“Nay, I know not. The decree was contained in a sealed letter addressed to Florus, who hath not yet made it public. As for me, instead of hastening back to Nero to show him how quickly I can transact his business, I, like a fool, tarry in the neighborhood of Cæsarea.” “There being a woman in the case,” smiled Crispus; “otherwise the usually sensible Titus would not be garbed like a fashionable dandy. What would your stern republican father say to this perfuming of yourself?” “A woman in the case? Say, rather, a goddess. No lovelier face hath ever been seen since Helen lured the Grecian ships to Troy.” “Fickle Titus! Last autumn he was vowing eternal fidelity to Lesbia, the hetæra; it was the Greek dancing-girl Lycoris in winter; this spring it is--who?” “Lesbia and Lycoris! Pouf!” said Titus, as if blowing these nymphs away in air. “Do not mention them, I pray you, in the same breath with this splendid eastern beauty. I am serious now, if ever I were so. I would marry her to-morrow, were she willing; nay, more, to win her I would even repudiate the religion of my ancestors, and worship her Jewish God.” “Titus must indeed be smitten! So your fair one is a Jewess?” “Ay, and in rank far above poor plebeian me,” said Titus, sighing like a furnace. “You talk thus! you who are a quæstor, tribune of a legion, and a messenger of imperial Cæsar?” “And the son of a man who was once a horse-doctor; forget not that.” “You were brought up in the imperial household with Britannicus, enjoying the same luxuries and the same instructors as he.” “And very nearly drinking of the same fatal cup,” commented Titus, grimly. “The gods reserved you for a nobler destiny. But as to your fair lady--who is she?” “A princess, beautiful, proud, scornful. Berenice her name, the daughter of that Agrippa who, some twenty years ago, was King of Palestine. He left her so much wealth that she is called ‘Golden Berenice.’ You know her?” added Titus, as he saw an odd look flit for a moment over the face of Crispus. “I have seen her.” “Then you know how beautiful she is.” “Yes, she is certainly beautiful,” replied Crispus, in a tone as if grudging the admission. “You speak coldly. ’Tis clear I shall never have _you_ for a rival.” “True, O Titus. When I mate it shall be with pure maid. Hath not your Berenice already had one husband?” “She was wedded, when quite a girl, to Polemo, King of Pontus, who divorced her two years afterwards.” “Polemo?” ejaculated Crispus, in some surprise. “Polemo?--one of my father’s friends. Why did he divorce her?” “Nay, ask that of others. He was elderly and serious; she was youthful and gay: _there_, I suspect, lay the reason.”