“And what did you plan to do with me?” asked the Princess, with the eye of a harrier hawk on a weakling bird. “Trust Titus’ mercy! You have ever been favorite with him. He likes your wild daring; but dare not too much! We have been loyal to Rome. . . .” “Mercy?” the Princess Bernice laughed. “Is that the Great Herod’s voice I hear in the last of the Herod line? Do you also plan to march with shackles on hands and balls on feet behind the conqueror’s car under the Triumphal Arch at Rome?” “Sister, dearest Princess, my lioness,” answered King Agrippa, caressing his sister’s hands. “Have you forgotten how a year ago we stood on the Bridge of Fate that runs from the temple roof across the middle lower city to Herod’s palace on the west, to plead with the high priests to stem this revolt against Rome; and the whole populace of Jerusalem took up stones to kill us? Only the height of the bridge saved our lives. Have you forgotten the shameful names they shouted at you—Rahab, they called you—a Herod Princess—because you had left your ancient spouse up in Cilicia and came down to pay your vows in Jerusalem—you, my Queen sister, the daughter of the high priests back to Aaron? Have you forgotten the insults they hurled at me, for defending you—my favorite Sister—though never Herod did more for the Jews than I have done? What would you if we trust not Titus’ gratitude?” “Gratitude,” the Princess harshly laughed. “Gratitude, the sour-milk diet of weakling fools and coward hopes.” She drew back from her brother and screened her face by throwing her purple cloak over her shoulder as she spoke. “What would I do? I’d do what every high priest’s woman has had to do since Miriam, Aaron’s sister, beat the timbrels of victory on the Red Sea. I’d rule the man! I’d ride with the conqueror in his car beneath Rome’s Arch of Triumph! I’d turn a shadow kingdom into a real earth power ruled with iron grip though it were fleshed in woman. They call us—weak.” She laughed again. “I’d send Drusilla with her dove-cooing love to her slave husband Felix on Naples Bay. I’d send the old drooling Queen Herodias to her doting failure of a spouse in Spain to waste their souls away in vain regrets; but I’d strike, and I’d strike now, straight at Titus’ heart for the throne of Rome. . . .” “Not that—not that way, my Queen, my Sister,” her brother drew back in horror. “Know you what names the populace call you, my royal Sister?”