CHAPTER XX

THE VICTORY

The Tenth Legion, commanded by Licinius and guarding the person of their beloved prince, were advancing steadily upon the Temple. Deeming themselves the flower of the Roman army, accustomed to fight under the eye of Titus himself, there was no unseemly haste in the movements of these highly disciplined troops. None even of that fiery dash, which is sometimes so irresistible, sometimes so dangerous a quality in the soldier. The Tenth Legion would no more have neglected the even regularity of their line, the mechanical precision of their step, in a charge than in a retreat. They were, as they boasted, “equal to either fortune.”(25) Not flushed by success, because they considered victory the mere wages to which they were entitled—not discouraged by repulse, because they were satisfied that the Tenth Legion could do all that was possible for soldiers; and the very fact of their retiring, was to them in itself a sufficient proof that sound strategy required such a movement.

Thus, when the Legion of the Lost dashed forward with wild cheers and an impetuous rush to the attack, the Tenth supported them with even ranks and regular pace and a scornful smile on their keen, bronzed, quiet faces. They would have taken the Temple, they thought, if they had the order, with half the noise and in half the time, so they closed remorselessly in, as man after man fell under the Jewish missiles, and preserved through their whole advance the same stern, haughty, and immovable demeanour, which was the favourite affectation of their courage. Titus had addressed them, when he put himself at their head, to recommend neither steadiness, valour, nor implicit compliance with orders, for in all such requirements he could depend on them, as if they were really what he loved to call them, “his own children”! but he exhorted them to spare the lives of the vanquished, and to respect as far as possible the property as well as the persons of the citizens. Above all, he had hoped to save the Temple; and this hope he expressed again and again to Licinius, who rode beside him, even until gazing sorrowfully on the mass of lowering smoke and yellow flame, his own eyes told him that his clemency was too late.

Even then, leaving to his general the duty of completing its capture and investing its defences, he put spurs to his horse and rode at speed round the building, calling on his soldiers to assist him in quenching the flames, shouting, signing, gesticulating; but all in vain.(26) Though the Tenth Legion were steady as a rock, the rest of the army had not resisted the infection of success; and stimulated by the example of the gladiators, were more disposed to encourage than to impede the conflagration—nor, even had they wished, would their most strenuous efforts have been now able to extinguish it.

Though fighting still went on amongst the cloisters and in the galleries of the Temple; though John of Gischala was still alive, and the Robbers held out, here and there, in fast diminishing clusters; though the Zealots had sworn to follow their leader’s example, dying to a man in defence of the Holy Place; and though the Sicarii were not yet completely exterminated—Jerusalem might nevertheless be considered at length in possession of the Roman army. Licinius, leading the Tenth Legion through the Court of the Gentiles, more effectually to occupy the Temple, and prevent if possible its total destruction, was accosted at its entrance by Hirpinus, who saluted him with a sword dripping from hilt to point in blood. The old gladiator’s armour was hacked and dinted, his dress scorched, his face blackened with smoke; but though weary, wounded, and exhausted, his voice had lost none of its rough jovial frankness, his brow none of the kindly good‐humoured courage it had worn through all the hardships of the siege.

“Hail, prætor!” said he, “I shall live to see thee sitting yet once again, high on the golden car, in the streets of Rome. The Temple is thine at last, and all it contains, if we can only save it from these accursed flames. The fighting is over now; and I came back to look for a prisoner who can tell me where water may be found. The yellow roof yonder is flaring away like a torch in an oil‐cask, and they must be fond of gold who can catch it by handfuls, guttering down like this in streams of fire. Our people, too, have cut their prisoners’ throats as fast as they took them, and I cannot find a living Jew to show me well or cistern. Illustrious! I have won spoil enough to‐day to buy a province—I would give it all for as much clear water as would go into my helmet. The bravest old man in Syria is dying in yonder corner for want of a mouthful!”

Returning through the court, in obedience to the prince’s orders, to collect men and procure water, if possible, for the extinction of the conflagration, Hirpinus had recognised his young friend Esca with no little surprise and delight. Seeing Calchas, too—for whom, ever since his bold address to the gladiators in the training‐school, he had entertained a sincere admiration—lying half suffocated, and at his last gasp, on the stones, the old swordsman’s heart smote him with a keen sense of pity, and something between anger and shame at his own helplessness to assist the sufferer. He said nothing but truth, indeed, when he declared that he would give all his share of spoil for a helmetful of water; but he might have offered the price of a kingdom rather than a province, with as little chance of purchasing what he desired. Blood there was, flowing in streams, but of water not a drop! It was more in despair than hope that he told his sad tale to Licinius, on whom it seemed natural for every soldier in the army to depend when in trouble, either for himself or for others. Giving his orders, clear, concise, and imperative to his tribunes, the Roman general accompanied Hirpinus to the corner of the court where Calchas lay. Fallen beams and masses of charred timber were smouldering around, dead bodies, writhed in the wild contortions of mortal agony, in heaps on every side—he was sick and faint, crushed, mangled, dying from a painful wound, yet the Christian’s face looked calm and happy; and he lay upon the hard stones, waiting for the coming change, like one who seeks refreshing slumber on a bed of down.

