Chapter 9

‘You don’t want too clear a remembrance of him, Voldi,’ he explained. ‘It’s easy to see you never killed a man before.’

‘You mean—he may haunt me?’

‘Well, you haven’t seen the last of him. They come back in the night—and waken you. Sometimes they bring small children along and weeping women.’

‘But, Mencius!’ stammered Voldi. ‘The fellow had no right to live!’

‘True, but it makes no difference. They return!…But come—let’s see what is going on here.’

The ambulatory robber had half-led, half-dragged his injured friend to the roadside and across the stone fence into the pasture where the horses were tethered. The shadowy figure who had taken charge of the white stallion had abandoned him and was running through the field to join his companions. Brutus had made no attempt to leave, and was quickly taken in hand.

‘Give me a lift, Mencius,’ said Voldi, after an unsuccessful effort to mount.

‘You’ve been hurt, Voldi!’ exclaimed Mencius. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Your sleeve is wet with blood.’

‘I know. Perhaps we had better bind it up.’

‘We will stop at the Fort of Minoa,’ said Mencius, as he applied a bandage to Voldi’s dripping wound. ‘I know the Commandant, an old friend of mine, Legate Vitelius. I used always to stop there on these trips; but—not lately. The fort’s badly run down, dirty, no discipline. Poor old Vitelius is a wine-bibber; never dead drunk, never cold sober; just stupid—all the day long.’

It was midnight before they reached the huge, ugly, shabby, high-walled rectangle with the faded Roman banners suspended over the gates. Sleepy sentries admitted them without much questioning. Legate Vitelius, shaky and dull but sober enough to be affable, was summoned from his bed; heard the travellers’ story, routed out the regimental surgeon, and had the wounds cleansed and dressed.

Voldi and Mencius shared a commodious chamber. Neither seemed ready to sleep. The excitement of their encounter was still with them.

‘I feel as if I had known you always, Voldi,’ murmured Mencius. ‘You saved my life tonight! I am deep in your debt! What can I ever do to repay your kindness, my friend?’

Somewhat to his own surprise, Voldi impulsively raised up on his elbows, and said, ‘I need your counsel. I am in a serious dilemma. I want to confide in you!’

Propping himself up on his pillows, Mencius gave full attention as Voldi told his almost incredible story—of Fara’s childhood vow and her disappearance and his own desperate search for her.

‘I don’t know, Voldi,’ muttered Mencius, shaking his head, when the tale had been told. ‘I doubt whether she could make such a journey without being apprehended. But she’s surely worth looking for; and if love and courage can find her, you will succeed!’

Before they slept, Voldi had promised to wait in Gaza until Mencius had dispatched his fleet, and together they would ride to Caesarea.

‘But I must exact a promise of you, Voldi, if you are going with me to Caesarea.’ Mencius’ tone was serious.

‘Of course!’ promised Voldi. ‘Anything!’

‘The Augusta’s errand in Caesarea is to pick up a royal family, on a pleasure excursion to Rome. You are to show no interest in any member of this royal household.’

‘But—why should I?’ exclaimed Voldi.

‘The man is the ruler of Galilee.’

‘Antipas!’

‘Correct! Mind you keep your promise. Good-night!’