Mark Twain's Medieval Romance

by Otto Penzler

  “And the message?”

  The servant whimpered that she did not know any more. So I ordered her to leave me.

  Dear God! Was I never to be sure of him? Had Salome capitulated? Had her message said that she would marry him? And had this last surrender been too great a temptation?

  I had to know. I got my faded cloak from the wardrobe. My silver still was secure in the secret pocket of the lining. Hurrying to the beach, I asked for the former tax gatherer, Matthew.

  “He isn’t here,” a surly old fisherman told me. “He and his crowd have gone to Jerusalem for the Passover. Bad luck to them!”

  “Why do you say that? Matthew seemed kind.”

  “Oh, yes,” the fisherman grumbled. “Very kind. I took my son, Reuben, to Capernaum to be cured of blindness. But on the night we went there, this Matthew and his Master came to Tiberias. That was the miracle—the evil miracle! We missed each other—for no reason at all!”

  “This may have been meant to test you!” I was saying anything in an effort to influence him. “You should follow these Galileans. Take your son to Jerusalem! By boat you can be there for the holidays!”

  “By boat?” Such a journey had not occurred to him. I kept on talking and offered him silver. He took the money, but it was his love for his boy that decided him.

  My thoughts raced ahead as we left the clear waters of Galilee and rushed through overhanging jungles, made lush and foul by the recent floods of the Jordan.

  Despite the skill of the fisherman, the boat sometimes stuck on a sand bar. When this happened, he and I would go over the side. The sand eddied around our feet as we pushed the boat back into deeper current. At last the boat whirled into the shallows and I saw the crested helmets of the Romans at the post house. With the last of my silver I bribed an officer to take me up to Jerusalem on the crupper of his horse. We entered the city by the Double Gate. The streets were filled with people shouting hosannahs and waving palm branches. Through the crowd I caught a glimpse of Matthew in a little group of men. They were gathered around a Man wearing a colored robe, who was seated upon a donkey. And for an instant I thought I saw you, Father, standing on the outer stairs of the Temple, smiling approval toward these men.

  But this was just a confused impression. Before I could identify you, the cavalryman turned his horse into one of the side streets leading to Herod’s palace.

  Galba was the officer in charge at the Portal of the Stairs.

  “Where is Jason?” I demanded. “Take me to him at once!”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ladybird. You see, Jason has been arrested—the King caught him in Salome’s boudoir.”

  My heart was leaden with conflicting sorrows. It was quite clear that Jason had betrayed me. He had left me to go to Salome. But hope dies so hard! I still didn’t want him to suffer. There must be some explanation for his contradictory behavior.

  Late at night I awakened when I heard someone fumbling at the lock on my door. Salome came in. She was flushed and agitated as she blurted: “That swine! That insufferable swine! My stepfather has condemned Jason to the arena! But you, you can save him—”

  I mistrusted her and anything she might tell me. It would be best to question her carefully. I asked: “For what has he been condemned?”

  “Herod has charged him with violating the sanctity of the women’s quarters—with having gone to your room at night in the palace at Tiberias!”

  “You know that is a lie!” I cried.

  She made no answer. Her shadow fluttered against the walls like a great moth as she strode up and down past the brazier.

  “You have brought him to this!” I burst out angrily. “It is all your doing! He didn’t leave Tiberias with the court—he stayed with me—until you lured him away with that wretched note you sent by Enid! What did you say in it?”

  “I had no pride—only envy,” she said finally. “After I’d seen him in your sick room in Tiberias, nursing you, I knew I had to have him even though he didn’t love me. So I sent Enid back to tell him that I’d marry him and run away with him to Alexandria.”

  I spoke harshly to keep back the tears. “Well, you succeeded! Your bargain must have appealed to him—he abandoned me and went to you!”

  “He came to me,” her face was averted, “to refuse my offer of marriage.” She gave me a quick look from the corner of her eyes. “And to tell me he’d never love anyone but you. That’s why he was with me when Herod caught us.”

  “Then why didn’t you intercede for Jason? Why didn’t you tell Herod the truth?”

