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To the Lions by Alfred J. Church |
Table of Contents
An Accusation
An Old Story
A
Christian Household
Love or Duty?
A Plot
Pliny and the Christians
The Arrest
Before
the Governor
Rhoda's Evidence
The Examination
The
House of Lucilius
A
Martyr's Testimony
A Discovery
A
Letter from Trajan
The Amphitheatre
"The Christians to the
Lions"
Escape
Front Matter
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Back Matter
AN ACCUSATION
[1] THE time is the early morning of an April day in the year
of Our Lord 112. So early is it that the dawn has scarcely yet begun to show in
the eastern sky. The place is a burial-ground in the outskirts of Nicæa, one of the chief towns of the Roman
Such was
a Christian church in the early part of the second century.
It must
not be supposed that even this simple building had been erected for its own use
by the Christian community. Even if it could have found the means to do so, it
would not have ventured so to attract public attention. For the Christian faith
was not one of the religions which were sanctioned by the State; and it existed
only by sufferance, or rather, we might even say, by stealth.
This
meeting-house of the Christians of Nicæa was
really the club-house of the wool-combers of that city. The wool-combers' guild
or company had, for some reason, passed to other places. Old [3] members had
died, and few or no new members had been admitted. Much of its property had
been lost by the dishonesty of a treasurer. Finally the few surviving members
had been glad to let the building to persons who were acting for the Christian
community. No questions were asked as to the purpose for which it was to be
used; but, as two or three out of the half-dozen of surviving wool-combers were
Christians, it was well understood what this purpose was. It would have been,
by the way, more exact to say "a burial club." This was the object
for which it had been founded. Its social meetings had been funeral feasts;
hence its situation in the near neighbourhood of a cemetery. This made it
particularly suitable for meetings of the Christians. Assemblies held before
dawn—for this was the custom—and close to a burial-ground, would be little
likely to be observed.
The
congregation may have numbered one hundred persons, of whom at least two-thirds
were men. There was a division between the sexes—that is to say,
the men occupied all the seats (benches of the plainest kind) on one side of
the building, and the front half of those on the other. It was easy to see
that, with a very few exceptions, they were of humble rank. Many, indeed, were
slaves. These wore frocks reaching [4] down to the knees, cut square at the
neck, and for the convenience of leaving the working arm free, having one
sleeve only. These frocks were made of coarse black or brown serge, trimmed at
the bottom with sheepskin. Two or three were sailors, clad in garments so
coarse as almost to look like mats. Among the few worshippers of superior
station was an aged man, who wore a dress then rarely seen, the Roman toga. The
narrow purple stripe with which it was edged, and the gold ring which he wore
on the forefinger of his left hand, showed that he was a knight. His order
included, as is well known, the chief capitalists of
The only
other member of the congregation whom it was necessary to mention was an
elderly man who sat immediately behind Antistius. His
dress, [5] of plain but good material, showed that he belonged to the middle
class. His name was Caius Verus.
The
semicircular end of the building was reserved for the clergy, of whom three
were present. They wore the usual dress of the free citizen of the time, a
sleeved tunic, with a cape over the shoulders that reached to the waist. The
only thing that distinguished them from the congregation was that their dress
was wholly white. One of the three was an old man; his two colleagues were
middle-aged. The three sat facing the people, with a plain table used for the
Holy Supper in front of them. On either side of the apse, as we may call it, on
the line which divided it from the main body of the building, were two reading
desks. On each a volume was laid. One of these volumes contained the Old
Testament, in the Greek version of the Septuagint, the other the New.
The
minister left his seat behind the Table, and advanced to address the people. It
was evident that his agitation was great; indeed, it was some time before he
could command his voice sufficiently to speak.
"Brothers
and sisters," he said, "I have a grave and lamentable matter to lay before you. Serious charges have been brought against
our brother [6] Verus—for brother I will yet call
him. It has been alleged against him that he has gambled, and that he has
sacrificed to idols. Caius Verus,"
he went on, "answer as one who stands in the presence of God and His
angels. Do you know the house of the merchant Sosicles?"
Verus stood up in his place. Whatever he may have felt
about the truth of the charges and the likelihood of their being proved, he did
not lose his confident air. He had stood not once or twice only in his life in
positions of greater peril than this, and he would not allow himself to be
terrified now.
"I
know it," said the accused, "as far as a man may know a house which
he enters only for purposes of business. I have had dealings with Sosicles on account of the Church, as the brethren know. He
is a heathen, but a man of substance and credit; and the moneys of the Church
have increased in his hand."
"It
is true," said the minister; "and I have often wished that it could
be otherwise. But the holy Apostle Paul tells us that if we would have no
dealings with such men, we must needs go out of the
world. But you affirm that you have not companied with him as with a
friend?"
"I
affirm it."
"Cleon, come forth!" said the minister to a [7] young
man who was sitting on one of the back benches.
Cleon was a slave from the highlands of Phrygia—not a
Greek, but with the tinge of Greek manners, which had reached by this time to
all but the most inaccessible parts of Lesser Asia. He was a new-comer. Verus scanned his face narrowly, but apparently without any
result.
"Tell
your story," said the minister; "and speak without any fear of
man."
Cleon went on in somewhat broken Greek. It is a month since
I came into the possession of the merchant Sosicles.
He bought me of the heir of the widow Areté, of
Self-possessed
as he was, the accused could not quite hide the dismay with which he listened
to this narrative. He had not noticed the new cup-bearer at Sosicles'
entertainment. He had often heard his host say that he would have no Christian
slaves: they were troublesome, and made difficulties about doing what they were
told. Accordingly, he had made sure that he was safe. He would gladly have
escaped saying the idolatrous words. His Christian belief, without being
sincere, was yet strong enough to make him shrink from committing so manifest
an offence against it. Of love for Christ he had nothing; but he certainly
feared Him a great deal more [10] than he feared Hermes. Still, when he came to
balance his scruples against the present loss of breaking with his host, they
were found the lighter of the two. So he had come to speak the words; but he
had followed them up with a sentence muttered under his breath: "Who, for
all that, is a false demon." With this he had salved his conscience, which
by this time had come to heal of its wounds with a dangerous ease.
Now he
rapidly reviewed his position, and thought that he saw a way of escape. He
spoke with an appearance of moderation and candour that did credit to his power
of acting.
"I
have a fault to confess, but it is not the grievous sin of which Cleon accuses me. It is true that I was at Sosicles' banquet. I repent me of having concealed this
from the brethren. But it is not true that I spoke the blasphemous words. What
I said was a colourable imitation of them, intended to appease the unreasonable
rage of a tipsy man. Who knows what trouble might have arisen—not to me only,
but to the whole community—if I had angered him? As for the dice-playing, I
played, indeed; but I played to humour him. I so contrived it that he won back
the greater part of what he had lost. If I gained anything, I gave the whole of
it to the poor. As [11] for the bag of money which Cleon saw me carry away, it was given to me in
payment of an account. These things I confess, because I would not hide any
thing from my brethren, and desire to make any amends that they may judge to be
fitting. Yet there is something that I would urge. Does not the holy Apostle
command that an accusation be not believed against an elder except from two or
three witnesses? If I am not an elder, yet the Church has put me in a place of
trust. Were I standing on my trial before the
unbeliever, would he condemn me on the testimony of a single slave?"
"Take
heed what you say," interrupted the minister.
"In this house there is neither bond nor free."
"It
is so," said Verus. "I spoke after the
fashion of the world. But who is this young man? Is he not a stranger, known to
you only by a letter which he brought from the elders of
He
looked round on the congregation as he spoke, and saw that his appeal had not
been without its effect. It was true that, as the minister had said, all in
that house were equal; but the difference between slave and free man was too
[12] deeply ingrained into human nature in those days to be easily forgotten.
And no one felt it more than the slaves themselves. It was they who would have
been most shocked to see a respectable merchant found guilty on the single
evidence of one of their own class. A murmur of approval ran round the
congregation; and when the minister put the question, though some did not vote
either way, the general voice was for acquittal.
Before
the minister could speak, the old knight rose in his place.
AN OLD STORY
[13] VERUS
bent on the old man the same closely scrutinising look with which he had
regarded the slave. Again he failed, it seemed, to
connect the face with any recollections in his mind. There was, as we shall
see, a dark past in his life which he was most unwilling to have dragged into
the light. But he had no reason to associate Antistius
with it, and nothing more than a vague sense of distrust haunted him, but he
felt that if the old man had anything to say against him, he would be a far
more formidable witness than the young Phrygian slave.
"You
have been in
"Yes,"
he answered; "but not for some years past."
"Nor
I," went on the old man; "nor do I want ever
to see it again. She is the mother of [14] harlots, drunken with the blood of
the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus! But when I left it
last, seventeen years ago, I carried away with me a memorial of a deed that I
shall never forget, nor you either, if there is any
thing human in you."
The
speaker produced from the folds of his toga a small packet wrapped in a cover
of silk. Unwrapping it with reverent care, he brought
out a handkerchief stained nearly all over of a dull brownish red.
"Know
you this?" he said to Verus.
"Why
do you ask me? What have I to do with it?" answered the man, with a certain insolence in his tone. The majority in his favour
made him confident.
"Yet
you should know it, for it is a blood that was shed by your hands, though the
blow was dealt by the axes of Cæsar. If seventeen
years are enough to make you forget the martyr Flavius, yet there are those who
remember him."
It is
impossible to describe the effect which these words produced. In those days of
peril, next to his love for his God and Saviour, the strongest emotion in a
Christian's heart was his reverence for the martyrs. They were the champions
who had fought and fallen for his faith, for all that he held dearest and most
precious. He [15] could not, he thought, reverence too much their patience and
their courage. Were these not the virtues which he might at any hour be himself called on to exercise.
This
reverence had, of course, its meaner counterpart in a base and cowardly nature
such as Verus'. The man had not belief enough to make
him honest and pure; but he had enough to give him many moments of agonizing
fear. It was such a fear that overpowered him now. Any wrongdoer might tremble
when thus confronted with the visible, palpable relic of a crime which he
believed to be unknown or forgotten. But this was no ordinary wickedness. The
betrayer of a martyr was looked upon with a horror equal to the reverence which
attached itself to his victim.
Nor was
it only the scorn and hatred of his fellow-men that he had to dread. There were
awful stories on the men's lips of informers and traitors who had been
overtaken by a vengeance more terrible than any that human hands could inflict;
and these crowded upon the wretched creature's recollection. His face could not
have shown a more overpowering fear had the pit itself opened before him. The
staring eyes, the forehead and cheeks turned to a ghastly paleness and dabbled
with cold drops of sweat, proved a [16] terror that in itself was almost
punishment enough.
But the
criminal was almost forgotten in the thrill of admiring awe that went through
the whole assembly. With one impulse men and women surged up to the place where
the old knight was standing with the venerable relic in his hand. To see it
close, if it might be to press their lips to it, was their one desire. The old
man was nearly swept off his feet by the rush. The minister stepped forward,
and took him within the sanctuary at the end of the meeting-house. The habit of
reverence kept the people from pressing beyond the line which separated it from
the body of the building, and they were partially satisfied when the
handkerchief was held up for their gaze.
When
silence and quiet had been restored, Antistius told
his story.
"I
went to
"When
I reached
" 'But', he said, 'my good cousin, the Emperor, has considered
me. Happily he has been my colleague, and he has taken a hundred duties off my
hands, which would have been a grievous burden on me.' And then he went to tell
me of some [18] troubles which had arisen in the Church. A certain Verus had the charge of the pensions paid to the widows,
and of other funds devoted to the service of the poor, and he had embezzled a
large part of them. 'You see,' he went on, 'we are helpless. We cannot appeal
to the courts, as we have no standing before them; in fact, our witnesses would
not dare to come forward. For a man to own himself a Christian would be certain
death; and though one is ready for death if it comes, we must not go to meet
it. So, whether we will or no, we must deal gently with this Verus.' And he did deal gently with him. Of course, he had
to be dismissed; but he was not even asked to repay what he had taken—Flavius
positively paid the whole of the deficiency out of his own pocket. And he spoke
in the kindest way, I know, to the wretch, hoped that it would be a lesson to
him, begged him to be an honest man in the future, and even offered to lend him
money to start in business with.
"And
yet the fellow laid an information against him with
the Emperor! It would not have been enough to charge him with being a Christian;
he was accused of witchcraft, and of laying plots against the Emperor's life.
He used to mention Domitian's name in his prayers,
for he was his kinsman as well as his emperor, and they got some [19] wretched
slave to swear that he heard him mutter incantations and curses. And Domitian, who was mad with fear—as he
well might be, considering all the innocent blood that he had
shed—believed it.
"I
shall never forget what I saw in the senate-house that day. It was the last day
of the year, and Flavius was to resign his office. There sat Domitian with that dreadful face, a face of the colour of
blood, with such a savage scowl as I never saw before or since. Flavius took
the oath that he had done the duties of his office with good faith, and then
came down from his chair of office.
"In
the common course of things the senate would have been adjourned at once. But
that day the Emperor stood up. What a shudder ran through the assembly! Every
one saw that the tale of victims for that year was not yet told. The question was, whose name was to be added? Domitian
called on Regulus, a wretch who had grown gray in the trade of the informer. He rose in his place. 'I
accuse Flavius Clemens, ex-consul, of treason,' he said. Why should I weary
you, my brethren, with the wretched tale? To name a man in those days was to
condemn him. I have [20] heard it said by men who have crossed the deserts of
the South that if a beast drops sick or weary on the road, in a moment the
vultures are seen flocking to it from every quarter of the sky. Before, not one
could be seen; but scarce is the dying beast stretched on the sand, but the air
is black with their wings. So it was then. One day a man might seem not to have
an enemy; let him be accused, and on the morrow they might be numbered by
scores.
"Flavius,
as I have said, was the gentlest, kindest, most
blameless of men. But had he been the worst criminal in
"You
will say, perhaps, 'But he could not bear witness
against his master!' Ah! my friends, they had a device
to meet that difficulty. They sold him first, and, mark you, without his
master's consent, to the State. Then he could give evidence, and the law not be broken. Then this villain Verus
came forward. He told the same story, and with this addition, that he had been
bribed to keep the secret, and he brought out the letter in which Flavius had
offered him the money, as I have told you. Kind as ever, the Consul had written
thus: 'We will bury this matter in [21] silence.
Meanwhile you shall not want means for your future support. Flaccus
the banker shall pay you 100,000 sesterces [about
£1,000].'
"Then
senator after senator rose and repeated something that they had heard him say,
or had heard said of him—for no evidence was refused in that court. At last one
Opimius stood up. 'Lord Cæsar,'
he said, 'and Conscript Fathers, of the chief of the crimes of Flavius no
mention has been made. I accuse him of the detestable superstition of the
Christians.'
" 'Answer for yourself,' said the Emperor, turning to
the accused.
"He
stood up. Commonly, I was told, he was a faltering speaker, but that day his
words came clear and without hindrance. We know, my brethren, Who was speaking by his lips. He spoke briefly and
disdainfully of the other charges, utterly breaking down the evidence, as any
other court on earth but that would have held. Then he went on, 'But as to what
Opimius has called "the detestable superstition
of the Christians," I confess it, affirming at the same time that this
same superstition has made me more loyal to all duties, public or private, of a
citizen of Rome. I appeal to Cæsar, who hath
known me from my boyhood, as one kinsman knows another, and who, being aware of
my belief, conferred upon [22] me this dignity of the Consulship, which is next
only to his own majesty. I appeal to Cæsar
whether this be not so.'
"He
turned to Domitian as he spoke. That unchanging flush
upon the tyrant's face fortified him, as I have heard it said, against shame.
But he kept his eyes fixed upon the ground, and for a while he was silent. Then
he said, 'I leave the case of Flavius Clemens to the judgment of the fathers.'
"You
will ask, 'Did no one rise to speak for him?' I did see one half-rise from his
seat. They told me afterwards that it was one Cornelius Tacitus,
a famous writer, but his friends that were sitting by caught his gown and
dragged him back, and he was silent. And indeed, speech would have served no
purpose but to involve him in the ruin of the accused.
"Then
the Emperor spoke again, 'We postpone this matter till to-morrow.' Then turning
to the lictors—
" 'Lictors,' he said,
'conduct Flavius Clemens to his home. See that you have him ready to produce
when he shall be required of you.'
"This,
you will understand, was what was counted mercy in those days. A man not
condemned was allowed the opportunity of putting an end to his own life. That
saved his property for [23] his family. In the evening I went to Flavius's
house. He was surrounded by kinsfolk and friends. With one voice they were
urging him to kill himself. Even his wife—she was not a Christian, you should
know—joined her entreaties to theirs. Perhaps she thought of the money, and it
was hard to choose beggary instead of wealth; certainly she thought of the
disgrace. Were she and her children to be the widow and orphans of a criminal
or an ex-consul?