As the kind eyes turned gently to Licinius, in glance of friendly recognition, they were lit with the smile that is never worn but by the departing traveller whose barque has already cast off its moorings from the shore—the smile in which he seems to bid a hopeful, joyful farewell to those he leaves for a little while, with which he seems to welcome the chill breeze and the dark waters because of the haven where he would be. Mariamne and Esca, bending over with tender care, and watching each passing shade on that placid countenance, knew well that the end was very near.

His strength was almost gone; but Calchas pointed to his kinswoman and the Briton, while looking at Licinius he said, “They will be your care now. I have bestowed on you countless treasures freely yonder in the camp of the Assyrians.(27) This you shall promise me in return.”

Licinius laid his shield on the ground and took the dying man’s hand in both his own.

“They are my children,” said he, “from this day forth. Oh! my guide, I will never forget thy teaching nor thy behest.”

Calchas looked inquiringly in the face of Hirpinus. The gladiator’s rugged features bore a wistful expression of sorrow, mingled with admiration, sympathy, and a dawning light of hope.

“Bring him into the fold with you,” he murmured to the other three, and then his voice came loud and strong in full triumphant tones. “It may be that this man of blood, also, shall be one of the jewels in my crown. Glory to Him who has accepted my humble tribute, who rewards a few brief hours of imperfect service; a blow from a careless hand with an eternity of happiness, an immortal crown of gold! I shall see you, friends, again. We shall meet ere we have scarcely parted. You will not forget me in that short interval. And you will rejoice with me in humble thankful joy that I have been permitted to instruct you of heaven, and to show you myself the way.”

Exhausted with the effort, he sank back ere he had scarce finished speaking, and his listeners, looking on the calm dead face, from which the radiant smile had not yet faded, needed to keep watch no longer, for they knew that the martyr’s spirit was even now holding converse with the angels in heaven.

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FOOTNOTES

1 The dinner or _prandium_ of Rome was the first meal in the day.

2 A technical term for a school of gladiators trained by the same master.

3 “_Sicarii_,” or homicides—bands of assassins, regularly organised in Judæa, who made a trade of murder.

4 “You may break, you may ruin, the vase if you will; But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.”

5 According to Pliny, the distinguishing sign of newly‐arrived slaves.

6 About twelve pounds sterling.

7 The _sestercius_ was at this period about 1¾d., or rather more. The _sestercium_, or thousand sesterces, about £7, 16s.

8 This inhuman practice was actually in vogue.

9 The form by which a gladiator, who had repeatedly distinguished himself, received his dismissal and immunity from the arena for life.

10 The well‐known “Morituri te salutant!”

11 About forty pounds sterling.

12 “Christiani ad leones! virgines ad lenones!”—a sentence that found no small favour with the Roman crowd.

13 The _clepsydra_, or water‐clock—a Greek invention for the division of time—consisting of a hollow globe made of glass, or some transparent substance, from which the water trickled out through a narrow orifice, in quantities so regulated, that the sinking level of the element marked with sufficient exactitude the time that had elapsed since the vessel was filled.

14 This game is played to‐day with equal zest, under its Italian name of “Morro.” Perhaps its nature was best rendered by the Latin phrase _micare digitos_, “to flash the fingers.”

15 Domitian.

16 Hippicus, Phasaelus, and lovely Mariamne, for whom, in the dead of night, the great king used to call out in his agony of remorse when she was no more.

17 Josephus, _Wars of the Jews_, book v. sec. 5.

18 The first call of the Roman trumpets in camp, about two hours before dawn, was distinguished by that name.

19 Now when he had said this he looked round about him, upon his family, with eyes of commiseration and of rage (that family consisted of a wife and children, and his aged parents), so in the first place he caught his father by his grey hairs, and ran his sword through him, and after him he did the same to his mother, who willingly received it; and after them he did the like to his wife and children, every one almost offering themselves to his sword, as desirous to prevent being slain by their enemies; so when he had gone over all his family he stood upon their bodies, to be seen by all, and stretching out his right hand, that his action might be observed by all, he sheathed his entire sword into his own bowels. This young man was to be pitied, on account of the strength of his body, and the courage of his soul.—Josephus, _Wars of the Jews_,