“Oho!  That for thy rods, Caesar!  Oho!  Dost remember the Pearl-Maiden?  That for thy rods, Caesar, and that—­and that—­and that——!”

But Domitian, weeping himself to sleep over the tale of the wrongs of the god-like Achilles, which did but foreshadow those of his divine self, as yet thought nothing of the rich reward that time should bring him.

On the morrow of the great day of the Triumph the merchant Demetrius of Alexandria, whom for many years we have known as Caleb, sat in the office of the store-house which he had hired for the bestowal of his goods in one of the busiest thoroughfares of Rome.  Handsome, indeed, noble-looking as he was, and must always be, his countenance presented a sorry sight.  From hour to hour during the previous day he had fought a path through the dense crowds that lined the streets of Rome, to keep as near as might be to Miriam while she trudged her long route of splendid shame.

Then came the evening, when, with the other women slaves, she was put up to auction in the Forum.  To prepare for this sale Caleb had turned almost all his merchandise into money, for he knew that Domitian was a purchaser, and guessed that the price of the beautiful Pearl-Maiden, of whom all the city was talking, would rule high.  The climax we know.  He bid to the last coin that he possessed or could raise, only to find that others with still greater resources were in the market.  Even the agent of the prince had been left behind, and Miriam was at last knocked down to some mysterious stranger woman dressed like a peasant.  The woman was veiled and disguised; she spoke with a feigned voice and in a strange tongue, but from the beginning Caleb knew her.  Incredible as it might seem, that she should be here in Rome, he was certain that she was Nehushta, and no other.

That Nehushta should buy Miriam was well, but how came she by so vast a sum of money, here in a far-off land?  In short, for whom was she buying?  Indeed, for whom would she buy?  He could think of one only—­Marcus.  But he had made inquiries and Marcus was not in Rome.  Indeed he had every reason to believe that his rival was long dead, that his bones were scattered among the tens of thousands which whitened the tumbled ruins of the Holy City in Judaea.  How could it be otherwise?  He had last seen him wounded, as he thought to death—­and he should know, for the stroke fell from his own hand—­lying senseless in the Old Tower in Jerusalem.  Then he vanished away, and where Marcus had been Miriam was found.  Whither did he vanish, and if it was true that she succeeded in hiding him in some secret hole, what chance was there that he could have lived on without food and unsuccoured?  Also if he lived, why had he not appeared long before?  Why was not so wealthy a Patrician and distinguished a soldier riding in the triumphant train of Titus?