Since the ides, Vergilius had been lying in camp with a cohort, near
the port of Ascalon. Night and day on the headland velites had been
watching for the trireme of Antipater. A little before dawn their
beacon-fires had flamed up. Since daylight all had been watching the
far-come vessel of the son of Herod, and, as she came near, they could
see the pattern of gold upon the royal vestments of Antipater. Now,
presently, he would set foot upon the unhappy land of his inheritance.
The cohort had formed in a long arc at the landing. Before now, on his
return, the king's horsemen had greeted him with cheers; to-day he
greeted them with curses. Vergilius, hard by, faced the cohort, his
back turned to the new-comer. Antipater halted as he came ashore,
looking in surprise at the tribune. He seized a lance, and, crouching
as he ran, with sly feet approached the Roman officer. He was like the
cat nearing its prey. Vergilius, now seeming unmindful of his pursuer,
walked in the direction of the cohort. Swiftly, stealthily, the prince
came near, intending to plunge his lance into the back of the young
tribune.
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