  “I did.” Her laugh was mirthless. “I begged too hard—I told Herod that I loved Jason and for that I must be humiliated by being forced to sit in the arena and see Jason choose between the tiger and the lady when he knows that you will be the lady behind one door!”

  “But why will I be there?”

  “Herod could scarcely accuse the Greek of seducing me, his stepdaughter! He has shifted the whole scandal to you. So I shall have to sit there and watch the man I love being married to my rival—to you!”

  “But suppose there isn’t any marriage?” I could scarcely pronounce the words. “Suppose Jason chooses the door that frees the tiger? There is that terrible chance!”

  Salome’s smile was sly and determined. “That’s why I have come here. Chance is going to be eliminated. You and I are going to cheat Herod. We will save Jason.”

  “Oh, Salome, how?”

  “We will save him because we both love him. I am going to give him to you.”

  My voice was choking. “Oh, Salome, I have been so wrong about you!”

  She brushed my embrace aside. “I’m not doing this for you. I’ve thought of a way to save him—because I can’t see him die.”

  It was three nights ago that we had this conversation. We talked far into the morning. Before she left, I had forgiven Salome all her former slights and cruelties. For she had shown me how to save Jason. I wonder if I could be as self-sacrificing as she. Her love for him is so great that she is willing that he shall marry me—since she says she knows he loves me and that we will be happy together. I kissed her as we parted. Since then I have spent my time writing this long letter to you. I know that it contains many things that ordinarily a daughter would not write to a father. But I have tried to be absolutely truthful, because I want you to know, dearest Father, that in spite of all the doubts and troubles I have gone through, I have done nothing that was wrong.

  It is growing late and I am tired. Soon it will be morning. They will come and dress me in a bridal gown. My draperies will be arranged with many golden brooches. They will place flowers in my arms and the flame-colored veil of a Roman bride over my hair. And they will leave me in that little room, next to the room where they will have placed the tiger. As soon as I am alone, I will take one of the golden brooches from my garment. I will open one of my veins with it and let my blood run from beneath the crack in the door, out onto the stone pavements of the dark corridor beneath the seats of the arena.

  Before Salome takes her seat beside her stepfather, she will slip down into this corridor. She will see the blood and she will know in which room I am waiting. And she will signal to Jason to open my door.

  I am happy, Father, despite my dreadful weariness. I hope that you will forgive me everything that has been reckless and foolish. I am a woman now, but still a little girl. How I wish that I could curl up in your lap and go to sleep! I am tired, but so contented and joyful—I must rest and be beautiful for my beloved. All my dreams will come true tomorrow.

  THUS ENDED THE LETTER of Miriam to her father. As I labored over its translation, this Jewish girl of twenty centuries ago became very real to me. I gave all my time to researches concerning Miriam. I had to learn what had happened to her.

  The answer was found in the long-sought-for letter of Pontius Pilate to Tiberius. The first paragraph made it obvious that this originally had been dispatched to the Emperor as an explanation of Miriam’s manuscript. But du
ring the centuries they had become separated. Pilate’s supplement was written in Latin upon two sheets of parchment. The first page read:

  “To His Imperial Majesty, Tiberius Caesar, from Pontius Pilate, Procurator of Judea:

  “May the Gods preserve Your Majesty! I forward the enclosed document to the Imperial Archives because it has some bearing upon Imperial policy in the Near East.

  “As stated in previous reports, the High Priest (to whom the enclosed letter is addressed) has shown great stubbornness in refusing to cooperate in the matter of disposing of a certain Galilean preacher regarded by Your Majesty’s Government as a dangerous malcontent. The High Priest was impervious to bribes, and even threats failed to coerce him into making the desired accusations which would enable Rome to crucify the Galilean and still place responsibility for the deed on the Jews.

  “But now I am happy to inform Your Majesty that the whole matter has been satisfactorily resolved. Caiphas is a broken man. His will has been completely shattered (indeed, I doubt if he can any longer be considered sane) and is quite incapable of offering any further resistance.

