstead waiting orders to sail.

Proconsul Mencius and Captain Fulvius limbered up their horses and started on their thirty-mile journey to Jerusalem, intending to break the trip at Ashnah; but after a bad supper and a glance at the guest-rooms of the only inn, they decided to press on. Their horses were fresh and the moon was bright, and the highway, all but deserted of traffic, was free of dust. It was half-past two when they reached the city.

They were going to put up at Levi’s Inn, known to be the best tavern in Jerusalem. It was a little way outside the east gate, on the slope leading up the long hill toward Bethany. As they passed the front of the large, high-walled compound adjacent to the Insula, Mencius wondered whether they might not find better accommodation for the horses in the barracks-stables. It might be worth inquiring about.

Fulvius was too tired to take any interest in this suggestion. He had no taste for a long walk. He wanted to get to bed. Mencius decided to stop at the Insula’s stables. Fulvius, with the Proconsul’s saddlebags, was to go on and make a reservation for him at the tavern. He would be up later and see him at breakfast.

They were quite deferential at the military stables; but, ‘as you can see for yourself, sir, we haven’t a stall. Everything full up. But I feel sure there is room in the stables at the Galilean Embassy. It’s only a little way—just around the next corner to the right. You can’t miss it, sir. Some kind of a brawl going on over there.’

‘I don’t want to get into a brawl,’ said Mencius.

‘It isn’t among the horses, sir. Everything will be quiet in the stables.’

‘What’s the racket about?’ asked Mencius.

‘Oh, they’re trying some country preacher for teaching the wrong doctrine,’ drawled the old hostler. ‘The horses aren’t in it. They’ve too much sense to get mixed up with a thing like that, sir.’

The Proconsul handed the old fellow a couple of shekels, remounted Brutus, and followed directions.

There stood the costly and superfluous Embassy that Herod’s rich and worthless son had built to satisfy his vanity. The main part of the imposing structure, fronting the street, was brightly lighted and noisily doing business. From the tone of the excited voices that shrilled through the open windows the litigants were angry. The Proconsul chuckled. You’d never hear such a bedlam as that in a Roman court. No, indeed! A Roman court wasn’t always fair, but it was always orderly…A country preacher—being tried for his heresies—at three o’clock in the morning—when everybody was supposed to be sequestered because of the Passover. It was incredible!…A country preacher, eh?…Could it be possible that this was Voldi’s ‘Torchbearer’?…Mencius rode on a short way further and found the stables. They were of an architecture consistent with the Embassy, ostentatious to the point of absurdity if not vulgarity; quite appropriate for the official seat of an Ambassador, but too foolishly grand for his horses.