The purple light of evening had fallen upon the Syrian shore as Crispus, with a quick, swinging pace, trod the well-paced road that led southwards to the stately city of Cæsarea, the Roman capital of Judæa. Evidently he loved the exercise of walking, since, had it pleased him to do so, he could have ridden, for at a respectable distance there followed, led by a couple of slaves, his two-horsed rheda, a traveling-car of sculptured bronze, provided with a leathern hood and silken awnings, and containing such necessary luggage (aptly named _impedimenta_ by the Romans) as a man of simple tastes would require on a long journey. Crispus, whose age was perhaps twenty-five years, had a powerful yet graceful figure, eyes of a deep gray, crisp hair of a bronzed hue, and a handsome face, as clear cut as if sculptured from marble, a face whose pure complexion spoke of pure living--a rare virtue in that age!--a face whose keen, ardent look gave promise that its owner was one born to achieve distinction, if indeed he had not already achieved it. “An antique Roman,” one would say on seeing him, since he still adhered to the wearing of the stately toga, which in the first century was fast becoming superseded by the Grecian tunic; moreover, the ring on his finger was not of gold, but of iron, in accordance with ancient usage. In journeying along he had caught sight, by the wayside, of a stone pillar engraved with letters which told that the said pillar was distant from Rome by the space of one thousand five hundred miles. Thus far, yea, and hundreds of miles farther, did the Roman power extend in this, the twelfth year of the reign of the Emperor Nero. Crispus’ stern smile gave the keynote to his character--pride in the Empire founded by his forefathers, determination to maintain that Empire, though it cost him limb and life. And in truth Rome counted few sons more patriotic than young Crispus Cestius Gallus, distinguished alike by feats of arms and by beauty of person; by noble birth, and by high office--for he was secretary to his father, the elder Cestius, who at that time held the dignity of imperial Legate of Syria, a dignity whose vast power and splendid emoluments made it a prize coveted of all Roman statesmen. It was a lovely evening. A faint breeze came from the sea, whose waves, wine-dark in color, flowed with a sort of velvety ripple upon the yellow sands. To the east at the distance of a mile or more rose the Samaritan hills, mysterious and still in the evening light, their rounded summits clearly defined against the deep violet of the sky. Now, as Crispus glanced ahead, he saw approaching a solitary figure, wearing buskins of purple, and a sleeved and embroidered tunic of the same color, cut to the latest fashion. He walked, his eyes set upon the ground, with a somewhat slow and pensive step, and would have passed by unheeding but for the cheery, rousing voice of Crispus.