Fifty yean ago, the legions of Augustus had laid siege to the ancient city of Gaza, and had subdued it after a long and bitter campaign that had cost more than the conquest was worth.
‘It would have been cheaper,’ observed Manius, ‘to have paid the high toll they demanded for travel on the salt trail.’
‘But how about the Bedouins?’ Marcellus wondered.
‘Yes—and the Emperor could have bought off the Bedouins, too, for less than that war cost. We lost twenty-three thousand men, taking Gaza.’
Manius went on with the story. Old Augustus had been beside himself with rage over the stubborn resistance of the defense—composed of a conglomeration of Egyptians, Syrians, and Jews, none of whom were a bit squeamish at the sight of blood, and never took prisoners and were notoriously ingenious in the arts of torture. Their attitude, he felt, in willfully defying the might of the Empire demanded that the old pest hole Gaza should be cleaned up. Henceforth, declared Augustus, it was to be known as the Roman city of Minoa; and it was to be hoped that the inhabitants thereof, rejoicing in the benefits conferred upon them by a civilized state, would forget that there had ever been a municipality so dirty, unhealthy, quarrelsome, and altogether nasty as Gaza.
‘But Gaza,’ continued Manius, ‘had been Gaza for seventeen centuries, and it would have taken more than an edict by Augustus to change its name.’
‘Or its manners, either, I daresay,’ commented Marcellus.
‘Or its smell,’ added Manius, dryly. ‘You know, sir,’ he went on, ‘the crusty white shore of that old Dead Sea is like a salt lick beside a water-hole in the jungle where animals of all breeds and sizes gather and fight. This has been going on longer than any nation’s history can remember. Occasionally some animal bigger than the others has shown up, driving all the rest of them away. Sometimes they have ganged on the big fellow and chased him off, after which the little ones have gone to fighting again among themselves. Well—that’s Gaza for you!’
‘But the salt lick,’ put in Marcellus, ‘is not at Gaza; but at the Dead Sea.’
‘Quite true,’ agreed Manius, “but you don’t get to the Dead Sea for a lick at the salt unless Gaza lets you. For a long time the lion of Judah kept all the other animals away, after he had scared off the Philistine hyenas. Then the big elephant Egypt frightened away the lion. Then Alexander the tiger jumped onto the elephant. Always after a battle the little fellows would come sneaking back, and claw the hides off one another while the big ones were licking their wounds.’
‘And what animal came after the tiger?’ prodded Marcellus, though he knew the answer.
‘The Roman eagle,’ replied Manius. ‘Flocks and swarms of Roman eagles, thinking to pick the bones; but there were plenty of survivors not ready to have their bones picked. That,’ he interrupted himself to remark, ‘was how we lost three-and-twenty thousand Romans—to get possession of the old salt lick.’
‘A most interesting story,’ mused Marcellus, who had never heard it told just that way.
‘Yes,’ nodded Manius, ‘an interesting story; but the most curious part of it is the effect that these long battles had upon the old city of Gaza. After every invasion, a remnant of these foreign armies would remain; deserters and men too badly crippled to travel home. They stayed in Gaza—a score of different breeds—to continue their feuds.’ The Captain shook his head and made a wry face. ‘Many will tell you of the constant quarreling and fighting in port cities such as Rhodes and Alexandria where there is a mixed population composed of every known tint and tongue. Some say the worst inferno on any coast of our sea is Joppa. But I’ll vote for Gaza as the last place in the world where a sane man would want to live.’
‘Perhaps Rome should clean up Gaza again,’ remarked Marcellus.
‘Quite impossible! And what is true of old Gaza is equally true of all that country, up as far as Damascus. The Emperor could send in all the legions that Rome has under arms, and put on such a campaign of slaughter as the world has never seen; but it wouldn’t be a permanent victory. You can’t defeat a Syrian. And as for the Jews!—you can kill a Jew, and bury him, but he’ll climb out a live!’ Noting Marcellus’ amusement, Manius grinningly elaborated, ‘Yes, sir—he will climb right up the spade-handle and sell you the rug he’d died in!’
‘But'—queried Marcellus, anxious to know more about his own job—‘doesn’t our fort at Minoa—or Gaza, rather—keep order in the city?’
