The tent of the general-in-chief, or, to employ the Latin term, the prætorium, was pitched, according to immemorial custom, by the gate nearest to the enemy, in this case the southern one, as being on the side towards Jerusalem. This tent, furnished in the simplest fashion and lighted by a lamp pendent from the roof, contained but one occupant, the Legate. He was a man of about sixty years, grave and soldierly; his face at ordinary times had a look that showed him to be, in spite of his military profession, a man of a humane and kindly disposition; but now, and for many days past, there had been in his aspect something so stern and cold that the soldier about to ask a favor of his general shrank away, reserving the matter for another time. The sudden entering of a man unannounced caused the Legate to look up with a frown. “Who comes here?” said he, shading his eyes with his hand. “A wise man and a fool.” “How can that be, royal Polemo?” said Cestius, smoothing his brows as he recognized his visitor. “He who is not a fool at times is never a wise man,” returned the Pontic king, taking his seat with an air that proved him to be on familiar terms with the Legate. “You have returned from Achaia very quickly,” said Cestius. “Twelve days on the sea going and coming. I doubt whether the double voyage were ever performed in so short a time. I found the god”--this with a sneer--“at Olympia.” “You told him of the revolt?” “All that I knew of it.” “And his commands?” Polemo drew forth a scroll of papyrus, secured with red wax and impressed with a seal which Cestius knew to be that of Nero. Breaking the seal, the Legate read the missive, first silently, and then, for the benefit of Polemo, aloud. “Our faithful servant, Cestius Gallus, is herewith granted full liberty to deal with the rebellious city of Jerusalem in whatever way he deemeth best for the interests of the Roman republic. “Given on this, the eighth of the Ides of September, in the twelfth year of our reign. NERO AUGUSTUS.” “Liberty to deal with the city as I please?” exclaimed Cestius, a fierce fire sparkling from his eyes and a color lighting up his hitherto sallow cheek. “_Delenda est Hierosolyma!_ Not a man in it shall live. Its women and children shall be sold into slavery. I will give their temple to the flames and the city to destruction. Not one stone of it shall be left standing upon another. Jerusalem shall be blotted from the face of the earth.” This threatened doom being the very end for which Polemo had been clandestinely working during a space of many years was received by him with secret rapture; nevertheless he could not help wondering why Cestius, usually humane in his dealings, should have become animated by a spirit so merciless. But now, as Polemo noticed, what he had not noticed before, namely, that the Legate was wearing a black pallium, the emblem of mourning, he was seized with a sudden suspicion.