"
Far down the great chamber in which half a cohort could have stood
comfortably, in a carved chair on a dais, under a vault and against a
background of blue, Babylonian tapestry, sat the king. A priest had
bowed low and was now leaving his presence. The chamberlain announced,
in a loud voice, "Vergilius, son of Varro, of Rome, and officer of the
fatherly and much-beloved Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Augustus."
The king sat erect, a purple tarboosh and crown of wrought gold upon
his head. As Vergilius approached, the dark, suspicious eyes of Herod
were surveying him from under long, quivering tufts of gray hair. His
great body, in its prime, must have been like that of Achilles.
"Stand where you are, son of Varro," said the king, as he moved
nervously. His broad shoulders were beginning to bend a little under
their burden of trouble and disease. The harrow of pain and passion
had roughened his face with wrinkles. His manner was alert and
watchful.
"Have you seen my son?" he inquired, quickly.
"Yes, great sire, and he was well.
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