I
About two and a half miles from Cæsarea in Cappadocia, upon the woody spurs of Mount Argæus, and close to the great Roman road, bubbled a certain warm spring, famous for its healing virtues. A granite slab, adorned with rough sculpture and bearing a Greek inscription, proved that this spring had of old time been consecrated to the twin sons of Zeus, Castor and Pollux; but this by no means prevented the unbroken images of these Pagan demigods from being locally worshipped as St. Cosmas and St. Damian respectively.
On the other side of the road, opposite the sacred fountain, rose a little thatched tavern, flanked by a dirty stable, and by a shed where fowls and geese were dabbling in the mud. In this tavern, owned by one Syrax, a wily Armenian, could be bought goats'-milk cheese, black bread, honey, olive oil, and a thin sour wine, grown in neighbouring vineyards.
A screen divided the tavern into two compartments; one for the use of common folk, the other for guests of more importance. From the smoked ceiling hung hams curing, and odorous bunches of mountain herbs, proving that Fortunata, the wife of Syrax, was a careful housewife; a fact that did not save the dubious reputation of the establishment.
At night honest travellers dared not halt here, remembering sundry rumours about dark plots hatched in the cottage; but Syrax, ever scheming, and knowing whose hand to cross with silver, had never troubled his head about rumour. The partition was formed by two slender columns, between which was stretched, in the manner of a door-curtain, an old chlamys (or outer garment) of faded wool, belonging to the mistress of the house. The little columns, wrought in a barefaced attempt at the Doric style, were the pride of the heart of Syrax and the single ornament of the tavern. Once gilded, they had long stood creviced and chipped and hopelessly cracked.
The stuff of the chlamys, when new, had been a bright violet; now it was a dirty blue, eked out by many patches, and stained with innumerable stains, due to the breakfasts, dinners, and suppers of ten years of the conjugal life of the hard-working Fortunata.
In the clean half of the tavern, on a single narrow couch, which was torn in many places, Marcus Scuda, Roman tribune of the ninth cohort of the sixteenth legion, was lolling before a tankard-strewn table. A dandy provincial, he had one of those faces at the sight of which prosperous slaves and second-rate courtesans would inevitably exclaim with heartfelt admiration: "What a handsome man!"
At his feet, in an uncomfortable but respectful attitude, a red-faced man sat, panting. His bald head was fringed with grey hair, brushed towards the temples. He was the centurion of the eighth centuria, Publius Aquila.