Benighted walks under the mid-day sun;
Himself is his own dungeon.’
Milton, Comus.
A Roman centurion, whose armour gleamed in the sun, was walking at the head of the decuria of soldiers, several of whom were attached by a loose coupling chain to the arms of various prisoners. The spectacle was common enough, and in the varied turmoil of the principal thoroughfare, with the stream of travellers which swept to and fro about the capital of the world, there was nothing in it to attract notice. But the interest felt in one of the prisoners had induced a throng of people—mostly foreigners, slaves, and artisans—to go and meet him.
Titus recognised in the centurion an old friend. ‘Ha, Julius!’ he cried; ‘so you have returned from Cæsarea. You will have long stories to tell us about those curious and turbulent Jews. Will you sup with my father to-night? You will be welcome.’
‘Yes!’ said Julius, ‘gladly, for I am tired with a long day’s march.’
‘You know our frugal ways. You will have to recline on couches made only by Archias, and sup mainly on vegetables off earthenware plates,’ said Titus laughing, and quoting Horace.
‘It will be a supper of the gods after our fare in the nights and days of storm on the Adramyttian ship off Clauda and Malta,’ said Julius. ‘But I must hurry on now to hand over my prisoners to the Prætorian Præfect.’
‘Who are your prisoners?’
‘They are of the ordinary sort except one. He is the strangest, bravest, wisest man I ever met; and yet he is a fanatical Jew—one of this new sect which the mob calls Christians.’