"He
never wavered for an instant. 'When my Lord offers me
the crown of martyrdom,' he said, 'shall I put it from me?' That was his one
answer; and though before he had been always yielding and weak of will, he did
not flinch a hair's-breadth from this purpose.
"That
night, I was told, he slept as calmly as a child. The next day he was taken
again to the Senate, and condemned. But I heard that at least half of the
senators had the grace to absent themselves. One favour the Emperor granted to
him, as a kinsman; he might choose the manner and place of his death. He chose
death by beheading, and the third milestone on the road to
"What
answer you to these charges?" said the minister to Verus.
He said
nothing; and his silence itself was a confession.
Still it
would have ill become the Church to act in haste. Antistius
was asked to give proofs of the identity of the Verus
who was present that day with the Verus who had
brought about the death of Clemens. The old man told how his suspicions had
been first aroused; how a number of circumstances, trifling in themselves had turned this suspicion into certainly. And he
then indicated, though only in outline, his discoveries—that Verus had been following again the same dishonest practices
that had brought him into disgrace at
The
accused was still silent.
Then the
minister addressed him:—"Verus, you have heard
what has been witnessed against you. We do not repent that you were acquitted
of the first charges. Be they true or no—and what we have since heard inclines
us to believe them—they were not rightly proved. God forbid that the Church
should be less scrupulous of [25] justice than the tribunals of the unbeliever;
but to the accusations of Antistius you yourself
oppose no denial. Therefore hear the sentence of the Church.
"I
have thought whether, after the example of the holy Apostle Paul, I should
deliver you over to Satan for the destruction of the flesh. I do not doubt
either of my power or of your guilt; yet I shrink from such severity. Therefore
I simply sever you from the Communion of the Church. Repent of your sin, for
God gives you, in His mercy, a place for repentance. Make restitution for aught
in which you have wronged your brethren, or them that are without. And now
depart!"
The
congregation left a wide space, as if to avoid even the chance of touching the
garment of the guilty man, as he hurried, with his head bent downwards to the
door.
When he
had gone, the minister addressed the congregation.
"Brothers
and sisters," he said, "I cannot doubt but that we shall be soon
called to resist unto blood. There are signs that grow plainer every day, that
the rulers of this world are gathering themselves together against Christ and
His Church. It was but yesterday that I received certain news of that of which
we had before heard rumours, to [26] wit, that the holy Ignatius of Antioch
suffered at Rome, being thrown to the wild beasts by command of the Emperor.
But the fury that begins at
Some
words of advice about smaller matters connected with the management of the
Church affairs followed this address. He then pronounced a blessing, and the
congregation dispersed.
A CHRISTIAN HOUSEHOLD
[27] WE will follow one party of worshipers to their own
home, a farmhouse lying about a mile further from the city than the chapel
which has just been described. This party consists of four persons, a husband
and wife, and two daughters.
The head
of this little family is a man who may perhaps count seventy summers. But
though seventy years commonly mean much more in the East than they do in our
more temperate climate, he shows few signs of age, beyond the white hair,
itself long and abundant, which may be seen under his broad-brimmed hat. His
tread is firm, his figure erect, his cheek ruddy with health, his eyes full of
fire; yet he had seen much service, of one kind or another, during these
threescore years and ten. Bion, for that was the
veteran's name, was a Syrian by birth. He had followed Antiochus, son of the
tributary king who ruled part of [28]
Of
course this effort failed. If success had been possible in this way the Romans
would have achieved it long before. Scarcely a third of the Syrian contingent
came back alive from the forlorn hope to which they had been led. Bion was one of the survivors, but he was desperately
wounded, and had not recovered in time to take part in the final assault. He
did not lose, indeed, either pay or promotion. Before he was five-and-twenty he
was commander-in-chief of the army which the Syrian king was permitted to
maintain.
This was
a sufficiently dignified post, and his pay, coming as it did from what was
notoriously the best furnished treasury in
Again
his reckless valour brought him promotion; and his promotion brought him
enemies. An arrow which certainly could not have come from any but his own men,
missed him only by a hair's-breadth; two nights afterwards, the cords of his
tent were cut, and he narrowly escaped the dagger which was driven several
times through the canvas before he could extricate himself from the ruins; and
it was nothing but a vague feeling of suspicion, for which he could not
account, that kept him from draining a wine-cup which had been poisoned for his
benefit. These were hints that it was well to take. He left the camp without
saying a word to any one, and made the best of his way out of
The
difficulty was where to go. The world in those days consisted of
And now came the strange incident that was to change the course of Bion's future life. The two were watching the road that ran
from
The
rider dismounted with an agility which no one would have expected from so old a
man, followed him, and caught him by the cloak. "Listen to me, my
son," he said. "Four years since, I left you in the charge of Polydorus of Smyrna. At the end of two years, when I had
finished my visiting of the churches of
"Then
I went out to seek you. For if I had trusted it to an
unfaithful steward, I should have myself to answer for it to my Lord.
But now, thanks to our Father and His Christ, I have found it again. And you,
my son, will surely not take it from me."
[32]
This good shepherd, who had thus sought and found his wandering sheep upon the
hills, was the Apostle St. John. The persuasiveness of this constraining love
was such as no one could resist. Before he had finished his appeal the young
man was sobbing at his feet. The three returned to
The
Apostle was a man of no small influence in
Meanwhile
Bion had been listening with a heart disposed to
conviction to the instructions of [33]
No more
devout and earnest soul was to be found among the converts than Bion. The fiery temper which he shared with the teacher who
had brought him to Christ was tamed rather than broken. He had found, too,
during his sojourn at
One of
the most trusted lay-helpers of the Church was a devout centurion, who had
served under Titus at the siege of
But Bion found in Manilius' house a
more powerful attraction than friendship. This was the centurion's adopted
daughter, Rhoda. Manilius had found her, then a girl
of some seven years old, in a burning house on that terrible day when the
Anxiety
for his child mastered the Jew's hatred of foreigners. In broken Latin he
besought Manilius to be good to his daughter. It was
a strange responsibility for a lazy and somewhat reckless soldier, but it
seemed to sober him in an instant. He found his Tribune, and obtained
permission to take his young charge to the camp. From thence she was
transferred as soon as possible to the house of a merchant of his acquaintance at
Cæsarea.
No spoil
that he could have carried off from the sack of
When the
rewards for services in the great siege were distributed, he received a
permanent appointment at
Rhoda
was now a beautiful young woman of two-and-twenty; but no suitor had hitherto
touched her heart. Bion, in the full strength of his
matured manhood, for he was now close upon the borders of forty, with the
double romance of his strange conversion and his old life of adventure, took it
by storm. The lovers were married on the day after his baptism, and took
possession of the Bithynian farm before the end of the year.
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Rhoda's
story has been given in the story of her husband. She was a woman of a
character gentle yet firm, who never seemed to assert herself, whom a casual observer
might even suppose to be of a yielding temper, but who was absolutely
inflexible when any question of right or wrong, or of the faith which she clung
to with a passionate earnestness of conviction was concerned.
The two
girls, Rhoda and Cleoné, were singularly alike
in figure and face, and singularly different in character. They were twins, and
they had all the mutual affection, one might almost say, the identity of
feeling, which is sometimes seen, a sight as beautiful as it is strange, in
those who are so related. Rhoda was the elder, [36] and the ruling spirit of
the two. This superior strength of will might be traced by a shrewd observer in
the girl's face. To a casual glance the sisters seemed so
exactly alike as to defy distinction. But those who knew them well never
confounded them together. The dark chestnut hair and violet eyes, rare beauties
under that Southern sky, the delicately rounded cheeks, with their wild-rose
tinge of colour, the line of forehead and exquisitely chiselled nose, modified
by the faintest curve from the severely straight classical outline, were to be
seen in both. But Rhoda's lips were firmly compressed; Cleoné's
were parted in a faint smile; and the gaze of Rhoda's eyes had a directness
which her sister's never showed. Rhoda's nature was of the stuff of which
saints are made; Cleoné's was rather that
which gives peace and sunshine to happy homes. Hitherto the quiet in which the
two lives had been passed had given little to occasion anything like a
divergence of will. In the small questions that occurred in daily affairs Cleoné had followed without hesitation the lead of
her sister. A time was now at hand which was to apply to their affection and to
Rhoda's influence a severe test.
LOVE OR DUTY?
[37] THE two sisters, Rhoda and Cleoné,
did not lack admirers. Maidens so fair and gracious would have attracted
suitors even had they been portionless. But it was
well known that they would bring handsome dowries with them, for Bion's farm had prospered under his hands, while Bion's wife had inherited the savings which her adopting
father, the centurion Manilius, had made from his pay
and prize-money.
But
Rhoda's admirers found it impossible to get beyond admiration. In those early
days of Christianity there were no vows of celibacy for men or women; though,
indeed, the feelings and thoughts that led to them were rapidly growing up. Yet
no cloistered nun of after times could have been more absolutely shut out from
all thoughts of love and marriage than this daughter of a Bithynian farmer. She
did not affect any- [38] thing like seclusion, or seek to stand aloof from the
business and even the little pleasures of daily life. She took her part in the
work of the farm. No fingers milked the cows or made the butter more deftly
than hers. In the harvest field she would follow the reapers, and bind the
sheaves more untiringly and more skillfully than any,
except Cleoné. When the vintage came round,
and the purple and amber grapes were plucked by the women for the men to tread
in the vats, no one filled her baskets more quickly than Rhoda. And if a weakly
calf, or lamb, or an early brood of chickens, hatched before the frosts were
fairly gone, wanted care, there was no one who could give it so efficiently and
tenderly as Rhoda. In fact, it was her vocation from her cradle to serve
others. Every good woman has such a vocation in her degree, but some embrace it
with a devotion that leaves no room for any personal ties. Rhoda was one of
these rare souls; and the boldest lover soon found that she was not for him,
and, indeed, had no care for any earthly suit. She never needed to repulse an
admirer. A very short time sufficed to show that she was absolutely
unapproachable; and she went untroubled on her way, followed by something of
the awe which might be felt for an angel come down from heaven.
[39] It
was natural, of course, that her first thought should be to serve the community
of believers to which she belonged. And there was a way in which this desire
could be fulfilled. The early church had the practice, lately revived among
ourselves, of calling devout women to the office of deaconess, and of thus
making a regular use of their zeal. The need of such helpers in the ministry
was especially great when the Greek habits of life prevailed, and women were in
a large measure secluded from society. They wanted helpers and advisers of
their own sex who might go where men would not have been admitted. Such a
helper the
Next to
her own feeling of devotion, Rhoda's strongest desire was to make her sister a
sharer in her work. Nothing could have made her draw back, but the thought of
not having Cleoné by her side was
inexpressibly painful to her, and she banished it with all the force of her
resolute will. Her best and truest course would have been to recognise the
difference between her sister and herself, of which, indeed, she could not fail
to have some knowledge, to acknowledge that Cleoné
was made for the duties of happiness and home, and to crush down all the
feelings and wishes in her heart that helped to hide this from her. But, in
common with many great natures, she had, to use a common phrase, the defects of
her good qualities. She said to herself, "I am called to serve my Lord;
this service is the highest aim in life, the most perfect happiness that I can
enjoy, [41] and what can I do better for the sister who is like a part of my
soul than to bring her to share in it? Shall I not be doing well if I can bring
two hearts instead of one to Him?"
Cleoné would have yielded with scarcely a struggle to the
strong will of her sister—for she was in her way not less devout—if it had not
been for another influence. She had found among her suitors one to whose
affections her own went out in answer.
Clitus was a Greek, an Athenian by birth, who had come to
Clitus turned away in profound discontent. Then it occurred
to him, "Can I find what I want elsewhere? There is Bion
the Golden-Mouth lecturing at
In the
afternoon of the day following the assem- [45] bly described in the first chapter, the young Roman had
found his way to the farm by help of one of the excuses which lovers are never
at a loss to invent. Possibly it was not an accident that his coming was timed
for an hour at which Rhoda would be busy with some errand of mercy, for Rhoda
viewed the young man as a formidable opponent, and, for all her unworldliness, was clever enough to prevent any private
interview between him and her sister. The elder Rhoda was busy with her
household cares; Cleoné was helping her father
in the vineyard. He was pruning—a delicate task, which he was unwilling to
trust to any hands but his own; she followed him along the rows, tying up to
their supports the shoots which were left to bear the vintage of the year. It
was here that Clitus found her, and as Bion was inclined to favour his suit, no place could have
suited him better. If we listen awhile to their talk, we shall see how matters
stood between them. Clitus was in
high spirits.
|
|
"Give
me joy, Cleoné," he said; "the
letter from the Emperor arrived this morning, and it grants the Governor's
request. I am to have the Roman citizenship; and now everything is open to
me."
The girl
could not refuse her sympathies to his manifest delight; but her mind was
somewhat sad, [46] and it was with a forced gaiety that she answered,
"Well, my lord—for you will soon be one of the lords of us poor
provincials—how shall we speak to you? What Roman name shall you be pleased to
adopt? Shall you be a Julius Cæsar or a Tullius Cicero?"
"To
you, Cleoné," said the young man, "I
shall always be Clitus, the name under which I had
the happiness to know you. But, seriously, the Governor is kind enough to let
me take his own family name, and I shall be Quintus Cæcilius."
"And
when do you leave us for
"Leave
you? for
"But
the career—in this poor place there is nothing to satisfy you. You said that
all things were now open to you, and where are 'all things' to be found, but at
"You
misunderstand me—you wrong me, Cleoné. I have
no such ambition as you seem to think. I desire nothing better than to spend
the rest of my days here, if I can but find here the thing that I want. I did
but mean that no road by which I may find it well to travel will be shut to me
when I am a citizen of
The girl
was silent. She had seen from the first, with a woman's quick apprehension of
such things, that there was a serious purpose in the young Greek's manner, and
she had tried, as women will try, even when they are not face to face with such
perplexities as were troubling poor Cleoné, to
put off the crisis.
Clitus went on: "I am to have the government business
as a notary in the province. The Governor promises that other things will
follow. But I am afraid this does not interest you."
"I
am sure," answered the girl, "we all feel the greatest interest in
you."
"But
you, Cleoné, you!" cried the young man,
and he caught her hand in his as he spoke. "You know that this is my
ambition: to have something which I can ask you to share. I came to tell you
that it seems to be within my reach, and you ask me when I am going to
Poor Cleoné was in a sad strait. The struggle between
love and duty is often a hard one; but at least the issue is clear, and a loyal
heart crushes down its pain, and chooses the better course. But
here there seemed to be love on both sides, and [48] duty on both sides.
Which was she to choose? She knew that Clitus loved
her, and though she had never looked quite closely and steadfastly into her own
heart, she felt that she loved him. And he was worthy, too. Any woman might be
proud of him. Why should she not do as her mother had done before her, and give
herself to a good man who loved her? There was love and there was duty here.
But then, on the other side, there was the Church, its claim upon her, the work
that lay ready for her hand—and Rhoda, who was her second self, from whom she
had never had a thought apart, whose love had been the better half of her life
ever since she could remember anything. It was a sore perplexity in which she
was entangled.
She
stood silent. But her silence was eloquent. Clitus,
though he was no confident lover, saw that it was not her indifference that he
had to fear. If he had been no more to her than other men, she could easily
have found words—kind, doubtless, but plain and decisive enough—in which to bid
him go. She had even left her hand in his. She was scarcely conscious of it, so
full was her mind of the struggle; but consciousness would have come quickly
enough if his touch had been repugnant to her.
At last
she spoke: "Oh, Clitus, this is not a [49] time
for such things as you talk of. Remember what the elder said the other day.
There is danger at hand, and we must be ready to meet it. Would it be right to
hamper ourselves with things of this world? Does not the holy Apostle Paul tell
that they who marry——"
She
paused, blushing crimson when she remembered that her lover, though his meaning
was plain enough, had not gone as far as speaking of marriage.
"Ah!
if you were only my wife," cried Clitus, "I should fear nothing.
"Has
he not said," she went on, "that they who marry shall have trouble in
the flesh? And, when I might be comforting and strengthening others, to have to
think of myself! O, Clitus, I feel that I am called
to other things. Rhoda and I are not as other women; she tells me so, and she
is always right. I could not go against her."
Perhaps
it was as well that just at that moment, Bion, who
had finished his work for the time among the vines, advanced with outstretched
hands to greet the guest. It was a relief to both to have the interruption.
