I shot a significant glance into the eyes of my dear friend Tacitus, and remarked casually, "By the way, Tacitus, is it not the fair Julia's daily custom to ride in the vicinity of the Colosseum toward sundown in the chariot of her father, Agricola?"
"You have spoken truly, Pliny. I am to meet her at the hour of sundown by the Golden House of Nero," the young man replied.
"I will say farewell, Tacitus," I called after him, "for I may not see you again until my return from Pompeii."
The latter's reference to Julia did not improve the temper of the Jewish historian, who turned to me with a third repetition of his question.
"I will ask you, Josephus," I replied quietly, "why the portrait of 'a certain soldier' who ignites the sanctuary of his own besieged people is not important enough to appear on a triumphal arch. But there is one objection, his name should appear in the written chronicle."
The historian trembled with mingled fear and rage and his voice was thick as he answered, "Do you dare to identify me with that accursed 'certain soldier'?"
I looked sternly at the wretched man through narrowed eyes and said, "Josephus, if you will write a confession of your deed you will find favor with the Gods, and posterity will hold your records in good repute."
"And what if I have already revealed in writing the name of the soldier who was moved by a divine impulse to throw a lighted torch into the window of the sanctuary?" he asked mockingly.
"Divine impulse!" I exclaimed. "Would you consider it a divine impulse were I suddenly to seize a bar and demolish the sculptural figure of yonder smirking Jew who aids in the overthrow of his people?"
His apparent terror wrung my heart.
"But your confession," I urged in gentler tones. “Where is the written chronicle you mentioned in which 'a certain soldier' is named?"
"In my bosom the secret lies, Pliny, and there it shall stay—yes, it shall be unrevealed till twenty centuries have rolled by. Historians are sometimes permitted glimpses of the future as well as of the past!"
I lunged toward him, but he fled, his prophetic words ringing in my ears. I stood alone in the Roman Forum before the Arch of Titus, gazing at the smug countenance of the sculptured Josephus that seemed gloating over the secret within its breast.
Within its breast!
"By all the immortal Gods," I cried, "I understand the words of Josephus, 'In my bosom the secret lies'."
Impetuously I picked up a blunt bar that lay on the ground a few feet away, and cast a hurried glance around me. From behind the Temple of Jupiter Stator a figure was approaching. I recognized it as that of Tacitus returning from his ride with Julia. I lifted the bar for a shattering stroke that did not fall.
The beautiful arch was aging before my eyes. Corners were becoming worn away, inscriptions grew faint, and in some instances were completely obliterated. Weeds and the creepers of vines clambered over the surface, and many of the chiseled features were chipped or worn smooth by the fingers of Time. The face of Josephus was gone completely. For all posterity might know, a typically Roman visage could have topped those shoulders.
I stood aghast, but with undiminished ardor commenced to knock away the marble folds that covered the breast of Josephus. Then I felt
(Continued on page 716)