‘Not at all! Hasn’t anything to do with the city. Isn’t located in the city, but away to the east in a most desolate strip of desert sand, rocks, and scratchy vegetation. You will find only about five hundred officers and men—though the garrison is called a legion. They are there to make the marauding Bedouins a bit cautious. Armed detachments from the fort go along with the caravans, so that the brigands will not molest them. Oh, occasionally’—Manius yawned widely—‘not very often—a caravan starts across and never comes back.’
‘How often?’ asked Marcellus, hoping the question would sound as if he were just making conversation.
‘Well—let’s see,’ mumbled Manius, squinting one eye shut and counting on his battered fingers. ‘I’ve heard of only four, this past year.’
‘Only four,’ repeated Marcellus, thoughtfully. ‘I suppose that on these occasions the detachment from the fort is captured too.’
‘Of course,’ drawled Manius.
‘And put into slavery, maybe?’
‘No—not likely. The Bedouins don’t need slaves; wouldn’t be bothered with them. Your Bedouin, sir, is a wild man; wild as a fox and sneaking as a jackal. When he strikes, he slips up on you from the rear and lets you have it between your shoulder blades.’
‘But—doesn’t the garrison avenge these murders?’ exclaimed Marcellus.
Manius shook his head and drew a crooked grin.
‘That garrison, sir, does not amount to much, if you’ll excuse my saying so. None of them care. They’re poorly disciplined, poorly commanded, and haven’t the slightest interest in the fort. Ever so often they have a mutiny and somebody gets killed. You can’t expect much of a fort that sheds most of its blood on the drillground.’
***
That night Marcellus felt he should confide his recent information to Demetrius. In a quiet voice, as they lay in their adjacent bunks, he gave his Corinthian a sketch of the conditions in which they were presently to find themselves, speaking his thoughts as freely as if his slave were jointly responsible for whatever policy might be pursued.
Demetrius had listened in silence throughout the dismaying recital, and when Marcellus had concluded he ventured to remark laconically, ‘My master must command the fort.’
‘Obviously!’ responded Marcellus. ‘That’s what I am commissioned to do! What else—indeed?’ And as there was no immediate reply from the other bunk, he added, testily, ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, sir—if the garrison is unruly and disorderly, my master will exact obedience. It is not for his slave to suggest how this may be accomplished; but it will be safer for my master if he takes full command of the fort instantly—and firmly!’
Marcellus raised up on one elbow and searched the Greek’s eyes in the gloom of the stuffy cabin.
‘I see what you have in mind, Demetrius. Now that we know the temper of this place, you think the new Legate should not bother about making himself agreeable, but should swagger in and crack a few heads without waiting for formal introductions.’
‘Something like that,’ approved Demetrius.
‘Give them some strong medicine; eh? Is that your idea?’
‘When one picks up a nettle, sir, one should not grasp it gently. Perhaps these idle men would be pleased to obey a commander as well-favored and fearless as my master.’
‘Your words are gracious, Demetrius.’
‘Almost any man, sir, values justice and courage. My master is just—and my master is also bold.’
‘That’s how your master got into this predicament, Demetrius,’
chuckled Marcellus ironically—‘by being bold.’
Apparently unwilling to discuss that unhappy circumstance, but wanting to support his end of the conversation, Demetrius said, ‘Yes, sir,’ so soberly that Marcellus laughed. Afterward there was such a long hiatus that it was probable the Corinthian had dropped off to sloep, for the lazy roll of the little ship was an urgent sedative. Marcellus lay awake for an hour, consolidating the plan suggested by his shrewd and loyal Greek. Demetrius, he reflected, is right. If I am to command this fort at all, I must command it from the moment of my arrival. If they strike me down, my exit will be at least honorable.
***
It was well past mid-aftemoon on the eighth day of March when Captain Manius maneuvered his unwieldy little tub through the busy roadstead of Gaza, and warped her flank against a vacant wharf. His duties at the moment were pressing, but he found time to say good-bye to the young Tribune with something of the somber solicitude of the next of kin bidding farewell to the dying.