A PLOT
[50] ON the evening of the day when Clitus
and Cleoné held their conversation among the
vines, as described in the last chapter, another conversation, which was to
have no little influence on their fate, was going on. The place was a
wine-shop, kept by a certain Theron, in the outskirts
of Nicæa, and not far from the Christian
meeting-house. Theron's customers were, for the most
part, of the artisan class. But he kept a room reserved for his few patrons
that were of a higher rank. In this room three persons were sitting at a
citron-wood table, one of the innkeeper's most cherished possessions, which
only favoured customers were permitted to see uncovered. A flagon, which could
not have held less than two gallons stood in the middle of the table. It was
about half full of the potent wine from
One of
the three is already known to us. This is Verus, the
unworthy member whose banishment from the Christian community has been
described. The second, to whom, it may be observed, his companions pay a
certain respect, is an elderly man, in the ordinary dress of a well-to-do
merchant. There is a certain air of intelligence in his face. But the keen,
hungry look of the eyes, the pinched nose, the thin, bloodless lips, tightly
closed, but sometimes parting in a smile that never reaches the eyes, give it a
sinister look. Lucilius—for this was his name—was a
man of good birth and education, but he had given up all his thoughts to
money-making, and the tyrant passion had set the mark of his servitude on his
face.
The
third is a professional soothsayer or fortune-teller. The fortune-teller of
to-day commonly exercises his art by means of a pack of cards, while he
sometimes consults a tattered book of dreams, or even professes to gather his
knowledge of the future from the motions of the planets. Cards were not then
invented; dream-interpreting and star-reading were not held in very great
repute. Our soothsayer practised the curious art of discovering the future by
the signs that might be discerned in the entrails of animals. My [52] readers
would think it tedious were I to give them the details of this system. Let it
suffice to say that the liver was held to carry most meaning in its appearance.
If the proper top to it were wanting, something terrible was sure to happen.
There were lines of life in it, and lines of wealth. Each of the four
"fibres" into which it was divided had its own province. From this
you could discern perils by water, from that perils by
fire; a third warned you of losses in business, a fourth gave you hopes of a
legacy. This was the art, then, which the third of the three guests professed.
He called himself Arruns, but this was not his real
name. Arruns is Etruscan, whilst the man was a
Sicilian, who, after trying almost everything for a livelihood, had settled
down as an haruspex in
Nicæa. But the Etruscans were famous over all
the Roman world as the inventors of the soothsaying art, and professors of it
found an Etruscan name as useful as singers sometimes find one that is borrowed
from Italy, or French teachers a supposed birthplace in Paris. Arruns, if he had little of the Etruscan about him in his
language, which was Latin of the rudest kind, spoken in a broad Greek accent,
had at least the corpulence for which the foretellers of the future [53] were
proverbial. His small dull eyes, sometimes lit up with a little spark of greed
or cunning, his thick sensual lips, and heavy bloated cheeks, flushed with
habitual potations, showed how the animal predominated in him.
He was
now holding forth on his grievances in a loud, harsh voice, which he did not
forget to refresh with frequent draughts of Tmolian
wine.
"It
is monstrous, this neglect of the gods! It must bring a curse upon the country.
There will be nothing left sacred soon. Who can suppose that if men do not care
for the gods, they will go on caring for each other? Children will not honour
their parents, nor parents love their children. The
sanctity of marriage, the rights of property, everything will disappear, if
these atheists are suffered to go unpunished, while they spread abroad their
pernicious doctrines."
"Your
zeal does you credit," interrupted Lucilius,
with a slight cynical smile. "But we all know that Arruns
is careful of all that concerns the sacredness of the home."
Arruns was a notoriously ill-conducted fellow, whose life
was a scandal to the better behaved, not to say the more pious of the heathen.
His wife had long since left him in disgust, and was supporting herself as a
nurse. His children he had turned out of doors. The shaft did not wound [54]
him very deeply, but he took the hint and became more practical.
"Look
at the temples," he went on; "the court-yards are grass-grown. Day
after day not a worshipper comes near them. To see smoke going from the altars
is as rare as to see snow in summer. And when a man does bring a beast, 'tis
some paltry, half-starved creature: a scabby sheep, or a worn-out bullock from
the plough, which are not good enough for the butcher's knife, let alone the
priest's hatchet. And as often as not, when there is a decent sacrifice, they
do not call me in. They grudge me my ten drachmas—for I have had to cut down
the fee to ten. 'What should a calf or a sheep's liver have to tell us about
the future?' they say. What monstrous impiety! What a flagrant contradiction of
all history! Did not Galba's haruspex,
on the very day of his death, warn him that he was in danger from an intimate
friend? and did not Otho,
who was such a friend, kill him within two hours afterwards?"
"Yes,"
said Lucilius, a little peremptorily, "we know
all about these examples and instances. But go on to your own grievances."
"Well,
to put the matter plainly, it is simple starvation to me. Twice, thrice last
week I had to live on beans and bread. Ten years ago there did not a day pass
without two or three sacrifices. [55] I had my pick of good things—beef,
mutton, lamb, veal, pork, every day; and now I am positively thankful for a
rank piece of goat's flesh, that once I would not have given to my slave. Oh! it is awful; there must be a judgment from the gods on such
impiety."
"One
would hardly think, from your looks, my Arruns,"
said Lucilius, "that things
were quite so bad as you say. But, tell me, what do you suppose to be the cause
of this impious neglect of the gods, and this indifference to the future?"
"The
Christians, of course," said Arruns; "the
Christians."
"But,"
interrupted Lucilius, "they can be scarcely
numerous enough to make much difference, and I am told that they are mostly
poor people, and even slaves; so that they could hardly, in any case, be
clients of yours."
"My
good lord," said Arruns, "it is not so much
the Christians themselves; it is the example they set. People say to
themselves: 'These seem to be very decent, honest sort
of fellows; they never murder or rob; they are very kind to the sick and poor;
we can always be safe in having dealings with them; and they seem to be
tolerably prosperous too. And yet they never go inside a temple, nor offer so
much as a lamb to the gods.' What could be worse than that? They do ten [56]
times more harm than if they were so many murderers and thieves. A good citizen
who neglects the gods is a most mischievous person. There is sure to be a
number of people who imitate him so far. It is the Christians who are at the
bottom of all this trouble."
"But
what do you want me to do?" said Lucilius.
"Grant that what you say is true, still I see no reason for interfering. I
have two or three tenants who are said to be Christians, and they are honest
and industrious fellows who always pay me my rent to the day. Why should I
trouble them?"
"Pardon
me, sir," interrupted Verus, who had as yet
taken no part in the conversation. "Pardon me if I remind you that there
is something more to be said. The association of the Christians is an unlawful
society."
"Of
course it is," cried Lucilius; "we all know
that; though you, my dear Verus, seem to have been a
long time finding it out, if, as I understand, you have been acting as their
treasurer."
"I
have but lately discovered their true character," said Verus.
"When I did, I hastened to leave them."
"Ah!"
said Lucilius, with a sneer, "that must have
been at the very time when they examined your accounts. Do you know that people
have [57] been saying that they, too, made some discoveries?"
Verus, who would have given a great deal to be able to stab
the speaker, forced his features into a sickly smile. "You are pleased to
jest, honourable sir," he said. "But these Christians are not quite
so insignificant or so poor as you think. There is the
old knight, Antistius. No one would suppose that he
was a rich man. He drinks wine that cannot cost more than a denarius
a gallon, and very little of that; but we know what he
gives away in alms. It is not only here that he gives. His money goes to
"And
stick there sometimes, I have heard," retorted the other, whose passion
for saying bitter things was sometimes too strong for his prudence, and even
for his avarice. "But what does that matter to me? What do I care for the
way in which an old fool and his money are parted? It does not concern me if he
feeds all the beggars and cripples in the Empire."
"You
forget sir," returned Verus, "that if Antistius is convicted of belonging to an unlawful
society—and there can be no doubt that the community of Christians is such a
society—his goods [58] are confiscated to the Emperor's purse, and that those
who assist the cause of justice will have their share."
There
was a sudden change in Lucilius's careless,
supercilious manner, though he did his best not to seem too eager.
"Ah!"
he said, "there may be something in that, though I should not particularly
like a business of that kind."
"Don't
suppose, sir," went on Verus, "that there
are not others besides Antistius. There are plenty
who are worth looking after. Bion the farmer is
wealthy, though one would hardly think it. And there are others who are
entangled in this business. You would hardly believe me, if I were to tell you
their names. And then it is not only here, it is all through the province that
you may find them. I have all the threads in my hand, and I could make a very
pretty unravelling if I chose."
"What,
then, do you propose?" asked Lucilius.
"That we should lay information to the Governor."
"Will
he act? He is all for being philosophic and tolerant."
"He
cannot choose but act. The Emperor's orders are stringent. He is very strict
about these secret societies. Did you not hear about the [59] fire-brigade that
the people of
[60] At Verus's suggestion, Theron, the
innkeeper, was called into the council. He, of course, had a very bad opinion
of the Christians. "They are a very poor, mean-spirited lot," he
said; "if they had their way there would not be a tavern open in the
Empire. I never see one of them inside my doors. Sometimes, when I have a late
company here, I have seen them on their way to their meeting-place, one of the guildhouses in the cemetery here. They are a shabby lot,
for the most part—half of them slaves, I should think. I suspect an out-door
man of my own of being one of them. He never drinks, or gambles, or fights. I
always suspect there is something wrong with a young fellow when he goes on
like that. Yes, I should very much like to see the whole business put a stop
to. If it is not, the world will soon be no place for an honest man to live
in."
A plan
of action was agreed upon. A number of memorials were to be presented to the
Governor, praying him to interfere with a certain unlawful society, bearing the
name of Christians, or followers of Jesus, that was accustomed to meet in the neighborhood of Nicæa. Lucilius, Verus, and Arruns were each to send in such a document, and were to
get others sent in by their friends. A number of anonymous memorials in various
hand- [61] writings were also to be prepared. The more there were, the more likely was the Governor to be impressed.
When the
party was separating, Arruns tried to do a little
stroke of business on his own account. "This is an important
undertaking," he said, in his most professional tone, to Lucilius. "Don't you think that it would be well to
consult the gods?"
"My
Arruns," said Lucilius,
who had no idea of spending his money in any such way, "when I make an
offering, I prefer that it should be a thank-offering. When we have done
something, I shall not be ungrateful."
The
soothsayer was not going to let himself be baffled. If
he could get nothing out of the cupidity of Lucilius,
he might be more successful in working on the fears of Verus.
"It
would have an excellent effect, my dear Verus,"
he said, "if people could see some proof of your piety. They know that you
have been mixed up with these Christians, and they don't all know that you have
come out from among them. If there should be anything like a rising of the
people—there was one in
Verus, who, if he had not learnt to believe Christianity,
must have at least learned thoroughly to disbelieve the whole Pagan system,
heard the suggestion with very little fervour, but felt too uneasy about his
position to reject it. He knew that he had compromised himself, and that the
danger which Arruns had pictured was not completely
imaginary.
"There
may be something in what you suggest," he said, after a pause. "Perhaps
a lamb to Jupiter or Apollo——"
"A lamb!" interrupted
Arruns, who was not disposed to be satisfied with so
paltry an offering. "A lamb! The
whole country would cry shame upon you. It ought to be nothing less than a
hecatomb."
"A
hecatomb!" cried Verus, "what are you
talking about? Am I the Emperor, that you should suggest such a thing?"
"Well,"
returned the other, "a hecatomb [63] might, perhaps, be a little
ostentatious for a man in your position. But I assure you that nothing less
than a 'swine, sheep, and bull' sacrifice would be acceptable. It must be
something a little out of the common, for yours is not a common case."
"Well,
let it be so," said Verus, "only it must be
done cheaply. No gilding of the bulls horns or expensive flowers; I really
cannot afford it."
"Leave
it to me," answered Arruns. "I will spare
your pocket."
With
this they separated, the soothsayer chuckling over his success, and the
prospect of a plenty which he had not enjoyed for some months, Verus ruefully calculating how many gold pieces the three
animals, with the ornaments and the temple fees, would cost him.
PLINY AND THE CHRISTIANS
[64] CAIUS
PLINIUS CAECILIUS SECUNDUS, commonly
known to posterity as the Younger Pliny, has just finished his day's work as Proprætor—that is to say, Governor—of the Roman
The room
shows evident signs of the occupation of a man of culture. Though it is his
official apartment, and he has his study elsewhere, it has something of the
look of a library. A little bookcase, elegantly made
of ivory and ebony, stands [65] close to his official chair. Half a dozen
rolls—for such were the volumes of those days—are within reach of his hand. He
can refresh himself with a few minutes' reading of on or other of them, when
the tedium of his official duties becomes more than he can bear; using a
writer's privilege, we can see that Homer is one of the six, and Virgil
another. The wall facing him is covered with a huge map of the province; and
most of the available space elsewhere is occupied with documents, plans of
public buildings, and other matters relating to the details of government; but
room has been found for busts of eminent writers, for some tasteful little
pieces of Corinthian ware, and for two or three statuettes of Parian marble. At a table in the corner a secretary is busy
with his pen; but were we to look over his shoulder we should see that he is
not occupied with the answer to a petition or with a report to the Emperor, but
with the fair copy of a poem which the Governor has found time to dictate to
him in the course of the day.
Pliny
has just risen from his seat, after swallowing a
cordial which his body physician has concocted for him, when the soldier who
kept the door announced a visitor—"Cornelius Tacitus,
for his Excellency the Governor." Pliny received the [66] new-comer, who,
indeed, had been his guest for several days, with enthusiasm.
"You
were never more welcome, my Tacitus," he cried.
"Either I am in worse trim for business than usual, or the business of the
day has been extraordinarily tiresome. In the first place, everything that they
do here seems to be blundered over. In one town they build an aqueduct at the
cost of I don't know how many millions of sesterces, and one of the arches tumbles down. Then, in Nicæa here, they have been spending millions more on
a theatre, and, lo and behold ! the
walls begin to sink and crack, for the wise people have laid the foundation in
a marsh. Then everybody seems to want something. The number of people, for
instance, who want to be made Roman citizens is beyond
belief. If
The
Governor handed to his friend two or three small parchment rolls, which he took
from a greater number that were lying upon a table. As
Tacitus read them, his look became grave, and even
troubled.
"What
am I to do in this matter?" said the Governor, after a short pause.
"For the last two or three days these things have been positively crowding
in upon me. You don't see there more than half that I have had. They all run in
the same style: I could fancy that a good many are in the same handwriting.
'The most excellent Governor is hereby informed that there is a secret society,
calling itself by the name of Christus, that holds
illegal meetings in the neighbourhood of this city; that the members thereof
are guilty of many offences against the majesty of the Emperor, as well as of
impiety to the gods;' and then there follows a long list of names of these same
members. Some of these names I recognize, and, curiously enough, there is not
one against which I know any harm. Can you tell me anything about this secret
society which calls itself by the name of Christus?"
"Yes,"
answered Tacitus; "it is more than fifty years
ago since I first heard of them, and I have always watched them with a good
deal of interest since. It was in the eleventh year of Nero—you could only have
been an infant then, but it was the time when more than half of
"I
remember it," interrupted Pliny, "though I was only three years old;
but one does not forget [68] being woke up in the middle of the night because
the house was on fire, as I was."
Tacitus went on: "Well, I shall never forget that
dreadful time. The fire was bad enough, but the horrors that followed were
worse. People, you know, began to whisper that the Emperor himself had had the
city set on fire, because he wanted to build it again on a better plan. Whether
he did it or not, he was capable of it; and it is certain that he behaved as if
he were delighted with what had happened, looking on at the fire, for instance,
and singing some silly verses of his own about the burning of
"But,"
said the Governor, "have you ever made out that there is anything wicked
or harmful in this superstition of theirs? I have heard strange stories of
their doings: that they mix the blood of children with their sacrifices,
that they indulge in disgraceful licence, and so forth. Do you believe
that there is anything in these reports?"
"To
speak frankly," replied Tacitus, "I do not.
On the contrary, I believe that they are a singularly innocent and harmless set
of people; that they neither murder nor steal; and that if all the world were
like them our guards and soldiers would have very little to do."
"Yet," said Plinius, "you seem
to speak of them in a somewhat hostile tone. If they are so blameless
they cannot fail to be good citizens."
"No,
this is precisely what they are not," was Tacitus'
answer after a few moments' pause. "I [70] take it that obedience is the
foundation of our commonwealth, obedience to the Emperor now, as it once was to
the Senate and people. No man must set his own will or his own belief above
obedience. If he does, he takes away the foundation. Tell one of these
Christians to throw a pinch of incense on an alter,
and he will refuse. Not the Emperor himself could make him do it. The pinch of
incense may be nothing. Neither the State nor any single soul in it may be one
whit the worse for its not being thrown; but it is an intolerable thing that
any citizen should take it upon himself to say whether he will or will not do
it. Depend upon it, my dear Pliny, these Christians, though they never trouble
our courts, civil or criminal, are very dangerous people,
and either the Empire must put them down, or they will put the Empire
down."