  “His transformation was brought about, quite unexpectedly, yesterday, when the Greek, Jason, was forced to choose between the lady and the tiger in Herod’s Arena. I watched Caiphas very closely when he made his appearance, as Herod had ordered, in the royal box. His bearing was dignified and aloof. I almost found myself wishing that this well-controlled man was a Roman.

  “One of our secret agents had intercepted a letter which the girl, Miriam, had written to her father; so that Caiphas had no way of knowing that his daughter was guiltless of Herod’s implications. His trust in her evidently was based upon blind faith.

  “Herod looked a trifle embarrassed as he turned to me and asked if I wanted to double my bet on the Greek’s chances for survival. Of course, I did. Since I had read Miriam’s letter, I felt I was betting on a sure thing. I even smiled to myself as, from the corner of my eye, I saw the Princess make her signal to the Greek to open the right-hand door.

  “But I was a fool to trust Salome. The Greek, with his sense of the dramatic, started to pull back the portal very slowly. When it was open about a foot, we saw the sunlight fall on the striped hide and the blinking eyes of the tiger. The Greek seemed doomed. An automatic device made it impossible to push those doors shut, once either of them had started to open. “But the Greek acted with the speed of lightning. As soon as he glimpsed the tiger, he stepped back and pulled open both doors. Now he was protected—wedged in the small space between the two open portals—as secure as if he had a big oak shield on each arm.

  “The tiger, a finer specimen than any you’d see in Rome, advanced through the doorway on the right.

  “And almost simultaneously, the girl, Miriam, looking pale but smiling beneath her bridal veil, came through the doorway on the left.

  “For a few seconds the beast and the woman looked at each other. There was no sound in the amphitheater, except her father’s sobbing.

  “It was the fastest thinking I had ever seen. I did well to bet on the Greek.”

  THE PAPER FELL from my hand. All the injustice and cruelty of the world seemed summed up in Jason’s contemptible stratagem.

  I read the second page. Pilate had added the following postscript to his message.

  “Despite the Greek’s adroitness I’m sure Your Majesty will agree that this Jason was too clever to be permitted to survive. His plot to marry Salome and seize the throne was a definite menace to Roman policy in Palestine and to Your Majesty’s security. Since the man was the son of a slave and was not a Roman citizen, it was not difficult to charge him with the theft of the White Syndicate’s horses and to condemn him, along with another thief and the Galilean preacher, to be crucified. He admitted under the torture that he had adopted the name of ‘Jason’ because of its romantic connotations. His real name was Gestos. He was the last of the three to die, and though his sufferings were excruciating, he did not ask for forgiveness.”

  THE BLIND SPOT

  BAHHY PEKOWNE

  The greatest criminal character in literature is, of course, A. J. Raffles, the gentleman jewel thief created by E. W. Hornung at the end of the Victorian era, his first book appearance being in The Amateur Cracksman (1899). A few years after the author’s death in 1921, the popularity of the character remained at such a high level that the British magazine The Thriller asked Barry Perowne, already a regular contributor, to continue the rogue’s adventures. After making arrangements with the estate of Hornung, Perowne produced many more stories about Raffles than his creator had, as well as several novels.

  Perowne, the pseudonym of Philip Atkey (1908–1985) wrote hundreds of stories and more than 20 novels, many featuring the suave safecracker and his sidekick, Bunny Manders, including The Return of Raffles (1933), Raffles in Pursuit (1934), Raffles Under Sentence (1936), and Raffles Revisited (1974), a short story collection.

  The exceptionally versatile and prolific Perowne also produced numerous thirty-thousand-word paperback original novellas about Dick Turpin, the notorious highwayman, and Red Jim, the first air detective.

  “The Blind Spot,” one of the most ingenious stories ever written, was first published in the November 1945 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

  THE BLIND SPOT

  BY BARRY PEROWNE

  ANNIXTER LOVED the little man like a brother. He put an arm around the little man’s shoulders, partly from affection and partly to prevent himself from falling. He had been drinking earnestly since seven o’clock the previous evening. It was now nudging midnight, and things were a bit hazy. The lobby was full of the thump of hot music; down two steps, there were a lot of tables, a lot of people, a lot of noise. Annixter had no idea what this place was called, or how he had got there, or when. He had been in so many places since seven o’clock the previous evening.