Demetrius had been among the early ones over the rail. After a while he returned with five husky Syrians to whom he pointed out the burdens to be carried. There were no uniforms on the duty wharf, but Marcellus was not disappointed. He had not expected to be met. The garrison had not been advised of his arrival. He would be obliged to appear at the fort unheralded.
Gaza was in no hurry, probably because of her great age and many infirmities. It was a full hour before enough pack-asses were found to carry the baggage. Some more time was consumed in loading them. Another hour was spent moving at tortoise speed through the narrow, rough-cobbled, filthy streets, occasionally blocked by shrieking contestants for the right of way.
The Syrians had divined the Tribune’s destination when they saw his uniform, and gave him a surly obedience. At length they were out on a busy, dusty highway, Marcellus heading the procession on a venerable, half-shed camel, led by the reeking Syrian with whom Demetrius—by pantomime—had haggled over the price of the expedition. This bargaining had amused Marcellus; for Demetrius, habitually quiet and reserved, had shouted and gesticulated with the best of them. Knowing nothing about the money of Gaza, or the rates for the service he sought, the Corinthian had fiercely objected to the Syrian’s first three proposals, and had finally come to terms with savage mutters and scowls. It was difficult to recognize Demetrius in this new rôle.
Far ahead, viewed through the billowing clouds of yellow dust, appeared an immensely ugly twelve-acre square bounded by a high wall built of sunbaked brick, its corners dignified by tall towers. As they drew nearer, a limp Roman banner was identified, pendent from an oblique pole at the corner.
An indolent, untidy sentry detached himself from a villainous group of unkept legionaries squatting on the ground, slouched to the big gate, and swung it open without challenging the party. Perhaps, thought Marcellus, the lazy lout had mistaken their little parade for a caravan that wanted to be convoyed. After they had filed through into the barren, sunblistered courtyard, another sentry ambled down the steps of the praetorium and stood waiting until the Tribune’s grunting camel had folded up her creaking joints. Demetrius, who had brought up the rear of the procession, dismounted from his donkey and marched forward to stand at his master’s elbow. The sentry, whose curiosity had been stirred by the sight of the Tribune’s insignia, saluted clumsily with a tarnished sword in a dirty hand.
‘I am Tribune Marcellus Gallio!’ The words were clipped and harsh. ‘I am commissioned to take command of this fort. Conduct me to the officer in charge.’
‘Centurion Paulus is not here, sir.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In the city, sir.’
‘And when Centurion Paulus goes to the city, is there no one in command?’
‘Centurion Sextus, sir; but he is resting, and has given orders not to be disturbed.’
Marcellus advanced a step and stared into the sulky eyes.
‘I am not accustomed to waiting for men to finish their naps,’ he growled. ‘Obey me—instantly! And wash your dirty face before you let me see it again! What is this—a Roman fort—or a pigsty?’
Blinking a little, the sentry backed away for a few steps; and, turning, disappeared through the heavy doors. Marcellus strode heavily to and fro before the entrance, his impatience mounting. After waiting for a few minutes, he marched up the steps, closely followed by Demetrius, and stalked through the gloomy hall. Another sentry appeared.
‘Conduct me to Centurion Sextus!’ shouted Marcellus.
‘By whose orders?’ demanded the sentry, gruffly.
‘By the orders of Tribune Marcellus Gallio, who has taken command of this fort. Lead on—and be quick about it!’
At that moment a near-by door opened and a burly, bearded figure emerged wearing an ill-conditioned uniform with a black eagle woven into the right sleeve of his red tunic. Marcellus brushed the sentry aside and confronted him.
‘You are Centurion Sextus?’ asked Marcellus; and when Sextus had nodded dully, he went on, ‘I am ordered by Prince Gaius to command this fort. Have your men bring in my equipment.’
‘Well—not so fast, not so fast,’ drawled Sextus. ‘Let’s have a look at that commission.’
‘Certainly,’ Marcellus handed him the scroll; and Sextus, lazily unrolling it, held it close to his face in the waning light.
‘I suggest, Centurion Sextus,’ rasped Marcellus, ‘that we repair to the Legate’s quarters for this examination. In the country of which I am a citizen, there are certain courtesies—’
Sextus grinned unpleasantly and shrugged.