"What,
then, would you have me do?" asked the Governor.
"Act
with energy; arrest these people; stamp the whole thing out."
"But
it is too horrible. It is—if you will allow me to say it—it is even absurd.
Here are thieves and cut-throats without number at large; profligates who spend
their whole lives in doing mischief, and villains of every kind. Yet a Governor
is to leave these hawks and kites to [71] themselves, and pounce
down upon a flock of innocent doves. Forgive me if I say, my dear Tacitus, that I never saw you so little like a
philosopher."
"There
are times," replied Tacitus, "when one has
to think, not about philosophy, but about policy. Look at the Emperor. You know
what manner of man he is. He is not a madman, like Nero; he is not a monster,
like Domitian, who was so fond of killing that he
could not spare even the flies. But Nero and Domitian
were not so stern with the Christians as he is. 'Obey
me,' he says, 'or suffer for it. If I let you choose
your own way, the Empire falls to pieces.' Yes, my dear Pliny, distasteful as
it must be to be a man of your sensibility, you must act."
"I
shall consult the Emperor," said the Governor, who felt himself hard
pressed by his friend's arguments.
"Certainly,"
said Tacitus; "it would be well to do so. I
understand that he wishes to be consulted about everything; though how he
contrives to get through his business is beyond my understanding. But meanwhile
act. You need not do any thing final, but Trajan, if
I know him, would be much displeased if he were to find that you had done
nothing."
"What
would you advise, then?"
[72]
"Send a guard of soldiers, and arrest the whole company at one of their
meetings. It would be easy to learn the place and the time. These societies have
always some one among them to betray their secrets; though, indeed, this can
hardly be a secret. You need not keep them all in custody. Probably many will
be slaves. I hear that the slaves everywhere are deeply infected with the
superstition. You can let them go, and make their masters answerable for them.
Nor should I take much heed of artisans and labourers; but you will keep any
person of consequence that there may be, and, above all, their priests, or
elders, or rulers, or whatever they call them."
The
Governor pressed a handbell that stood on the table
at his elbow, and bade the attendant who answered the summons send for the
centurion on duty.
In the
course of a few minutes this officer appeared.
"Fabius," said Pliny, "you have heard, I suppose,
of certain people that call themselves Christians?"
"Yes,
my lord," answered the centurion, "I have heard of them."
It
required all the composure—one might almost say the stolidity of look—that is
one of the results of a soldier's discipline, to enable [73] Fabius to reply without showing any change of countenance.
He had been for some months a "catechumen"—one, that is, who
was receiving instruction preparatory for baptism. He had been somewhat
inclined of late to draw back. The new faith attracted him as much as ever, but
there were difficulties which it put in his way. Could he hold it and be a
soldier? His teachers differed. The eldest minister, a man of liberal views,
thought that he could. Cornelius, the godly centurion, who was the first-fruits
of the Gentiles, had not been bidden to give up his profession. One of the younger men, whose temper was fiery, almost fanatical,
took the opposite view. The soldier was essentially a man of the world,
and the world was at enmity with the Church. Nor could Fabius
hide from himself the difficulties. Idolatry was everywhere. His arms, for
instance, bore the images of gods; to be present at sacrifice to gods was a
frequent duty; worst of all, he would himself be called upon to sacrifice by
burning incense before the image of the Emperor. All this had made
him hesitate.
|
|
"Do
you know their place of meeting?" asked the Governor.
Fabius assented.
"And the time?"
To
answer readily would have been to betray [74] too intimate a
knowledge of the Christians' proceedings.
"Doubtless,"
my lord," he said, despising himself at the same time for the
prevarication, "I can find it out."
"Then
take a guard on the first occasion that occurs, and arrest in the name of the
Emperor all that you may find assembled."
"It
shall be done, my lord," said Fabius, still
unmoved, and, after saluting, withdrew.
No one
would have recognized the centurion Fabius, with his
almost mechanical rigidity of movement, in the agitated man who, for the next
hour, paced up and down in his chamber. It is to be feared that he wished over
and over again that this disturbing influence had never come into his life.
Here was a conflict of duties such as he had never even dreamed of. Could he
let these men and women whom he knew, some of whom had been so kind to him, who
would have done all they could for him, run blindly into danger? And yet, would
it not be a breach of duty to warn them? The Governor trusted him; the charge
laid upon him was a secret. Could he, as a soldier, betray it? Again and again
he made up his mind, only to unmake it the next moment. At last the struggle
ended, as such struggles often do, in a compromise; and here circumstances [75]
helped him. The meeting would be the next day, he knew; and it was now
afternoon. There would not be time to warn all the members of the community,
even had he known—what he did not know—where they were to be found. But there
was one to whom word must be sent at any cost. This was Rhoda, the daughter of Bion. Fabius had been one of the
many who had been struck by the girl's singular beauty. Like his rivals, he had
seen that her heart had no room for any earthly love. Still, he cherished her
image as one might cherish the vision of an angel. To think of her in the rude
hands of soldiers, or dragged to the common prison, was simply intolerable.
That must be prevented, if it cost him his officer's rank, or even his honour.
No sooner
had he made up his mind to send the girl a warning message, than, as if by the
ordering of some higher Power, an opportunity presented itself to him. He
caught sight of one of Bion's slaves, who was driving
down the street an ass laden with farm produce. To accost the man as he passed
might have raised suspicion. A safer plan would be to waylay him as he
returned, which he would scarcely do before evening was drawing on. And this he
was able to carry out without, as he felt sure, being observed by any one. He
thrust into the hands of the old man—a [76] faithful creature, whom he knew to
be deeply attached to Bion and his family—a letter
thus inscribed:—
"Fabius the Centurion, to Rhoda, daughter of Bion.
"I
implore you that to-morrow you remain at home. This shall be well both for you
and for those whom you love. Farewell."
THE ARREST
[77] THE centurion's message was
duly delivered to Rhoda, nor, thought it failed in its immediate object, was it
sent wholly in vain. The girl herself never for one moment entertained the
idea of profiting by the warning so as to secure her own safety. She would have
been even capable of suppressing it altogether, if she could have been quite as
sure of others as she was of herself. There was nothing that she felt to be
more desirable that the martyr's crown, and why should she hinder those who
were dear to her from attaining the same glory? But these high-wrought feelings
had not wholly banished common sense. She was perfectly well aware that such
aspirations were beyond the average capacity of her fellow-creatures. She
doubted whether her own sister was equal to them. She was quite sure that some
of her fellow-believers would fail under the fiery trial of martyrdom, and she
shrank from the peril of ex- [78] posing them to it. Nothing could be more
dreadful than that they should fall away and deny their Lord. It would be a
deadly sin in them, and, to say the least, a lifelong remorse to her, if she
should have led them into such temptation. Her mind was soon made up. Her first
step was to find her father, and give him the warning, only keeping back, as
she felt bound to do, the name of her informant. Bion,
whose practical good sense told him that dangers come quickly enough without
one's going to meet them, resolved to keep all his family at home. Under
ordinary circumstances, knowing the temper of his elder daughter, he would have
charged her on his obedience not to venture out. But Rhoda's action in freely
coming to him with the warning that she had received, put him off his guard. He
took it for granted that she would attend to it herself, and, not a little to
her relief, let her go without exacting any promise from her.
The next morning she started earlier than usual for the place of
meeting. Her hope was to see the Elders, communicate what she knew to them, and
leave the matter in their hands. They would know what was best for their
people. If they judged it better that the disciples should hide from the storm
rather than meet it, she would obey their decision, whatever might be her own
disappoint- [79] ment. If, as she hoped, their
counsel should be "to resist unto blood," then she would be there to
share the glorious peril.
One of
the little accidents, as we call them, that so often come in to hinder the
carrying out of great plans, hindered Rhoda from accomplishing her design. She
started at an earlier hour than usual, before there was even a glimmer of
twilight, and instead of being more careful than was her want in picking her
way along the rough lane that led from the farmhouse into the public road, was,
in her haste, more heedless. Before she had gone fifty yards from the house,
she stumbled on a stone, and for some moments felt as if she could not move
another step. Then her resolute spirit came to her help. "To think of the
martyr's crown, and then be daunted by a sprained ankle!" she said to
herself; and she struggled on. But all the courage in the world could not give
her back her usual speed of foot; so that the hour of meeting had already
passed while she was still some distance from the chapel. She was still
crawling along when another of the worshippers, a young slave who had been
detained at home by some work which he could not finish in time, overtook her.
She at once made up her mind that he must act as her messenger, and that the
message must be as brief and emphatic as possible.
[80] The
young man halted when he recognised her figure, saluted her, and asked whether
he could give her any help.
"Leave
me, Dromio", she answered, "leave me to
shift for myself; but run with all the speed you can tell the Elder Anicetus that there is danger."
Dromio waited for no second bidding. He started off at once
at the top of his speed, and as he was vigorous and fleet of foot, he reached
the place of assembly in a very few minutes.
The
celebration of the Holy Communion was going on, and the congregation was
engaged in silent prayer previous to the distribution of the bread and wine,
when the breathless messenger, pushing aside the door-keeper who would have
barred his entrance at what seemed so inopportune a time, burst into the midst.
"Venerable
Anicetus," cried the young man, "there is
danger!"
Such
alarms were not unknown in those perilous times, and though the congregation
was startled, there was nothing like panic.
Anicetus, a veteran in the service of his Master, and a
confessor who had stood more than once in peril of his life, kept all his
presence of mind.
"Be
calm, my son," he said; "tell me whence or from whom you bring this
message."
[81]
"I bring it from Rhoda the deaconess"—for as such the girl was known,
though, as has been said before, she had not been formally admitted to the
order—"I overtook her on my way hither. She was limping along, in pain as
it seemed, though she said nothing, and she bade me hasten on, and deliver this
message."
"It
is no false alarm," said the elder, "if it came from our sister
Rhoda. Saw you or heard you any signs of an enemy as you came?"
"I
saw and heard nothing," answered Dromio.
"And
you came from the town?"
"Yes,
from the town."
"Then
the soldiers have not yet started," said the old man in an undertone to himself, "and we have a few moments to think."
By
common consent the whole assembly waited for his decision. This deference was
not so much paid to his office as to the man. Ordinarily such a matter would
have been discussed by the community. But Anicetus
was one of the men to whom in a time of peril all look
for guidance. After a very brief pause for deliberation he spoke.
"All
brethren and sisters that are of the servile condition will depart at once, and
do their best to escape the soldiers."
There
were doubtless one or two bolder spirits among the male slaves who murmured
inwardly at [82] this command. But they obeyed it without hesitation. Indeed,
they knew only too well the cogent force or the reasoning which dictated it. A
free man or woman was exempted by law from torture, but it might be applied to
a slave; and it would be applied almost certainly to some at least of those who
might be arrested in the act of attending an unlawful assembly. If, on the
other hand, they could escape for the time, their masters, even for the mere
selfish motive of saving valuable property damage, would do their best to
protect them. It was well, therefore, to get them out of the way, both for
their own sake and for the sake of the community. The Church had found many
times what a horribly effective instrument her persecutors had in this power of
torturing the slaves. It was not that she dreaded the truth that they might be
thus compelled to speak, it was the falsehoods that
might be forced out of them that were so much to be feared. Again and again,
miserable creatures, whose courage had broken down under this pitiless
infliction, had purchased relief from their sufferings by inventing hideous
charges against their brethren. The mere truth had not satisfied the
persecutor, who often really believed that there must be something more behind;
and so they had been driven, as it were, to lie.
[83]
When the slaves were gone, Anicetus spoke again:
"Brethren and sisters, you must be brave; that, I do not
doubt, you will be. And you must be prudent; that, to some of you, will
be less easy. Therefore I warn you. Court no danger. You shall have strength
for your day, but not beyond it. When you are accused, be silent—as far as you
may. The law does not compel you to bring peril upon yourselves, and they
cannot force you to speak. Acts unlawful to a Christian you will, of course,
refuse. There you will not yield so much as a hair's
breadth. But see that these acts be such as may
lawfully be demanded of you. This is the counsel that I give you, so far as
things of this life are concerned. Spiritual help you will not lack, if,
indeed, you have not believed in vain. And now, while there is yet time, let us
strengthen ourselves with the Communion of the Body and Blood of our Lord. It
shall be provision for a way that may lie through rough places."
Just as
the Elder had finished speaking, Rhoda entered the chapel. The strength that
had supported her through her painful journey failed when she reached its end,
and she sank, almost fainting, on the floor. Two of the women helped her into a
little ante-chamber, and gave her such comfort and relief as was possible.
Meanwhile the inter- [84] rupted
rite went on. The little congregation again offered up their hearts in silent
prayer—not less earnest, we may be sure, than that which had been broken into
by the arrival of the messenger of danger. This ended, the sacred Bread and
Wine were administered: with what depth of feeling in ministers and people it
is impossible for us to realize, whether (as will be the case with most who
read these lines) we are living quiet and peaceful lives, or even are brought
face to face with great perils, such as the perils of the sea and the
battle-field. To "resist unto blood," as these weak men and women
were called to do, wanted an enthusiasm of courage far greater than is needed
for the lifeboat or the forlorn hope.
The
Communion was almost ended when a loud knocking on the door of the
meeting-house showed that the soldiers had come. The Centurion Fabius had not ventured to evade the duty of executing in
person the order of the Governor; but to make the actual arrest was more than he
could bring himself to endure. To enter the chapel on such an errand would have
been an intolerable profanation. Happily, military etiquette permitted him to
delegate this duty to his deputy. It was this officer, who had been duly
cautioned to perform his office as gently as he could, who now presented
himself at the chapel door. It was [85] thrown open at once. One point that the
Christians were always careful to insist upon was that, though they might find
it prudent to meet in secret, they had nothing to conceal. Anicetus
was just about to administer the Bread and Wine to Rhoda—who was now partially
recovered—when the deputy centurion entered the building. With a gesture of
command, which the rough soldier felt himself strangely constrained to obey, he
motioned the man back, and then, without a change of look or voice, performed
his sacred office.
The rite
finished, he turned to the soldier, and courteously asked him his errand. The
man produced the Governor's order to arrest all the persons who should be found
assembled in the guild-house of the wool-combers. Anicetus
perused the document deliberately, and then returned it to the officer, with
the words, "It seems to be in order. We are ready to obey."
The
number of prisoners who had been thus taken was a few less than forty, of whom
six, including Rhoda, were women. The men were lightly bound—that is, the right
arm of one was attached to the left arm of another. The old knight Antistius, and the Elder Anicetus,
both of whom were Roman citizens, were not subjected to this indignity; nor was
it thought necessary to secure the women.
[86] The
question then arose, What was to be done with Rhoda,
who was clearly unable to walk? The deputy consulted his chief.
"There
is a woman among the arrested," he said, "whom it will be necessary
to carry, if she is to accompany the others. Will you be pleased to give your
commands?"
No
sooner had Fabius heard these words than an agonizing
suspicion of the truth crossed his mind. Something, he knew not what, told him
that this disabled woman could be no other than Rhoda herself. The wild idea of
making this a pretext for releasing her occurred to him, only to be dismissed
the next moment. She could not be left; and if she was to be taken, she must go
with the rest. With a sinking heart he entered the chapel, and a single glance
at her figure, though her face was turned from him, convinced him that his
fears had not been vain. It was Rhoda. His warning had been fruitless, although
a hasty glance showed him that neither Bion nor Cleoné was among the
prisoners. She had been more careful for others than for herself.
It was
agony to Fabius to feel that he was the man to put
her into the hands of her enemies, and he was glad to leave the chapel before
she could recognize him.
Meanwhile
the practical difficulty had been [87] solved by an ingenious soldier who had
fetched a bier from the mortuary of the burial ground. A little contrivance
converted this into a litter. It was convenient enough, and was made
comfortable with the cloaks of the party; but Fabius
shuddered at the sight of the living borne on the vehicle of the dead.
The
departure of the soldiers from the town had not been unnoticed, and a crowd was
assembled to witness their return. The principal street was indeed thronged
with the spectators as the prisoners were marched along it to the Governor's
quarters. A few groans and hisses were heard at one point, where Arruns with some of his friends had stationed himself; but
on the whole the feeling was friendly rather than hostile. Few knew much about
these Christians, but men had already begun to find out that they were friends
of the sick, the poor, the unhappy.
BEFORE THE GOVERNOR
[88] THE arrest at the chapel had been made so early that it
still wanted more than an hour of
When the
prisoners had answered to their names, and had stated their several occupations
and condition of life, the inquiry began. A long harangue by the prosecutor on
the subject of the importance of the worship of the gods was cut short by the
Governor, who intimated that his eloquence, if it should be wanted at all,
would be more relevant after his evidence had been produced. Thus checked, the
advocate began his examination, addressing it in the first instance to Anicetus.
