“You see, Drusilla! We are really prisoners at Rome’s orders, though they pretend they are protecting us here,” said Bernice.
“What are prison walls to true love? Eat, drink and be merry; for to-morrow we die,” laughed Drusilla. “Why are they holding us prisoners here?”
“To grace Rome’s chariot wheels if they conquer Jerusalem,” Bernice answered bitterly. “And if I go to Rome, I go not with chained hands behind the chariots. I ride with Titus in the chariot under the conquerors’ arch—”
“And I thank Jupiter,” insolently laughed Drusilla, “that my slave husband Felix left enough gold to bribe freedom.”
They descended the stone steps from the parapet to the gardens. The rose-and-silver mist still boiled above the green translucent depths of the Dead Sea. It looked, so far below, a jewel in jade. An odor of roses and oleander came from the sloping gardens. Far below they could see the flat tiled roofs of the village outside the walls clinging to the precipice like birds’ nests; and every roof was crowded with women and children, to get the air.
“I hate women. If I had been a man, I would have been a warrior in the thick of it at Jerusalem there,” said Drusilla. “Women are feeble and helpless sheep. They either huddle in fright and go mad over the past like Aunt Herodias up in the turret there, or—are eaten by the wolves. If I knew where Felix camps among the barbarians, I’d throw my royal estate to the winds and join him to-morrow.”
“I would not. I’d rule the wolf,” said Bernice thoughtfully.
Their purple silk cloaks brushed the snowy petals of the cyclamens lining the garden paths. Bernice stooped and picked a field daisy.
“Heart of gold,” she said dreamily, “with vesture of white silk round it, I’ll pluck your petals and—wish.” She plucked the white petals one by one, throwing them on the ground.
“What does it say? Do you get your wish?” asked Drusilla.