Refusing to be cowed, I began to whistle, but I soon realized that it was the song the executioner had whistled. My mouth became acid. I decided to go to the garrison, and listen to the ribald jests of my companions. Anything to forget.

On the way, I saw a number of fishermen whom I recognized as the intimate followers of Jesus. Among them was Mary, badly dressed, and her hair in disorder. She was talking haranguing them.

“Mary,” I said, “how can you associate with those ragamuffins?”

“He has risen, Cartaphilus! He has risen!”

“Both John and you are mad. His eyes have maddened you.”

“He has risen from his tomb and will be with us again this evening.”

“If he has risen from his tomb, it was you and your friends yonder that have taken him away and buried him elsewhere.”

She stared at me.

“The dead are dead forever.”

“Don’t you understand, my dear, that you must see Him again tonight, and believe in Him, or else you must tarry– —”

“You, too? You too speak of my tarrying? He has poisoned you with his nonsense! He has turned the heads of all of you.”

“Cartaphilus, you loved me even as I loved you. Our love was beautiful. For the sake of that love, join us! Be among those who are saved!”

She looked at me, but her eyes were the eyes of Jesus.

“Go away!” I shouted furiously to hide a strange uneasiness. “Go back to your ragamuffins!”

THE Governor summoned me to appear at once. Princess Salome, stepdaughter of the late King Herod, famous for her beauty and for strange amorous adventures, had arrived in Jerusalem.

“You shall be her guard of honor, Cartaphilus,” he said, “you speak not only Latin and Hebrew, but the one language that like a spear, pierces the armor of the mightiest princess.”

The Governor sat in an arm-chair, his right foot hugely bandaged. “I cannot tell whether the gods are merely playful, Cartaphilus, or take delight in nothing as much as in torturing man.”

Pilate’s wife entered. She had become thinner, and as she smiled, the edges of her eyes massed into tiny hills of wrinkles.

The left wing of the palace was reserved for the Princess Salome and her suite. I appointed a company of soldiers, in charge of a young lieutenant to guard the gate, while, according to the arrangements made by the Governor, I awaited Salome and her orders in the immense hall which faced the artificial lake in whose waters gold and silver fish glistened like jewels.

Lydia was a little uneasy, and made me promise to beware the lures of the Princess, of whom she had heard the cruelest stories.

“Am I not a Roman soldier, my dear?”

“No soldier is a match for woman, Cartaphilus,” she answered very seriously.

Her jealousy did not displease me. I promised her eternal love, and made sport of the wiles of all other women. But as the door of the bed-chamber opened slowly, my heart beat with an unaccustomed violence, and I forgot completely both Lydia and my martial valor.

Salome remained standing upon the threshold—a luminous figure—a sun motionless upon the peak of a mountain.

I saluted. “I am Captain Cartaphilus. The Governor has done me the great honor of appointing me guard of honor to Her Highness, Princess Salome.”

She nodded. Her mouth opened slightly, allowing an instant’s glow of her teeth—diamonds breaking through a rose. The glitter of her eyes and her burnished hair merged with the green and scarlet jewels studding the coronet. She walked to the throne in the center of the hall. Her steps were tiny and measured in the manner of Egyptian ladies, and the gems of her slippers made aureoles about her feet. Her bare arms covered with bracelets the shapes of crocodiles, balanced slowly and rhythmically. Her breasts, full-blown, were encased in two golden bowls, the centers of which were surmounted by large rubies.

I stood at attention.

“Are the roads in Jerusalem safe for chariots, Captain?”

“There are several roads, Princess, expressly built for them.”

“That is well. It is my desire to ride in a chariot today.”

I lingered, hoping that Salome would deign to speak of other matters, but she remained silent, playing with a piece of jade the shape of a tortoise, which hung as a pendant from her gold necklace. The jade was green, but her eyes were greener still. They were like a sea of green fire.

Delicately, but unmistakably, Princess Salome yawned. I was piqued. Instinctively rather than consciously, I decided to avenge myself. I saluted, and left.

Pilate had told me that Salome was well-read and conversed brilliantly, but while we rode in the chariot, I tried in vain to engage her to speak. I quoted philosophy, recited poetry and invented epigrams. She smiled vaguely, asked what the distance was from Jerusalem to Nazareth, the size of the Roman army of occupation, the names of the principal rivers of Palestine.

She evidently considered me a bore and yet even in the most exclusive circles of the Roman society, I had the reputation of a wit and a man more than usually attractive to women. What had she discovered in me that made her snub me?

I yearned to hate her, to mock her, but the slightest touch of her robe, thrilled me with unendurable desire.

I accompanied the Princess to the various places of interest in Jerusalem and the surrounding towns. She listened condescendingly to my remarks on the history, the poetry, the legends.

We walked along the shore of the lake. The sun, about to set, lay wearily over the water, which the fish ripped silently from time to time like sharp knives.

Salome bent over the orchids and lilies, caressing their pistils and hard petals. A bee buried itself into a flower, and emerged soon, his wings gilded with pollen.

The Princess sighed.

“How fortunate are these creatures of the air!” I remarked, “unhindered in their love and in their search for beauty!”

I expected as usually, a vague smile or an imperceptible nod of the head, but the Princess deigned to speak.

“Fortunate indeed…these flowers which receive a varied and mingled love from distant fields, carried gracefully upon the glittering backs of the bee and the butterfly! They are spared the indignity, the imposition of a particular male.”

Her voice had a slight tremor like Mary’s.

“Do not these flowers yearn perhaps for the exclusive and intense caress of one particular individual?” I asked.

Salome replied: “It may be that their petals open with a greater joy to the caresses of a particular individual, whose wooing is subtle and exquisite like a zephyr that stirs the wings of a bee.”

“Cannot a man’s touch be as subtle and as exquisite, Princess?”

“Man is clumsy. His conceit makes his touch heavy and coarse.”

Did she direct the remarks to me? Had I been clumsy and conceited?

“Man does not possess the subtle means of conquering an exquisite love,” she continued.

“What are the subtle means of conquering an exquisite love, Your Highness?”

She did not answer my question.

“Ah, to be indeed…like the bee…to soar…high…high…to be pursued by a thousand lovers…to be finally conquered by one whose wings, powerful and indefatigable, touch tremblingly those of the Queen!”

“Oh, the incomparable joy of pursuing the Queen!” I exclaimed.

“Alas, for the conqueror, Captain…for he may not live beyond love’s moment! The Queen demands his sacrifice!”

“What joy would life hold for him after love’s moment?”

The Princess looked at me, her eyes half-closed. My knees ached to bend, and my tongue to utter: ‘Sacrifice me, O Princess!’ I restrained myself. ‘Not yet, Cartaphilus! The bee that soars to the dizzy heights of the Queen must be more delicate and more subtle!’