"You
are one of the leaders of the society which calls itself by the name of Christus?'
"Is
this the matter, or among the matters, of which you accuse me?"
"Certainly
it is."
"Then
you hold it to be a crime to belong to this society of Christus?"
"Certainly, seeing that it is not one of the societies that are
permitted to exist by the constitution of the Roman Sate and the will of our
sovereign lord, Trajan Augustus."
"If
that be so, I appeal to the Governor whether by the law of
[90] The
appeal was so manifestly just that the Governor did not think it necessary to
consult his assessor, but decided that the question need not be answered.
Baffled
at this point, the prosecutor re-commenced his attack at another.
"You
do not deny that you and your associates were assembled this morning in the
guild-house of the wool-combers?"
"We
do not deny it."
"For
what purpose, then, did you meet?"
"Before
I answer that question, I would myself wish to know whether you have the right
to ask it. Are free men and women, against whom there is no evidence of
wrong-doing, to be questioned by any one as to the purpose of their meeting?
That we have the right to use the guild-house of the wool-combers is proved by
this document."
So
saying, Anicetus produced from his pocket a small
parchment, which simply recited that the wool-combers, in consideration of a
sum of four hundred drachmæ yearly, permitted the use of their guild-house to Anicetus.
"You
see, then," resumed Anicetus, "that we have
not taken possession of a place to which we are not entitled, nor is there any
evidence against us of unlawful dealings. Were we found with weapons in our
hands, or preparing noxious drugs, [91] or practising forbidden acts, or
plotting against the safety of the State and the life of the Emperor, then
might you justly ask us for our defence. But you do not attempt to prove
against us any unlawful deed or words."
The
prosecutor then tried a third method of attack. "Are you and your
associates willing to worship the gods of the
Without
answering this question Anicetus turned to the
governor: "Is it permitted to us, most excellent Plinius, that we see the
accusation under which we have been this day brought before you?"
"There
are many accusations," replied the Governor; "they are substantially
the same, and it will probably suffice for the purpose that one should be
read.—Scribe," he went on, turning to an official that sat near,
"read the information of Lucilius against the
people called Christians."
The
document was read. It charged a number of persons, including all of the
prisoners then before the court, and many who were not in custody. Treason,
impiety towards the gods and towards the Emperor, hatred of mankind,
licentiousness, were among the accusations brought
against them.
"Here,"
said Anicetus, when the reading was finished,
"are many terrible things brought against [92] us, whereof no proof has
been given by our accuser. Is it lawful, most excellent Plinius,
that, such proof failing him, he should seek thus to raise prejudice against
us? What right has this advocate, being but a private person, to call upon his
fellow-citizens to do sacrifice to the gods or to the Emperor? What right has
he to fix the time, the place, the manner of worship? Were an Egyptian, a worshipper of
The accuser
was notoriously a man who believed in nothing, and was known not to spend a
drachma on any religious duty. A hum of approval ran round the court at this
manifest hit. So far, the line of defence taken by Anicetus
had been successful. It might easily have failed with another Governor, a man
of more imperious and tyrannical temper than Pliny; but the Elder had skillfully taken into account the Governor's mild and
tolerant character, and his probable desire to avoid any measure of severity.
But it was now to be overthrown in an unexpected way. A tablet was passed [93]
from among the crowd of spectators and put into the hands of the prosecuting
counsel. On it were written the words, "Challenge the free condition of
Rhoda, commonly called the daughter of Bion and Rhoda
his wife, and call as your witness the freedman Eudoxus."
This document bore the name of Lucilius, and the
prosecutor at once perceived its importance. Indeed, it was his last hope, if
his case was not to break down completely. He resumed his address.
"As
your regard for freedom, most excellent Plinius,
protects the silence of Anicetus and his companions,
I will address myself to the case of one of the accused who cannot claim this
same protection. I maintain that the woman Rhoda—the reputed daughter of Bion and Rhoda—is not of free condition, but is a
slave."
Had a
thunderbolt fallen in the court, judge, assessor, accused, and audience could
not have been more astonished. The first feeling was one of absolute
incredulity. To no one did the statement seem more absurd than to the girl
herself.
"This
is a strange contention," remarked the Governor, "and not lightly to
be made against a family of good repute. What evidence can you produce?"
"I
call the freedman Eudoxus," replied the
prosecutor.
[94] The
freedman Eudoxus was present,
it soon appeared, in court, for he answered when his name was called. Most of
those present knew him, but none, it may safely be said, knew any good of him.
He did a little pettifogging business as an informer—a person who performs
functions that may sometimes be useful, but are certainly always odious. If a
baker gave short weight, if a wine-seller hammered the sides or thickened the
bottoms of his measures, Eudoxus was commonly the man
to bring his misdeeds home to him, getting for his reward half the penalty. Had
he been content with this, he might have been endured; but he was not
content—his gains had to be increased. If he did not find offences he
manufactured them. All the little traders and shopkeepers of the place—for he
did not fly at high game—were in terror of him, and most of them submitted to
the blackmail which he levied of them. As he spent his ill-gotten gains in the
most discreditable way, it may be guessed that Eudoxus
had about as bad a reputation as any one in Nicæa. Great was the wonder among the audience what this
miserable creature could know about the family of the respectable Bion. A few of the older people, however, had the
impression that he had once been in the farmer's employment.
Eudoxus, a man of
dwarfish stature, with a large [95] misshapen head, whose countenance bore
manifest tokens of a life of excess, stood up in the witness-box. The usual oath
was administered to him.
"Tell
us," said the Governor, "what you know about this case."
"Twenty
years ago I was in the service of Bion. He is my
patron. He enfranchised me. I was his bailiff."
"Why
did you leave him?" asked the Governor.
"We
had a difference about my accounts."
"I
understand," said Pliny, who, like the rest of the world, was not
impressed with the appearance of the witness; "you made things better for
yourself and worse for him than he thought right. But go on; what do you know
about this matter? You understand what it is; practically this, that the
accused Rhoda is not truly the daughter of Bion. Do
you know this said Rhoda?"
"Perfectly well, and her sister Cleoné
also."
"Proceed
then."
"Bion bought me about a month after he came to the farm
which he now cultivates. I was there when he brought thither his newly married
wife, Rhoda by name. I lived in the house for five years following that time.
They had no children. Of this I am sure, for I saw the said Rhoda day after
day, without the intermission of more than a day at the most, during the said
five years. It [96] was a matter of common talk among us of the household that
this want of children was a great grief to the master and his wife. There years
after his coming, one morning—it was, I remember, the first day of May—Bion called us all into the dining-chamber. There was a
cradle with two children in it. I should judge that they were a few days old.
He said, 'See the daughters whom God has given me.' The same day he
enfranchised me. To the other slaves he gave presents, and promised them their
liberty in due time, according to their age, if they should show themselves
worthy of it."
"He
called them his daughters, then?" asked the Governor.
"Truly;
but no pretence was made that they were so in truth, for his wife did not keep
her chamber."
"Who
were the women that waited upon her? Are they yet alive?"
"The
elder, who was called the mistress's nurse, died, I believe, some ten years
since. The younger is married to Lucas the butcher, that
has his stall in the north-east corner of the market-place."
The
Governor gave directions that the wife of Lucas the butcher should be sent for.
Meanwhile he adjourned the proceedings for half an hour.
[97] On
the re-assembling of the court the witness was ready to be examined. Happily
for herself, as will be seen, she had been emancipated before her marriage. She
gave her testimony with evident reluctance, but it was clear and conclusive.
"I
was waiting-maid of Rhoda, wife of Bion. Bion bought me of a dealer in
"And
did you know whose the children really were?" asked the Governor.
"I
did not know."
"Could
they have belonged to any one in the household?"
"Certainly not. Of this I am sure."
"Some
one, I suppose, knew?"
"Yes,
nurse knew, but she never told. She has been dead some years. The matter was
never mentioned. We were the only women in the house. Eudoxus
was the only man. The other slaves were outdoor laborers.
None of them, as far as I know, are in this neighbourhood now. The girls, when
they grew up, always supposed that they were the daughters of the house. It was
never doubted; nothing was ever said to make a doubt."
The
witness, whose self-control utterly broke down as soon as she had finished her
evidence, now left the box. After a brief consultation
with his assessor and with Tacitus, the Governor
directed that Bion and Rhoda his wife should be
called.
The two
were of course present. One of the [99] slaves who had left the assembly, at
the bidding of Anicetus, had made them acquainted
with Rhoda's proceedings. As the girl herself failed to return at the usual
time, their fears were aroused, and they were turned into certainty by the news
that reached them from the town that a large company of Christians had been
arrested at their meeting-house. On hearing these tidings they had hurried down
to the town, accompanied by Cleoné, whom
nothing indeed could at such a time have kept away from her sister.
The two
answered to their names.
"Let
Rhoda, the reputed mother of the person whose condition is questioned, be first
called," said the Governor.
A way
was made for her through the throng with no little difficulty, and she made her
way with tottering steps and face pale as death, into the witness-box.
"You
have heard," said the Governor, "the testimony of Eudoxus,
and Myrto the wife of Lucas?"
"I
have heard," she answered.
"Nevertheless,
for the more assurance, let the depositions be read over."
A scribe
accordingly read the depositions.
'What
have you to say to this evidence?"
The
unhappy woman did not hesitate a moment. [100] Nothing
could have induced her to go aside by one hair's-breadth from the truth. She
lifted her eyes, looked the Governor in the face and answered in a low firm
voice: "It is true. The children are not mine."
"And
do you know whose children they are?"
"I
know not."
"Nor
whence they came?"
"Not
even that. My nurse, as I called her, said that I had best not know. I think
that they had been deserted; but even of this I am not sure. I can only guess
it, because I never heard so much as a word about the parents. Nurse would
never speak on the subject. Even when she was dying—for I was with her, and
asked her again, as I thought it right to do—she would tell me nothing. 'They
are your children by the will of God,' she said; 'no one else has part or lot
in them.' "
A
whispered consultation now took place between the Governor and his assessor. As
the result of it, Bion was called.
"You
have heard," said the Governor, "the testimony of your wife. What say
you to it?"
It would
have been useless to deny it, even if Bion, who was
as truthful as his wife, could have wished to do so. "It is true," he
said.
"Do
you know whence the children came?"
[101]
"I know nothing more than my wife. The nurse knew, but she would say no
more to me than she would to her."
"Then
you cannot say whether they are bond or free by birth?"
The
force of the question did not strike the witness, overpowered as he was by the
situation, though there were many in the court who saw
its significance, while an evil smile crept over the face of the prosecutor.
"Free,
my lord!" he answered, after a pause; "of course they are free—they are
my adopted children."
The
Governor saw the course that things were taking, and was glad to leave the
matter to the prosecutor, being ready to interfere if he saw a chance of
helping the imperilled women.
"Excuse
me, sir," said the prosecutor; "you speak of them as being your
adopted children, but can you produce the instrument of adoption?"
The poor
man was staggered by the question. "I never adopted them in that way. I
never thought it necessary. But I have treated them as my children; they have
lived with us as children. I have divided everything that I have between them
in my will."
"Pardon
me," said the prosecutor, with his [102] voice most studiously gentle, and
his smile more falsely sweet, as he saw his toils closing round his prey,
"I do not doubt your kindness to them; but if you cannot produce the usual
legal instrument—which, indeed, I understand you to say you have never
executed—they are not your adopted children. And if you have not adopted them,
may I ask whether you have emancipated them?"
The
purport of the examination now made itself clear to the unhappy man. He had, of
course, done nothing of the kind. Taking it for granted that their condition
would never be questioned—ignorant, too, of law, as a man of his training and
occupation would almost certainly be—he had never dreamt of either adopting or
emancipating the two girls. He had simply treated them as his daughters, and
never doubted for a moment that all the world would do
so likewise.
"I
have established then, most excellent sir," said the prosecutor,
"that the woman Rhoda and her sister Cleoné,
with whom, indeed, I am not at present concerned, are of the condition of
slaves. I demand, therefore, that the woman Rhoda be questioned in the
customary way."
The
Governor interposed, "Doubtless the accused will answer such questions as
will be put to her."
[103]
"Pardon me, sir, if I say that the law knows but one way only of
questioning a slave."
"But
if the slave be willing to speak?"
"Even
then, I submit, the law presumes that he will speak the truth only under this
compulsion. I demand, therefore, that the woman Rhoda be questioned by
torture."
A
movement of horror went through the whole assembly.
Another
consultation followed between the Governor and his assessor. "This seems
to me a needless severity," said Pliny, when it was finished. "Why
not reserve this compulsion if the witness should be obstinate?"
The
prosecuting counsel, hardened as he was, was staggered by this appeal. He turned
to Lucilius for further instructions. Lucilius was pitiless. He had been enraged by the cool and
skilful defence of Anicetus, and he was determined
not to lose his grasp on the victim that had fallen into his power. "Keep
to your point," he whispered to the accuser.
"I
demand the question by torture against the woman Rhoda."
"It
is granted," said the Governor, "but so that nothing that she shall
say be used against Bion and Rhoda his wife."
Cleoné, who was standing by the side of the [104] elder
Rhoda, had gone on hoping against hope till the fatal words were spoken. Then
she rushed forward and caught her sister in her arms. "We will suffer
together," she said.
RHODA'S EVIDENCE
[105] THE Elder felt that his position, so to speak, had been
turned. His silence, however skilfully justified, was useless—nay, it was worse
than useless, for it had brought this daughter of the Church, one for whom they
would all gladly have suffered, into terrible peril. They had escaped for the
time; but at what a cost, if Rhoda was to be tortured!
He made
a last effort to save her. "My lord," he said, "I withdraw my
refusal to speak. Any questions that you or the prosecutor may put to me I will
answer; and what I say for myself, I say also for all the accused."
"What
say you to this?" asked the Governor.
There
was another brief consultation between the advocate and Lucilius.
Then the former rose.
"My
lord, our interest, our only interest, is the [106] truth. Our aim, and, I
presume, the aim of all persons not being criminal or hostile to the State, is
that the truth should be fully told, and amply confirmed. Therefore we must have the best evidence that can be procured, nor can we
allow our private feelings to hinder its forthcoming. Is it not a maxim of the
law that when slaves are at hand you do not use the testimony of freemen, it
being agreed that the truth is more surely drawn forth by the more powerful
compulsion?"
The
Governor referred the point to his assessor, and that official decided, though
with evident reluctance, that the contention was just.
Nothing
now stood between the prisoner and her fate. The instrument of torture was sent
for. Whilst it was being brought there was a terrible pause of expectation in
the court. Tacitus rose as if to leave the room, but
a whispered entreaty from the Governor made him resume his seat. In the
audience the agitation was extreme. Several persons fainted; many, both men and
women, burst into uncontrollable weeping. The least troubled of all was the
girl herself. There was something more than calm on her countenance; there was
exaltation—almost, it might be said, rapture. Even as it had been with the
judges of Stephen—for so we learn from the confession of one of their
number—those who looked [107] upon her saw her face "as it had been the
face of an angel."
The
instrument of torture was something like a rack. The savage humour which gives
a half-comic name to these hideous implements of cruelty had invented for it
the nickname of the "Little Horse." The resemblance lay in the four
beams, projecting from a timber frame, to which the limbs of the sufferer were
attached.
Before this was done the Governor ordered the court to be cleared of all
persons not immediately interested in the trial. A few heartless creatures
were probably disappointed that their curiosity was not to be gratified; but
most of the spectators, however intense their interest, felt the order to be a
relief. Bion and his wife claimed to be allowed to
remain. It would break their hearts to see such a sight, but their presence
might comfort the sufferer; and as she was their slave, if not their daughter,
their claim was, of course, allowed. The elder Rhoda's whole thought was
centred on the desire to minister to this, the child of her heart if not the
child of her womb. Bion watched what was done with a
set, tearless face, crushing down the wild impulse to fly to the sufferer's
rescue. Most of the spectators averted their eyes; even Lucilius
was seen to bury his face in a fold of his toga.
[108] The preparations were now complete, and the executioner
awaited the signal of the judge to commence his hideous task. This was given by
a gesture, and the man immediately followed it up by the first turn of the
dreadful instrument. No one who was present that day ever forgot the horrible
creaking sound of the timbers, mingled with a groan of the sufferer, forced
from her by the pain, but stifled almost as soon as uttered. There was not a
heart, not even of the ruthless Lucilius, in which
the blood did not curdle; not a forehead on which the cold drops of sweat did
not stand.
The
Governor thundered, in a voice such as had never been heard to issue from his
lips before: "Hold!"
The
executioner, brutalized as he was by familiarity with the horrid details of his
office, was not sorry to stay his hand.
