Chapter 8

Esther pretended reluctance; hoped he was well guarded.

‘Guarded?’ laughed Claudia. ‘A tough legionary from the fort was in charge of him for a day, but he hasn’t been seen since. He is on a big spree, no doubt. But the prisoner is well locked in and there are no others in the jail to help him escape.’

Assuming Esther’s consent to feed the prisoner, Claudia had been preparing the breakfast-tray, making an appetizing arrangement of a plate of red apples, a dish of berries, a smoked perch and several small barley-loaves.

‘Here you are,’ she said; ‘and here is the key to the prison door. You open the front door and there is a small corridor. The cell is the first one. There is a barred window in the door. You pass the food through the bars. Don’t try to make love to him. It’s no good. He is cold.’

‘For once,’ called Murza, from the pantry, ‘Claudia speaks the truth. It’s no use to make love to the man. It has been tried—by experts.’

A startling ‘Hush!’ broke in on Murza’s malicious comment, presumably offered by the sober Jewess, Anna.

‘Her Highness,’ explained Claudia naively, ‘is restless and lonely. You never saw her—no?…’ And when Esther had shaken her head, Claudia sighed and remarked in a confidential half-whisper, ‘Her Highness does not like to grow old. But—who does?…Come—let me show you the way.’

Beyond the circular carriage-court a narrow path led through a trellised arbour toward a sturdy stone structure some two hundred yards distant. Having given minute directions, Claudia returned to the house and Esther proceeded on her errand. Her heart quickened as she reached the low wall that bounded the prison area. She wondered whether John, the baptizer, would recognize her. There were broad stone seats inset in the wall, doubtless for the convenience of sentries. Depositing the tray on one of the seats nearest the entrance, Esther inserted the huge key and was trying unsuccessfully to turn it in the obstinate lock when a resonant voice deep in the prison startled her with the suggestion, ‘The key is crooked. Bear down on it—and a little to the left.’

There was no mistaking the identity of that haunting voice. Labouring with the protesting key, she pressed her weight hard against the massive door and it grudgingly opened.

‘Over here, my daughter,’ called the voice. ‘You are a stranger here.’

They faced each other at the barred window and peered through the gloom.

‘It’s you!’ she murmured.

‘Did we not have an appointment to meet here?’

‘It’s so dark! You will be ill.’

‘I do miss the sunshine; that is true.’

‘You wouldn’t try to run away if I gave you your breakfast outside?’

‘That might get you into trouble.’