“I may not talk longer with you, for I see soldiers issuing from the city-gate, and I have no desire that my head shall decorate the battlements of Antipatris. I have fulfilled my word to Cestius, and now I return. We shall meet again under the walls of Jerusalem.” So saying, Simon turned his steed and galloped off by the way he had come. Looking towards Antipatris, Crispus saw a small body of foot soldiers advancing from the gate; at their head was a mounted officer, none other than Terentius Rufus, who came spurring forward with all speed, as if bent on learning the business of the two Jewish-looking horsemen. “Hold, fellow!” he cried, reining in his steed, as he drew abreast of Crispus. “Who art----?” And then, his voice suddenly changing, he exclaimed, “By the gods, ’tis Crispus.” His quick look of delight was instantly succeeded by one of gravity. “Turn from the city,” said he, “and ride back a little way, lest you should be recognized by my men. Five thousand aurei are a strong temptation to mercenary natures.” “How mean you?” “There is a price on your head.” “Ah! what have I been doing to deserve it.” “’Tis said that when Cestius had invested Jerusalem you wrote a craven letter imploring him to raise the siege, or your life would be forfeit.” “I would that I had my hand on the throat of the man that invented that lie.” “Think not that _I_ ever believed it. Unfortunately, however, this slander hath reached the ears of Nero, who, in his rage, hath decreed that the lives of the two Cestii, father and son, are forfeit to the state.” Confounded by this tidings, Crispus could do nothing for a few moments but stare blankly at his friend. “What has become of my father?” said he, finding his voice. Rufus’ hesitation told its own tale. “Speak!” said Crispus, growing pale. “How did he die?” “Like a Roman; he fell on his sword.” Crispus paid to his father’s memory the tribute of a brief and pitying silence. It was a bitter thought to him that if he had not written that letter Cestius might now be living, the conqueror of Jerusalem, to be greeted at Rome like a second Pompey with the title, “Noster Hierosolymarius.” “Go not to Antipatris, or to any town where you are known,” said Rufus, “since any man may lawfully slay you. The streets of Cæsarea are posted with tablets offering five thousand aurei for the head of Crispus.” “I need scarcely ask what has become of my father’s estates?” “Confiscated,” replied Rufus, laconically. That he had toppled down in a moment from his high office of Secretary to the Legate of Syria; that he had lost his patrimonial estates--nay, even the fact that he had been doomed to death--was to Crispus as nothing in comparison with the thought that he was now deprived of all opportunity of returning to Jerusalem in company with legions to avenge the massacre of the Roman garrisons.