The
Governor went on: "The law has so far been satisfied. The torture has been
applied, and in my judgment, which in this matter is final, has been applied
sufficiently. If the accused is now willing to make confession, I will hear her."
Rhoda
was unfastened from the rack. The executioner assisted her to rise; but she
could not stand, and the Governor directed that a seat should be provided for
her. "Now," he said to the prosecutor, "put your
questions."
[109]
"Are you one of the people that are called Christians?"
"I
am."
"Are
you accustomed to assemble together?"
"We are so accustomed."
|
|
"On
what days, and at what time?"
"Once
in seven days at the least, and at other times also.
The hour of our assembling is before daybreak."
"And
what do you at these gatherings?"
"We
offer up prayers, and sing praises to God."
"To what god?"
"To
God Almighty, who made the heavens and the earth, and is the Father of all
men."
"Who,
then, is this Christus by whose name you are
called?"
"He
is God."
"Then
you worship two gods—the Father, of whom you speak, and Christus?"
"Nay,
for Christus is the Son of the Father, and they two
are one God. But ask me not to explain these matters, for I am unlearned in
them."
"Is
there anything else that you do when you have finished these prayers and
hymns?"
"These
being finished we depart to our own homes. But in the evening of the same day
we meet together and have our Feast of Love."
[110]
"With what preparations do you make this feast? With what dainties in meat and drink is it furnished?"
"The
preparation is of the very simplest; there is nothing, indeed, beyond bread and
wine."
"Why
do you take such trouble to do that which is easier done in your own
homes?"
"Because
it has been so commanded us by our Master, that we may
remember Him and His death for us, and may also show forth the love by which we
are bound one to another."
"Do
you, then, all sit down together at this feast?"
"Yes,
we all sit down; nor is there any distinction made of
rich and poor, bond and free."
"And
do you bind yourselves by any oath?"
"Yes,
if you will have it so, for this very feast is an oath to us."
"And
to what does this oath constrain you?"
"That
we should neither kill, nor steal, nor commit uncleanness, nor break a promise,
nor refuse when called upon to account for moneys committed to our
charge."
[111]
"Does this oath concern at all the Emperor and the State?"
"Only so far that we are bound to be loyal and obedient."
"Obedient
in all things?"
"In
all things that are lawful to us as followers of the Lord Christ."
"I
pray you, my lord, to take a note of this reservation," said the
prosecutor, addressing this observation to the Governor. He then proceeded with
his examination of the prisoner. "Can you tell the names of others who
were accustomed to be present at these assemblies?"
The girl
hesitated for a moment when this question was put to her. Then she spoke with a
firm voice: "Concerning myself I will speak the truth, nor seek to conceal
anything; but of others I am not free to speak."
The
Elder did not lose a moment in intervening at this point. "Permit me, my
lord," he said addressing the Governor, "to admit for myself, and for
all that are here present with me that we are of the
people called Christians."
The
prosecutor proceeded with his examination of Rhoda. "Can you tell us the
names of others not here present?"
"Nay,"
interrupted the Governor; "on behalf of the absent, whom the magistrate is
always [112] especially bound to protect, I disallow that question."
The
prosecutor then turned to the Elder: "Are you a ruler among these people?"
"Yes,
if you will have it so. I am, as it were, the first among the brethren; but if
they obey me it is of their own free will."
"Yet
they are accustomed to follow your advice?"
"Certainly;
they are so accustomed."
"Do
you know that his Excellency the Governor, by command of our lord Trajan, issued an edict by which it was forbidden to hold
unlawful assemblies?"
"Yes,
I knew that such an edict was issued."
"Did
you, therefore, cease to hold your assemblies?—though, indeed, seeing that you
are year to-day, I need scarcely ask this question."
"We
did not cease to hold them."
"Was
the matter debated among you?"
This was
a difficult question to answer. The matter had been debated, and that with
considerable energy, in the Christian community. Some, of a more timorous
spirit, had advised that the assemblies should cease; but Anicetus
had been firm for their continuance. It would be a risk to hold them, for it
might bring the Church into conflict with the law; but the spiritual danger,
the [113] dangers of growing coldness, of want of faith, of laxity of practice,
that would follow on their discontinuance, were, in his view, much more
serious. Prudent Christian that he was, and anxious to avoid a conflict of
which he could not see the end, his voice had been given without hesitation for
disregarding the edict, or, at least, treating it as if it did not apply. A
division had followed. Some members of the community had preferred to follow
the safer course. The majority had held with Anicetus,
and the assemblies had gone on without interruption. Nothing, of course,
remained for him now but to speak the truth.
"It
was debated. We differed in opinion. I held that the edict did not apply to us,
and advised my brethren accordingly. Some thought differently, and came no more
to our meetings."
This
frank reply gave a very serious appearance to the whole affair. It could hardly
be otherwise regarded than as an avowal of guilt, or at least of what was guilt
in the eye of Roman law. The Governor, who had begun the inquiry with a feeling
of tolerance, and had become more and more favourably disposed to the accused
as it proceeded, was adversely impressed by it. He seemed to see himself face
to face with the invincible obstinacy of which he had been warned. Still, he
would gladly have sheltered the accused if he could. [114] His own private
opinion was that the Emperor's opposition to what were called secret societies
was over-strained and excessive. No trace of loose behaviour or mischievous
aims could be found in these people. He was unwilling to condemn, and yet, in
view of their own admission, he could not acquit them. The only thing that
remained was to postpone the trial. If a time for consideration were given,
perhaps some compromise might become possible. This accordingly was the course
on which he determined.
"I
postpone this inquiry," he announced, "till the ides of May [the
15th]. The prisoners will be released on giving bail. The woman Rhoda will be
delivered to her master Bion, who will give
sufficient surety for producing her when she shall be required."
The
court was then adjourned.
THE EXAMINATION
[115] THE Governor's advisers did their best to deepen the
adverse impression made upon his mind by the frank admission of the Elder. The philosophical
Tacitus was especially urgent in his advice that this
"execrable superstition," as he called it, should be rooted out. With
others of the more thoughtful Roman statesmen, he saw quite plainly that this
new faith was really the enemy of the old system of the Empire, and would
destroy it if it were not itself destroyed. It was generally the best Emperors
who were the persecutors of the Church. A weak tyrant might happen to indulge
in some outbreak of caprice or cruelty; but the steady, systematic
hostility—the hostility that was really dangerous—came from vigorous rulers:
from such men as Aurelius, and Decius, and
Diocletian. Tacitus accordingly was, even vehemently,
on the side of severity; and Pliny, who always leaned on the stronger character
of his friend, resolved to follow his advice.
[116] Something like a reign of terror followed in Nicæa and the neighbourhood. A regular inquisition
was made of all who were known or suspected to be Christians. The informers
(who, as we know, had already been at work) became more busy
than ever. Long lists of accused persons were drawn up, and, as usual at such
times, private spite and malice found their opportunity. A jealous lover put
down the name of a rival on the list, and a debtor thought it a good way of
ridding himself of a troublesome creditor. As lists were received even without
being signed, or with signatures about which no inquiry was made, scarcely any
one could consider himself safe.
It was a
formidable array of prisoners that was gathered on the day of the adjourned
trial in the public hall of Nicæa, no room in
the Governor's palace being sufficiently large to receive them. On this
occasion all spectators were excluded, and the approaches to the hall were
strongly guarded with troops. Within, the arrangements for the trial were much
the same as before, except that an officer of the local military force sat
below the bench occupied by the Governor and his assessors, in charge of a bust
of the Emperor; and that a small movable altar had been arranged in front, with
a brazier full of lighted coals upon it.
Anicetus and his companions, who had been [117] arraigned on
the occasion already described, were first called to answer to their names.
Their cases would, it was thought, take but little time, for they had already
confessed to the fact of being Christians. The only question was, Would they adhere to that confession or retract it?
We
sometimes think that all the Christians of those early times, when the
profession of the faith was never a mere matter of inheritance or fashion, were
true to their Master in the face of all dangers, and under the pressure of the
worst tortures. But this is a delusion. Human nature was weak then, as now. Men
fell away under temptation, either because they had not a firm enough grasp of
the truth which they professed, or because there was some weakness—it may be,
some cherished sin—in them that sapped their strength. Sometimes, one can
hardly doubt, God, for his own good purposes, suffered even His faithful
servants to fall away from Him for a time.
The
first prisoner called upon for his answer by the Governor was the Elder. He, at
all events, did not show the faintest sign of yielding.
The
Governor addressed him: "You declared when you were last brought before me
that you were a Christian. Do you still abide by that declaration?"
"I
do," said the old man, in an unfaltering voice.
"Are
you willing to burn incense to the likeness of our sovereign lord Trajan?"
"I
am not willing."
"Not
when I impose upon you the duty of thus proving that you are a loyal
citizen?"
"Loyal
I am, nor can any man prove that I have erred in this
respect; but this I refuse."
"You
refuse, then, to obey the commands of the Emperor himself? Listen."
The
Governor produced a parchment, from [119] which, after kissing it, he read
these words: "I enjoin on my lieutenants and governors of provinces
throughout the Empire that at their discretion they demand of all who may be
accused of the Christian superstition that they burn incense to my likeness, by
which act they will show their respect—not indeed to me, who am no better than
other men—but to the majesty of the Empire."
He then
went on: "In virtue of this authority, I command that you burn incense to
the divine Trajan."
"If
I must choose between two masters, I cannot doubt to prefer the Master who is
in heaven. I refuse to burn incense."
"You
are condemned of treason out of your own mouth," said the Governor.
"Nevertheless,"
returned the old man, resolute, like
"The
appeal is allowed," said Pliny, "though I doubt whether it will much
avail you."
The next
prisoner called upon to answer was the old knight Antistius.
The course of questions and answers was nearly the same as that which had been
already described. The courage of Antistius faltered
as little as that of his teacher and spiritual guide had done. From these two
the infection of courage spread to the rest. Not [120] one of the first batch of prisoners proved weak or faithless. They were,
indeed, the most zealous, the most devoted, of the community—its chiefs and
leaders, and they showed themselves worthy of their place.
But when
the miscellaneous multitude that had been collected on the strength of the informations sent in to the Governor came to answer for themselves, all did not meet the test as well. Some had
practically ceased to belong to the Church for many years; some had been
excluded from it for conduct inconsistent with their profession; others had
never belonged to it except in name—some passing fancy had attracted them, but
they had shrunk back from the self-denial, the discipline, the strictly
temperate rule of life which had been demanded of them. These had no difficulty
in performing the acts enjoined upon them by the Governor. They threw the
incense on the coals that were burning in the brazier with a careless gesture,
repeating indifferently as they did so the formula: "Honour and worship to
the divine Trajan and to all the gods who protect the
city and Empire of Rome." They were almost as indifferent when they went
on to satisfy the second test imposed upon them, and to curse the name of
Christ. But these careless or reckless apostates—if they are to be so called—were
but few in [121] number. Many were reluctant to perform the idolatrous acts
enjoined upon them; many shrank still more from the blasphemy which they were
constrained to utter. The young Phrygian slave who has been described as
accusing Verus to the Church was one of those whose
courage failed them in this hour of trial. His was a weak nature, which
curiously exemplified the famous saying in the "Odyssey"—that he who
takes from a man his freedom, takes from him also half his manhood. Perhaps a
finer temper would have disdained to play the part of the informer, even though
this was done neither for revenge nor gain, but simply to serve (as he thought)
the cause of the Church. Whatever the cause, he had a grievous fall, which Verus, of course, watched with malignant pleasure. At first
it seemed as if his courage would hold out. When he was called upon to answer,
he stood erect and answered with a firm voice, though his face was deadly pale
and his limb could seem to tremble.
"Are
you of the people who call themselves Christians?" asked the Governor.
"I
am," said the young man.
"You
make that answer deliberately, and after reflection? Take time to
consider."
The poor
creature seemed to feel that reflection would hardly serve to confirm his
resolution, and he answered at once, "I do."
[122]
"The accused has confessed his crime. Let him be removed and dealt with
after the manner of slaves."
When he
heard these words a terrible vision of the punishment which they implied
flashed across the young man's vision. He had seen a fellow-slave crucified a
few days before. It was the wretched Lycus, the
cupbearer, whose place he had taken on the memorable occasion of the banquet at
which Verus was present. Sosicles,
his master, had found that he had been guilty of a long career of thefts, and,
enraged because the property stolen was lost beyond recovery, had pitilessly
ordered him to the cross. From early dawn till late in the evening—when a
feeling of weariness, rather than of compassion, had made Sosicles
put an end to his sufferings—he had hung in torture. I would not describe those
long hours of agony, even if I could. The young Phrygian had witnessed them.
His master had compelled him to be present during the greater part of the day.
"Go and see what your accursed folly may bring you to. It was, you tell
me, your Master's fate—this Christus whom you are mad
enough to worship; and it will be yours unless you take good heed. Judge for
yourself how you would like it."
Sosicles spoke out of a certain regard—selfish, [123] indeed,
but still genuine—for the young man. He was diligent, sober, honest, and it
would, he thought, be a grievous pity to lose him for some hare-brained fancy;
and lose him he would to a certainty if this threatened movement against the
Christians should come to anything.
It
seemed now as if his worldly wisdom was not to fail of its effect. The terror
of that thought, the horrors of the scene—every one of which memory seemed to
bring up before the young man in a moment, and that with a hideous
fidelity—overpowered him. "Hold, my lord," he cried, "I have
reconsidered; I will obey your Excellency's command and offer the
incense."
He took
the pinch of incense from the plate and threw it on the fire, muttering as he
did so the prescribed formula of words.
"You
are wise in time," said the Governor; "you may stand down. Take heed
that you do not repeat this folly, or it will not go so easily with you."
"May
I speak, my lord?" said Verus, who saw with rage
and disgust that his promised revenge was slipping out of his grasp.
"Speak
on," said Pliny, who loathed the man, but could not refuse his request.
"Your
lordship is aware that many who do not refuse to burn incense are unwilling to
curse [124] the name of their Master, as they call Him. I submit that the more
effectual test should be applied to the accused."
"Let
it be so," said the Governor.
One of
the clerks of the court read out a formula which the wretched young man was to
repeat after him. He began—
"I,
having been accused of impiety and of neglect of the ancient gods, and of
following after strange superstitions, hereby curse as a malefactor and
deceiver——"
He had
gone so far, and had now come to the holy name. Then he halted. In an agony of
fear and doubt he looked round the court. All eyes were upon him. Stern
reproach was in the looks of those who had witnessed their confession and had
not failed. No face wore a sterner regard than that of Rhoda. It was pale and
wasted; for the shock of the torture, though this had not been carried to any
grievous extent, had sorely tried her sensitive frame. But this gave a more
terrible fierceness to the fire of righteous indignation which seemed almost
literally to blaze from her eyes. As the young Phrygian shrank from this
scorching gaze, he met the gentle, pitying, appealing look of Cleoné. The girl was not one of those who are
insensible to fear. Rhoda was an enthusiast who, as we sometimes read of [125]
martyrs of the more heroic mould, would have found a positive rapture of
pleasure in the pain endured for conscience' sake. Cleoné
was a delicate, sensitive woman, who had a natural shrinking from pain, but yet
could nerve herself to bear it. She could sympathize with the poor young
Phrygian's dread. Though she had never seen a sufferer on the cross, her vivid
imagination helped her to realize its agony, and she pitied more than she
abhorred the weakness which made him shrink from it. That look of pity saved
him.
"Ah!"
he thought to himself, "that was the way in which
the Master looked at Peter when he had denied Him. I have denied Him, too; but
Peter found a place of repentance, and so may I."
He
turned boldly to the Governor. "No! I will not curse Him who has blessed
me so often. I have sinned grievously in burning incense to that idol"—and
he pointed as he spoke to the image of the Emperor—"but I will not add to
my sin the burden of this intolerable iniquity."
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"Ah!"
whispered Tacitus to the Governor, "I have
always heard that the genuine Christian stops short at this."
"Let
the law have its course with the accused," said the Governor.
"Ah!
my friend," said Verus
to himself in a [126] savage whisper, "you will not go interfering again
with a gentleman's amusements."
"A
curse on the obstinate villain!" muttered Sosicles,
his master; "there go twenty-five minæ as
good as lost, except I can get some compensation out of the Government. What
business is it of theirs what the man believes? He belongs to me."
The
young Phrygian's repentance seemed to give new boldness to all that remained to
be examined. There were no more cases of apostasy.
