"How went the story?"

"The servant of the centurion was ill unto death. The Jew did turn
death to life. To turn mourning into joy, they say, hath he come into
the world."

"To turn mourning into joy. A glad mission. Hast thou heard aught
else?"

"The centurion's slave did tell much."

"What?"

"That the Jews are a strange people. Long before thy mighty Rome was
dreamed of by the gods, most noble mistress, was the Kingdom of the
Jews great. In this same Jerusalem was there a temple of pure gold
which did throw back the sun itself into the sun's face for brightness.
And a king sat on a throne of gold. Wealth had this king surpassing
that of every nation, and wisdom had he so that among the wise of all
the earth none had such wisdom. Also, had this great people seers and
prophets from whose eyes the veil of time was lifted so that clear as
noonday did their vision behold that which was to be. And, lo, most
noble mistress, out of the mouths of three soothsayers hath a prophecy
been recorded of a king who shall restore again the throne of their
glory. This do the Jews believe, aye, as they believe in sun and air.
And it is whispered, most noble mistress, that this wonder worker from
Galilee is the long looked for king. Ah, that his kingdom might come!"

"What mattereth his kingdom to thee?"

"It doth hold promise of liberty to those in bondage and freedom to
those sore wounded. It would let men be free, as Rome doth not. Such
a king would be a saviour, and I would love him, even as I hate Rome!"

"As thou hatest Rome? Fear'st thou not to speak thus?"

The eunuch moved a step nearer Claudia and threw back his shoulders,
exclaiming, "What have I to fear at the hand of Rome? Nothing save my
life hath Rome left me, and this I scorn. By sword or cross or
ravening beast may Rome take my life and I would smile in her face.
Ah, have I not sore scars to speak my hatred? Here"--and he drew his
finger over a long scar on his face--"here is where the sword of Rome
lay open my face, yea, wide open as the lips of a crying child. And on
my back, most noble mistress, thou mightest hide thy white fingers in
the welts cut by the stinging thong. And seest thou my arm? Here is
flesh cooked sere as the shell of a tortoise. Thus have blade and
thong and branding iron of Rome marked me with wounds and commanded my
lips to silence. Yet have these scars each one a thousand silent
tongues crying ever 'Hate! Hate!