‘You’re in Gaza now,’ he remarked, half-contemptuously. ‘In Gaza, you will find, we do things the easy way, and are more patient than our better-dressed equals in Rome. Incidentally,’ added Sextus, dryly, as he led the way down the hall, ‘I too am a Roman citizen.’
‘How long has Centurion Paulus been in command here?’ asked Marcellus, glancing about the large room into which Sextus had shown him.
‘Since December. He took over, temporarily, after the death of Legate Vitelius.’
‘What did Vitelius die of?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Not of wounds, then,’ guessed Marcellus.
‘No, sir. He had been ailing. It was a fever.’
‘It’s a wonder you’re not all sick,’ observed Marcellus, dusting his hands, distastefully. Turning to Demetrius he advised him to go out and stand guard over their equipment until it was called for.
Sextus mumbled some instructions to the sentry, who drifted away.
‘I’ll show you the quarters you may occupy until Commander Paulus returns,’ he said, moving toward the door. Marcellus followed. The room into which he was shown contained a bunk, a table, and two chairs. Otherwise it was bare and grim as a prison cell. A door led into a smaller unfurnished cubicle.
‘Order another bunk for this kennel,’ growled Marcellus. ‘My slave will sleep here.’
‘Slaves do not sleep in the officers’ row, sir,’ replied Sextus, firmly.
‘My slave does!’
‘But it’s against orders, sir!’
‘There are no orders at this fort—but mine!’ barked Marcellus.
Sextus nodded his head, and a knowing grin twisted his shaggy lips as he left the room.
***
It was a memorable evening at the fort. For years afterward the story was retold until it had the flavor of a legend.
Marcellus, accompanied by his orderly, had entered the big mess-hall to find the junior officers seated. They did not rise, but there were no evidences of hostility in the inquisitive glances they turned in his direction as he made his way to the round table in the center of the room. A superficial survey of the surrounding tables informed Marcellus that he was the youngest man present. Demetrius went directly to the kitchen to oversee his master’s service.
After a while, Centurion Paulus arrived, followed by Sextus who had apparently waited to advise his chief of recent events. There was some
thing of a stir when they came striding across the room to the center table. Sextus mumbled an ungracious introduction. Marcellus rose and was ready to offer his hand, but Paulus did not see it; merely bowed, drew out his chair, and sat. He was not drunk, but it was evident that he had been drinking. His lean face, stubbly with a three-days’ beard, was unhealthily ruddy; and his hands, when he began to gobble his food, were shaky. They were also dirty. And yet, in spite of his general appearance, Paulus bore marks of a discarded refinement. This man, thought Marcellus, may have been somebody, once upon a time.
‘The new Legate; eh?’ drawled Paulus, with his mouth full. 'We have had no word of his appointment. However’—he waved a negligent hand, and helped himself to another large portion from the messy bowl of stewed meat—‘we can go into that later; tomorrow, perhaps.’ For some minutes he wolfed his rations, washing down the greasy meat with noisy gulps of a sharp native wine.
Having finished, Paulus folded his hairy arms on the table and stared insolently into the face of the young interloper. Marcellus met his cloudy eyes steadily. Each knew that the other was taking his measure, not only as to height and weight—in which dimensions they were approximately matched, with Paulus a few pounds heavier, perhaps, and a few years older—but, more particularly, appraising each other’s timber and temper. Paulus drew an unpleasant grin.
‘Important name—Gallio,’ he remarked, with mock deference. ‘Any relation to the rich Senator?’
‘My father,’ replied Marcellus, coolly.
‘Oh-ho!’ chuckled Paulus. ‘Then you must be one of these clubhouse Tribunes.’ He glanced about, as conversations at the adjoining tables were throttled down. ‘One would think Prince Gaius could have found a more attractive post for the son of Senator Gallio,’ he went on, raising his voice for the benefit of the staff. ‘By jove—I have itl’ he shouted, hilariously, slapping Sextus on the shoulder. ‘The son of Marcus Lucan Gallio has been a bad boy!’ He turned again to Marcellus. ‘I’ll wager this is your first command, Tribune.’