The
result of the day's proceedings was the condemnation of a crowd so numerous
that they Governor was fairly staggered by the difficulty of having to deal
with it. A few who could plead Roman citizenship were reserved for the judgment
of the Emperor; but there remained many—both free persons and slaves—with whom
it was his own duty to deal. To execute them all would be to order something
like a massacre. Such severity might defeat its own object, for it might cause
a reaction in favor of the Christians. Pliny's
caution, not to speak of his humanity, made him shrink from incurring such a
risk. He resolved to consult the Emperor by letter on the course which he ought
to pursue. Till the answer should arrive, the condemned were to be shut in
prison. The common gaol of Nicæa was not [127]
large enough to receive so many inmates, and many of the prisoners had to be
sent to private houses, whose owners were to be held responsible for their safe
custody. Rhoda and Cleoné were among those who
were thus disposed of. The Governor was too humane and right-feeling to allow
two young women so carefully nurtured to be exposed to the horrors of a gaol.
They were committed to the care of Lucilius, whom the
reader will remember to have been one of the conspirators who set on foot the
movement against the Christians. The man, though hard and greedy for money, had
a fair character for respectability; and his wife, as the Governor happened to
know, was an amiable woman—much too good for her miserable husband.
THE HOUSE OF LUCILIUS
[128] IT was a house of
trouble into which the two sisters were thus brought. The only child of Lucilius was prostrated with a fever which had for some
time been epidemic in Nicæa. He was a promising
lad of sixteen, whose fine, generous, temper curiously contrasted with the mean
and ignoble character of his father. For the last year or so, indeed,—since he
had begun to be aware of what the outside world thought about the man whom as a
son he was bound to respect—this contrast had troubled him much; and he had
felt acutely the unhappiness of his home. His mother—sweet-tempered and gentle
as she was, and carrying wifely obedience to the very verge of what duty
enjoined—had a conscience that would not allow her to see wrong done without a
protest. She would put up with any privation for herself; but to see her child
stinted in what [129] was necessary for his health, or the household slaves
starved or half-poisoned with unwholesome food, was a thing that she could not
endure in silence. Painful scenes became, in consequence, more and more frequent
in the family. Lucilius's miserly habits grew upon
him, as such habits will grow; and the gentle protests of his wife were met
with furious anger, sometimes even with actual violence. These experiences were
nothing less than agony to the son's sensitive temper. He loved his mother with
his whole heart; he would fain have loved his father. In the old days, before
the ruling passion had so mastered the man's being, his child was the one thing
for which he cared; and even now the feeling was not wholly lost. If the miser
had a soft spot in his heart—one not quite crusted over with the hardness of
avarice—it was in his regard for his only child. Now and then he would show
some tenderness for the boy; once or twice, by some tremendous effort of the
will, he would even loosen his purse strings to buy something that would please
him. It was curiously characteristic of the man's ruling vice that he found it
easier to purchase for him some useless ornament than to relax the niggardly
rules of his household expenditure. He would give the lad a costly jewel, and
yet allow him to pine for the want of good and [130] sufficient food. Possibly
this kind of gift gratified his vanity; it may be—for there are no depths of
meanness to which avarice will not descend—he could not help remembering that
the good food was a perishable commodity, while the jewel represented a
permanent value, and, in fact, was only property in another shape.
It can
easily be imagined that these causes told, directly and indirectly, upon a
constitution that had never been very strong, and that the fever found in the
younger Lucilius a victim dangerously ready to
succumb to its attack. The early symptoms of the disease had not passed
unnoticed by the mother, and she had implored her husband to call in at once
the assistance of a physician. Of course he refused. He had trained himself not
to believe in the existence of anything that necessitated the expenditure of
money, and he wilfully shut his eyes to indications which were manifest enough
to every one else. In two or three days' time this self-deception ceased to be
possible. The father had refused to notice—though not, we may believe, without
some stifled misgivings—the flushed cheeks, the frequent cough, and the failing
appetite; but when the lad could not rise from his bed, and when the ravings of
delirium were heard outside the door of the boy's chamber, he could not ignore
any longer the [131] presence of disease. Then the physician was sent for in
hot haste.
Dioscorides was a Greek who claimed to belong to what may be
called the physician caste of the ancient world, the Asclepids,
who traced their descent to Æsculapius, the god
of healing, himself. For nearly fifty years he had the principal practice of Nicæa; his experience was vast, his skill and
readiness of resource never failed him. It was these—rather than any traditionary secrets of methods and remedies, such as
popular report credited him with—that made him extraordinarily successful. He
was an old man, whose face seemed to show at once much firmness and much
benevolence. To his patients he was kindness and gentleness itself. He
neglected nothing that could please, or even humour them. A modern practitioner
of the healing art would perhaps smile at the extraordinary care with which he
would prepare himself for a visit to a patient. His long white hair was always
carefully combed and delicately perfumed; his robes were beautifully clean.
"We must please," he would say, "a sick man's senses as much as we
can. Nothing ought to be neglected that can minister to that end."
But
while he was gentle, he was firm when firmness was needed. Pretences of every
kind [132] met with no sort of mercy from him. If a fine lady, whose only real
malady was indolence, sent for him, she was sure to hear the truth without any
attempt at disguise. He was no fashionable physician, making a profit out of
the whims and fancies of idleness and luxury. "You work too little; you
eat and drink too much," was the homely formula with which he described
the ailments of these imaginary invalids. If they dismissed him, as they were
apt to do in the first annoyance of hearing an unwelcome truth, he accepted the
dismissal with a smile. His practice was too large and lucrative to make him
care for the loss of this or that patient; and he knew perfectly well that,
when any serious cause occurred, he would be sent for again.
Lucilius, whose character and habits were perfectly well known
to him, was, of course, not going to escape without hearing some truth from his
lips.
"You
should have sent for me," he said, "three days ago."
"I
did not think that there was any need," said the father, in a faltering
voice. His conscience had begun to prick him; and he knew, too, that all
disguises would be useless with the clear-sighted, plain-speaking Dioscorides.
"Nonsense,
man!" answered the physician, [133] sharply. "You can see, you can
hear! You must have heard the lad cough; you must have seen him wasting before
your eyes! Don't tell me you didn't think there was any need. The truth is that
you shut your eyes and ears because you were afraid of the fees. Now I am very
much afraid that it is too late!"
"Oh!
sir, don't say so," cried the wretched man, whose heart, hardened as it
was with the most deadening of all vices, was touched by the danger of his
son—"don't say so. I will spare nothing; save him, and you shall name your
own fee."
"Not
all the gold in the world," returned the physician, "can purchase the
three days that have been lost; but I will do all I can for the lad and his
mother. Only the gods in heaven know," he added in a half-audible aside,
"how such a woman came to marry such a mean hound—only there is no knowing
the follies of women—and how such a father came to have such a son." He went
on, turning to Lucilius, "The only chance for
the boy now is the best of nursing. His mother is not strong enough; besides,
she is too anxious. As a rule I don't believe in mothers' nursing; they are apt
to lose their heads. And hired nursing is seldom much good either," went
on the old man, talking to himself; "just what's in the [134] letter of
the bond, and no more; must have their so many hours' rest, and so forth; all
for themselves and nothing for the patient. Of course there are exceptions, but
I can't think of any one who is available just at this moment. Now, if you
could get one of those two young women, Rhoda or Cleoné,
or both of them—for it will be more than one can well manage—it would be
perfect; they would do the thing for love, and yet not be too anxious. But then
they have been mixed up in this foolish business of the Christians, and there
is no getting at them, I suppose."
"By
good fortune, sir," Lucilius interrupted at this
moment, "the two young women are to be put in my keeping, pending the
arrival of the Emperor's letter."
"Thank
the gods for your good fortune," cried the old physician in his delight;
"if anything can save the lad, it will be their nursing. I have had some
opportunities for observing it, and it is simply perfect. When do they come?
"I
had notice that they would be delivered to my hands at
[135]
"That will give me time," said the physician, "to visit two or
three other patients. I will return and give them my instructions; and, mind,
in case I should not see you again, they must have
every thing they ask for."
This,
then, was the state of things which the two prisoners found on their arrival at
the house of Lucilius. They threw themselves into the
duty which they found so strangely ready to their hand with wonderful energy,
though Rhoda was more fit to be nursed than to nurse.
With a touching humility and sacrifice of personal feeling, the mother gave up
her charge into their hands. To be allowed to help, to do something for the
darling of her heart, was all that she asked. Even this consolation she was
ready to give up if she thought that the service it was such a delight to
render was better given by another.
But when
all their efforts seemed unavailing, when the lad grew weaker every day, and
the delirium left fewer and fewer lucid intervals, the behaviour of the mother
underwent a curious change—all the more curious when it was contrasted with the
altered demeanour of her husband. Something had found its way at last to the
cold heart of the miser; disappointed ambition had something to do with it. He
had wanted to give his family such rank as could be acquired by [136] wealth,
and wealth had about as much power in Bithynia in the days of Trajan as it has in London in the days of Victoria. But
what if the son for whom he was saving—and he constantly salved his conscience
for mean or unprincipled acts by repeating to himself at all his savings were
for his son—what if is son should die? Curiously mixed up with this meaner
motive was a genuine love for his child. For the time, at least, the man's hard
nature was broken through. His purse was opened now without reluctance to
purchase anything that the sick lad could need. He would wait with humble
patience outside the door of the sick-chamber for the latest news. The sisters
naturally thought that this manifest softening of the heart would have brought
him nearer to his wife; but they were astonished to see that the woman, for all
the gentleness of her nature, shrank more and more from him, and seemed to feel
no comfort in his sympathy, and not to be touched by his manifest grief. Rhoda
was the unwilling witness of a painful scene in which this growing alienation
seemed to culminate. Made desperate by the increasing peril which threatened
his son's life—and, indeed, Dioscorides himself, the
most hopeful as he was the most skilful of his profession, had begun to give up
hope—the wretched man turned, by way of a last resource, [137] to the help of
heavenly powers. He tried to persuade himself that it might not be altogether
unavailing; he could anyhow believe that it would do no harm to appeal to it.
This idea he communicated to his wife in the presence of the elder of the two
sisters. The physician was paying one of his visits, and Cleoné
was in the room to hear the instructions as to what was to be done till he
should come again. Lucilius and his wife, with Rhoda,
were in an adjoining chamber.
"Shall
we offer a sacrifice for our poor boy?" he asked.
Then the
gentle woman's wrath fairly blazed out. Rhoda watched the explosion with such
astonishment as one might feel were a lamb to show the ferocity of a tiger.
"You,"
she cried, "you offer sacrifice! Will the righteous gods listen to you?
Will you even dare to touch their altars with your murderous hands? This is their
judgment upon you. I knew it would come sooner or later. I had hoped that it
would not be till I had got my release from the horrible bond that ties me to
you. But the gods do not suffer me to escape, for I, too, am guilty. And now
the stroke has fallen on you and on me!"
A
terrible fascination seemed to keep the girl's yes fixed on the face of Lucilius as the woman, [138] who seemed positively
transfigured by her rage, poured out this stream of reproaches on him. At first
it expressed keen astonishment, then a dreadful look
of fear seemed to creep over it. Once and again he opened his lips, as if he
would have spoken, but no sound came forth from them.
"Be
silent—be silent," at last he managed to utter, and so turned and
staggered out of the room.
A MARTYR'S TESTIMONY
[139] THE young Lucilius was still
hovering between life and death when the long-expected answer from the Emperor
arrived at Nicæa. It was exactly the document
that any one acquainted with the character of Trajan
might have expected. Above all things he was a soldier, and had a soldier's
regard for discipline and obedience. Where these were concerned he was
inflexible.
Certain
forms of worship were sanctioned by the State; all others were forbidden. Any
one who adhered to these forbidden rites and refused, when called upon, to
abandon them, was breaking down the established order of things, and must be
punished. He might believe what he liked in his own heart—with belief the State
had nothing to do—but in practice he must conform to certain rules. Refusal was
an act of rebellion; the thing might be the merest trifle in itself, but the
[140] principle concerned was at the foundation of all order.
The
practical application was perfectly simple. Those who had acknowledged
themselves to be Christians, and persisted in the acknowledgment, were to be
punished. But the offence was of such a kind that every loophole should be left
by which the accused might escape, so long as the principle remained
unimpaired. These were not a set of criminals whom it would be desirable to
bring into the grasp of the law, by stopping every way of escape. On the
contrary, ways of escape must be made easy and multiplied for them. The simple
denial of any one that he belonged to the society of Christians was to be accepted.
There was to be no question about the time to which the denial referred, so
that it at least referred to the present. If a man affirmed, "I have
ceased to be a Christian," there was to be no curious inquiry as to when
his withdrawal took place.
But the
most practically important direction in the Emperor's rescript
referred to the anonymous informations. All
proceedings founded on them were to be annulled. Roman law took no cognisance
of such things; and persons accused under them were to be treated as if their
names had never come before the court. The immediate result of this order was a
release of a number of [141] prisoners. Of the two
Roman citizens who had appealed to Cæsar,
one—the Elder, Anicetus—was sent back into the
province. The Emperor had heard his cause, and condemned him. The Governor was
to deal with him on the spot, where the spectacle of his punishment might act
as a salutary deterrent to his followers. The old knight, Antistius,
by a merciful ordering of
The
Governor's first duty, on the reassembling of the court, was to deal with the
prisoner who had been thus remitted to him. The Elder was placed before the
tribunal, and the Governor addressed him—
"Anicetus, or (as I should rather call you by the Roman name
which, however unworthily, you bear) Lucius
Cornelius: the Emperor, having heard you on your appeal and confirmed the
sentence which was here passed upon you, has remitted you to my jurisdiction,
thinking it well that you should suffer the penalty of your misdeeds in the
same place wherein you have committed them. I should do no wrong were I,
without further parley, to hand you over to the executioner. Nevertheless, I am
persuaded that, [142] in the great clemency of our gracious lord and Emperor, Trajan Augustus, he will approve my offering you yet
another opportunity of repentance. Are you willing to renounce, now, at the
last moment, this odious superstition which you have been convicted of holding,
against the laws of the Senate and People of Rome?"
"For
your clemency," said the Elder, in reply, "I heartily thank both Trajan Augustus and yourself, most excellent Plinius. Yet, were I to accept it on the conditions which
you offer, I should be casting away that which, for my whole life, I have held
most precious. That which you call an odious superstition I do verily believe
to be a truth worthy of all love and honour. The laws of the Senate and People
of Rome I have ever most scrupulously obeyed, and to the Emperor I have ever
been faithful and loyal. But there are laws to which I am yet more bound, and a
Master whom I must prefer even to Augustus himself. But these things you have heard already, nor is there any need that I should
repeat them. Let me not waste your time any further, nor do you delay to give
me that which I hold to be more precious than all other things—the crown of
martyrdom."
The
executioner was summoned into court, and took his place in front of the
tribunal. The [143] Governor then pronounced his formal sentence—
"In
virtue of the power of life and death specially delegated to me in the case of the
citizen Lucius Cornelius (commonly called Anicetus) by our Lord Trajan
Augustus, I hereby hand over to you the body of the said Lucius
Cornelius. Take him to the third milestone on the road to
The court
was adjourned till the next day, when the remainder of the prisoners would be
dealt with. An interval of two hours was conceded to the condemned man. This the Governor's humanity permitted him to spend with his
fellow-prisoners.
Of
earthly ties he had none. His wife—for in those days it was held a duty, as the
Eastern Church still holds it, for a Christian minister to be a husband—had
entered into her rest some two years before. His marriage had been childless,
and his brothers and sisters had predeceased him. Hence he could give up the
time that had been [144] allowed him to comforting and strengthening his
brethren and sisters in the faith.
To Cleon, the young Phrygian slave who had fallen, and so
manfully recovered his fall, he was especially tender. The unhappy youth was
overwhelmed with shame and remorse.
"I
have denied Him! I have denied Him!" he would go on repeating day after
day, from morning till evening, and nothing that his fellow-prisoners could
urge seemed to give him any comfort.
Anicetus was one of those who were accustomed to express
somewhat stern views about the sin of the lapsi (those who fell away), but this was not a case in
which he could insist on them. He even felt that to do so might be to place a
fatal stumbling-block in the way of an imperilled soul. If this poor wretch was
left in this despairing mood, he might even fall into the more deadly sin from
which he had once been rescued.
"My
son," were his parting words to the unhappy Cleon, "my son, listen to me, not only as to him whom
God has entrusted with the charge of your soul, but as one to whom He has given
the great honour of witnessing for His truth in this place. You have sinned,
but God has forgiven you, even as He forgave the blessed Peter. God pardon you;
I pardon you in the name of the brethren."
[145] He
laid his hands upon the young man's head, and pronounced the solemn words of
forgiveness. That finished, he gave him the kiss of peace, and so took the
fallen back into the brotherhood of Christ.