  ‘In a nutshell,’ confided Annixter, leaning heavily on the little man, ‘a woman fetched you a kick in the face, or fate fetches you a kick in the face. Same thing, really—a woman and fate. So what? So you think it’s the finish, an’ you go out and get plastered. You get good an’ plastered,’ said Annixter, ‘an’ you brood.

  ‘You sit there an’ you drink an’ you brood—an’ in the end you find you’ve brooded up just about the best idea you ever had in your life! ’At’s the way it goes,’ said Annixter, ‘an’ ’at’s my philosophy—the harder you kick a playwright, the better he works.’

  He gestured with such vehemence that he would have collapsed if the little man hadn’t steadied him. The little man was poker-backed, his grip was firm. His mouth was firm, too—a straight line, almost colourless. He wore hexagonal rimless spectacles, a black hard-felt hat, a neat pepper-and-salt suit. He looked pale and prim beside the flushed, rumpled Annixter.

  From her counter, the hat-check girl watched them indifferently.

  ‘Don’t you think,’ the little man said to Annixter, ‘you ought to go home now? I’ve been honoured you should tell me the scenario of your play, but—’

  ‘I had to tell someone,’ said Annixter, ‘or blow my top! Oh, boy, what a play, what a play! What a murder, eh? That climax—’

  The full, dazzling perfection of it struck him again. He stood frowning, considering, swaying a little—then nodded abruptly, groped for the little man’s hand, warmly pumphandled it.

  ‘Sorry I can’t stick around,’ said Annixter, ‘I got work to do.’

  He crammed his hat on shapelessly, headed on a slightly elliptical course across the lobby, thrust the double doors open with both hands, lurched out into the night.

  It was, to his inflamed imagination, full of lights, winking and tilting across the dark. Sealed Room by James Annixter. No. Room Reserved by James—No, no Blue Room. Room Blue by James Annixter—

  He stepped, oblivious, off the curb, and a taxi, swinging in toward the place he had just left, skidded with suddenly locked, squealing wheels on the wet road.

  Something hit Annix
ter violently in the chest, and all the lights he had been seeing exploded in his face.

  Then there weren’t any lights.

  Mr. James Annixter, the playwright, was knocked down by a taxi late last night when leaving the Casa Havana. After hospital treatment for shock and superficial injuries, he returned to his home.

  THE LOBBY OF the Casa Havana was full of the thump of music; down two steps there were a lot of tables, a lot of people, a lot of noise. The hat-check girl looked wonderingly at Annixter—at the plaster on his forehead, the black sling which supported his left arm.

  ‘My,’ said the hat-check girl, ‘I certainly didn’t expect to see you again so soon!’

  ‘You remember me, then?’ said Annixter, smiling.

  ‘I ought to,’ said the hat-check girl. ‘You cost me a night’s sleep! I heard those brakes squeal after you went out the door that night—and there was a sort of thud!’ She shuddered. ‘I kept hearing it all night long. I can still hear it now—a week after! Horrible!’

  ‘You’re sensitive,’ said Annixter.

  ‘I got too much imagination,’ the hat-check girl admitted. ‘F’instance, I just knew it was you even before I run to the door and see you lying there. That man you was with was standing just outside. “My heavens,” I say to him, “it’s your friend!”’

  ‘What did he say?’ Annixter asked.

  ‘He says, “He’s not my friend. He’s just someone I met.” Funny, eh?’

  Annixter moistened his lips.

  ‘How d’you mean,’ he said carefully, ‘funny? I was just someone he’d met.’

  ‘Yes, but—man you been drinking with,’ said the hat-check girl, ‘killed before your eyes. Because he must have seen it; he went out right after you. You’d think he’d ’a’ been interested, at least. But when the taxi driver starts shouting for witnesses, it wasn’t his fault, I looks around for that man—an’ he’s gone!’