We shall
not have occasion to speak of the young slave again. Let it be sufficient to
say that he suffered the next day the cruel death of crucifixion with an
exemplary courage and patience. His agony, however, was not protracted as long
as it was in the case of some sufferers, for the Governor, who had been struck
with the real heroism with which he had struggled against the weakness of a
timorous nature, gave instructions to the centurion in charge that death should
be hastened with a spear-thrust.
To return to Anicetus. His solemn
declaration of forgiveness to the penitent Phrygian was but just spoken when
the presence of the executioner was announced.
"I
am ready," he said to the apparitor who summoned
him. Then turning to his fellow-prisoners, he stretched out his hands:
"The blessing of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost be upon you. Pray for me, and for yourselves, that we may be
faithful and steadfast to the end. So shall we be together in
The
procession of death moved through the [146] city. In front was a guard of half
a century of soldiers. They were armed with swords only, and wore no armour
beyond their helmets. Then came the executioner,
carrying his axe with the edge turned towards the condemned man, who had also a
soldier fully armed on either side. The remainder of the century marched behind
him. A vast concourse of all ages followed. No man was better known to the poor
of the city of
At the
spot appointed for the execution there was an open space of about an acre in
extent. The milestone stood where four roads met, and close to it, as marking
where the territory of Nicæa touched that of a
neighbouring township, stood one of the statues of the god Terminus, the [147]
boundary-marker, a roughly hewn pedestal of granite, surmounted with a human
bust of the rudest shaping. In old time it had been an object of reverence, and
had been daily adorned with fresh garlands of flowers or evergreens, according
as the season served. Two or three of these still hung from it, but they were
dry and withered, and the decaying fragments of others, which no one had taken
the pains to clear away, lay at the base of the pedestal; while the pedestal
itself had long leaned somewhat out of the perpendicular. It was a type of the
neglect into which the old worship was everywhere falling. Possibly this was
the motive that made the Governor choose the spot as the place of execution.
The
block was placed close to the pedestal. The soldiers drew a cordon round it, but as the ground rose somewhat on all
sides, this did not shut out the view from the crowd which thronged the whole
of the open space. The centurion in command had forbidden the condemned man to
address the spectators, and Anicetus, always obedient
to lawful commands, so that they did not trench on higher duties, did not
attempt to speak. He contented himself with stretching out his hands in a mute
gesture of blessing. Many of those who could see him bowed their heads in
reverence, and, dangerous as it was to show [148] anything like sympathy with
the faith of the sufferer, some even fell upon their knees. All kept a silence
which was almost terrible in its depth and intensity. Then, after a pause,
which seemed to the strained attention of the crowd to last for hours, the
executioner raised his axe and struck. It was a strong
and skilful blow, nor was there any need to repeat it. The head of the martyr
fell upon the ground, and the blood, spouting out in a torrent, drenched the
pedestal of the god.
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And then
followed one of those strange occurrences which we may or may not call miracles,
but which are certainly signs; so full are they of meaning, and not the less
truly signs because they come from causes strictly natural. The statue of the
boundary-god had been leaning, as has been said, for some time out of the
perpendicular, and the piety of the two townships, whose borders it marked, had
not been active enough to restore it. Any one might have known that but a
little impulse would be sufficient to overthrow it; and this impulse was given
by the slight shock of an earthquake at the very moment when the martyr's blood
spurted on the pedestal. The half-suppressed groan which had followed when the
headsman's axe was seen or heard to fall was checked; first, by the sensation
of terror as the [149] spectators felt the ground reel, as it were, under their
feet, and then by awe as the statue of the god was observed first to totter and
then to fall.
No one
in all that great assembly was so dull as not to read something of the future
when this ancient landmark—symbol as it was held to be of all that was most
stable—was removed, as it were, from its place by the touch of the martyr's
blood. If the champions of the old faith had thought to advance their cause by
that day's spectacle, they had signally failed. The "senseless earth,"
as the philosophers called it, had seemed to speak against them, and its voice
had found its way into many hearts. Seldom has the saying been proved more true than it was that day, that "the blood of
martyrs is the seed of the Church."
It was
an incidental result of this strange event that the friends of Anicetus were allowed, without hindrance, to take
possession of his remains. Commonly the authorities took care to dispose of
them otherwise. In the consternation that followed the fall of the statue this
care was forgotten, and the Elder's body was quietly removed,
and accorded Christian burial.
A DISCOVERY
[150] "THE mills of God," says an old writer,
"grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small;" and Lucilius was beginning to find out this truth for himself.
Again and again he bitterly reproached himself for lending his help to the
conspiracy which had been hatched in the wine-shop of Theron.
So far, none of the gains that he had expected to flow in from the confiscated
estates had reached his coffers. Antistius, who was a
really wealthy man, had died (as has been said) in
On the
other hand, the prospect at home grew darker and darker. Whatever feeling his
long-indulged habit of avarice had left him was centred in his son, and this
son's life was trembling in the balance. At first it had seemed a lucky chance
that brought the two sisters to his house. They had kept the boy alive.
Latterly, Rhoda's increasing weakness had compelled her to give up her share in
the nursing, and Cleoné had assumed the whole.
She was
simply indispensable to the boy. It was from her hand only that he would take
food or drink. When his delirium was at its worst, it was her hand that soothed
and quieted him. But if she had to leave him, it would have been better that
she had never come.
The old
physician was furious at the thought. All his cases interested him deeply, but
in this he was especially wrapt up. Never had he fought against disease more pertinaciously and more skilfully, and never had he been
more ably helped by the physician's best ally, a good nurse. It was [152] simply
maddening to him to have this assistance removed, for the loss meant defeat. He
cursed with impartial rage every one concerned in the matter: the busybodies
who had stirred up the movement against the Christians; the foolish
obstinacy—for so he described it—which made these people cling to their absurd
superstition.
But
nothing could be done. The Emperor's commands had to be executed, and all
persons who had confessed their adherence to the Christian faith would have to
be dealt with according to law. Among these were the two sisters. A formal
demand was made by the officials upon Lucilius for
their surrender, and he had no alternative but to submit. They were included in
the company of prisoners arraigned before the Governor's tribunal on the day
that followed the execution of Anicetus. Lucilius was among the crowd of spectators which thronged
the court-house and awaited the result with feelings of despair.
Nothing
could save the sisters. He knew them too well to have the least hope that they
would renounce their faith to save their lives. A vague suggestion to that
effect on which he had once ventured during the time of their sojourn in his
house had been received by Cleoné with a scorn
that brought conviction to his mind. Their condemnation, then, was certain.
[153]
Hard-hearted as he was, he could not contemplate this result with indifference.
They had lived in his house for some weeks. Their grace and goodness, seen in
the close intercourse of family life, had touched him as he had never dreamt of
being touched, and he shuddered at the thought of their being handed over to
the shame and torture of the slave's death.
And then
there was the thought of his son. Even if he were to battle through the disease
without the help of his nurse, what would be the result when he heard, as hear
he must, of the horrible fate which had overtaken her? The wretched man groaned
aloud when he thought of what the future had in store for him.
He was
roused from the stupor of despair into which he had fallen by the voice of the
court-crier calling aloud the names of Rhoda and Cleoné.
Rhoda was described as an ancilla, i.e.,
a female slave, and as a deaconess attached to a certain unlawful society which
called itself by the name of Christus. Cleoné was also described as being of servile
condition.
When the
clerk of the court had finished reading what we may call the indictment, the
Governor addressed the prisoners. "The clemency of our most gracious lord
and master, Trajan Augustus, has ordered that even
for the most obstinate [154] offenders there should be provided a place of
repentance, if only, even at the last moment, they will submit themselves to
lawful authority, and renounce their obstinate adherence to a mischievous
superstition. Therefore I call upon you, Rhoda, for the last time. Are you
willing to burn incense to the statue of the divine Trajan,
and to curse this Christus, whom you superstitiously
and rebelliously have honoured as a God?"
Rhoda
had remained seated during the proceedings. Her weakness did not permit her to
stand with the rest of the prisoners. She now rose, and confronted the
Governor. Fear she had never known; and, for the moment, her bodily strength
seemed to have been restored to her.
"I
thank the Emperor," she said, in a voice which never faltered for a
moment, "for the clemency which he offers, though I cannot but refuse the
conditions. For him, as our ruler appointed by God, I pray all blessings; and
especially light, that he may discern the truth. Such honour as a man may
receive, I willingly pay; more I refuse; for it is written, 'Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Him only shalt thou serve.' That I should blaspheme my Lord and
Saviour is a thing too monstrous to be thought, much more spoken."
"What
say you, Cleoné?" went on the Governor,
addressing himself to the other sister.
[155]
"I am of one mind with my sister. I will not worship a man; neither will I
blaspheme my God."
"Rhoda
and Cleoné," said the Governor, "are
condemned to suffer the punishment of death in such manner as is customary with
those of servile condition."
At this
moment a commotion was heard at the back of the court. The young Greek, Clitus, whose acquaintance we have already made in his
character as Cleoné's suitor, made his way
with difficulty through the crowd that besieged the door into the body of the
chamber. He had just arrived in Nicæa, and his
dress bore the marks of travel.
"My
lord," he said, addressing the Governor, "is it permitted me to speak
on a matter of urgency, which concerns the administration of justice in this
matter, and especially the case of the two prisoners Rhoda and Cleoné?"
Rhoda,
who had sunk again into her seat, seemed not to notice this interruption of the
proceedings. But Cleoné turned an eager look
upon the speaker. She had never seen or even heard of the young Greek since the
day on which they had spoken together among the vines. She had striven to
school herself into the persuasion that it was well that it should be so. He
had spoken of love [156] in days past, it was true, but all was now changed. He
was a citizen of
"Speak
on," said the Governor, "if you have anything
of importance to engage the ear of the court."
The
young Greek proceeded. "Your Excellency is aware that the two women, Rhoda
and Cleoné, hitherto reputed daughters of one Bion and Rhoda his wife, were adjudged to be of servile
condition on testimony by which it was proved that they were not in truth
daughters of the said Bion, but were castaway
children, adopted by him and his wife.
"I
have now to bring under your Excellency's [157] notice the terms of an Imperial
rescript quoted by yourself in this court last
December, as settling a certain question concerning the condition of exposed
children submitted by you to the Emperor. These terms were in substance as
follows—your Excellency will correct me if I am wrong, but I took them down in
writing at the time, as seeming to me to be of great importance:—'If it
should be proved that children so exposed were born of free parents, their free
condition shall not be held to have been impaired by such exposure.'
This, my lord, is exactly what I am now prepared to prove of the two women
Rhoda and Cleoné. And first I will, with your
permission, produce the witness on whose testimony I chiefly rely, though
indeed it can easily be confirmed by other evidence."
"Inform
the court of the name and condition of this witness. But it will promote the
ends of justice if you will first inform us of your own proceedings in this
case, and of how you were led to believe that our adjudications needed to be
corrected."
"My
lord," began the young advocate, "it must have occurred to you and to
others who were present on the first day of the trial, as certainly it occurred
to me, that nature had committed, if I may so speak, a strange freak when she
[158] ordered that maidens of an appearance so noble, so worthy of freedom,
should be born of slaves."
"The
thought was not unreasonable," said the Governor; "but such
eccentricities are not unknown, and the evidence seemed to support the
presumption."
"Further,
my lord, I was aware that this nobility was not of appearance only, but of mind
also and disposition, for I had been admitted into the home of Bion, the reputed father of the two, and know that none
could be more worthy of respect and love."
Cleoné cast down her eyes, blushing to hear these praises
from her lover's lips.
"But
I will leave suppositions, my lord, and proceed to facts. I gathered from the
evidence that there was a secret connected with the birth of these two
children—that the only person who had been known to be cognisant of this secret
was a certain nurse, and that this person was now deceased. It was also proved
that, when about to die, she had refused to communicate the knowledge that she
evidently possessed. The only hope that seemed to me to remain was, if I could
discover that there had been some other person who had shared, or might be
supposed likely to have shared, in this knowledge. I made many inquiries for
such a person, and for a long [159] time could hear of
none. Her husband had been long dead. She had left no children behind her. But
at last I heard from a woman of the same age, who is yet alive, that she had a
brother who had been a slave in the city. All that I could learn about him was
that he had suddenly disappeared from this neighbourhood; that some supposed
that he had been drowned, but others doubted, seeing that his body had never
been found. Here, then, my inquiries seemed to have an end.
"But
now, my lord, listen to what followed. Your Excellency sent me on business,
wholly unconnected with this matter, to a certain village on the borders of
[160]
"You are a student," interrupted the Governor, and you know doubtless
how one of your historians speaks of an 'inspired chance.' It was that, if I
remember right, which made the baby Cypselus smile in
the face of the men who came to murder him. Chance, I take it, is an ordering
of things which we do not understand, and we may well call it inspired. But go
on."
"Well,
my lord, as I said, I pressed him, and he told me that he knew this town well.
And then he gave me the story of how he came to leave it. But as this story
bears directly upon the matter in hand, I would suggest, with your permission,
that you should hear it from the man's own lips."
The
witness, who had been waiting outside in the charge of one of the officers of
the court, was called in. His face, curiously seamed
with lines and wrinkles beyond all counting, indicated an extreme old age; but
it was an age that was still vigorous and green. His blue eyes were bright and
piercing. His hair was abundant, and showed amidst the prevailing grey much of
the auburn which had been its color in the days of
his prime. His tall figure was but little bowed by years; and his broad
shoulders and sinewy arm (the right of them left bare by his one-sleeved tunic)
showed that he might still be a match for many a younger man.
[161] It
was evident that the scene into which he had been brought was wholly strange to
him, and that he was not at all at his ease. He had stood nervously shifting
his red Phrygian cap from one hand to another, while his eye roved restlessly
over the crowded court.
"Tell
us your name," said the Governor.
"My
lord," said the man in Greek, "let me first implore your
protection." The refinement of his voice and accent contrasted curiously
with his uncultured look. In garb he was a rustic of the rustics; but it might
be seen that he had once been a dweller in cities.
"You
can speak without fear," said the Governor.
"I
shall have to say that which may be brought up against myself.
It concerns years long past; but if the man against whom I offended still
lives, he is not one of those who forgive."
"No
one shall harm you if you will speak the truth. I promise it by the majesty of
Augustus."
"More
than twenty years ago I was steward in the household of a certain merchant in Nicæa."
"What
was his name?" asked the Governor.
"With
your permission, I will reserve this to the end of the story which I have to
relate. I was a slave, but I had been well taught, and he trusted me with much
of his business. I kept his [162] accounts, and I knew
much of his affairs. He was, at the time of which I speak, a man of about forty
years of age. Five years before, he had married the only daughter of the
merchant Lycophron of Nicomedia.
Lycophron was reputed to be rich, and my master, who
was very greedy after money, expected to inherit much wealth from him.
"Lycophron had given but a very small portion to his
daughter on her marriage. This was a grievance with my master; but he hoped to
have it made up to him. I have heard the two talking about it—they always spoke
openly before me. ' Never mind,' the old man would
say; 'there will be the more when you come to unseal the tablets, and by that
time you will know how to use it and keep it better.' This was a joke of the
old man's, for no man could make more of money, or cared less for spending it,
than my master.
"Well,
at the time of which I am speaking, news came that old Lycophron
was dead, and my master started at once for
"Just
at this moment the nurse who had been attending on my mistress came into the
room carrying two babies, one on each arm. Her face was wreathed in smiles, and
she was so full of her own importance—as such women, I have observed, are wont
to be—that she did not see what a state my master was in. 'Thank the gods,
sir,' she said, 'who have given you two most beautiful daughters.'—'Curse
them!' he began. By chance one of the children began to cry at the very moment,
and the woman did not hear what he said. By the time she had quieted the baby
he had recovered himself. He kissed the children, and went up to see his wife
as soon as he was allowed to do so.
[164]
"Some days afterwards my mistress became very ill. Fever showed itself,
and she became delirious. The children had to be taken from her, and brought up
by a nurse. I think my master was getting reconciled to his disappointment,
when, as bad luck would have it, he heard of another loss. This time it was his
wife's brother had failed. He farmed some of the taxes of the province, and my
master had become security for him. I heard him say to himself when he had read
the letter that told him about it, 'This family will be my ruin.'
"That
night, after I had been asleep about an hour, he woke me up. He looked very
wild. I think his losses had half-crazed him. He was carrying a cradle, and the
two babies were in it, lying head to feet, and sound asleep. 'Geta,' he said, 'these children will be my ruin. If they
were boys, now—but how can a beggar like me keep two
girls? You must put them out on the hill.'—'O master!' I said, 'not these
beautiful babies!'—'It is better than strangling them,' he said.
"Well,
I had scarcely a moment to think what was to be done. He looked as if he might
do the poor things a mischief, so I made up my mind. 'Very well, master,' I
said, 'it shall be done.'—'Their mother,' he said,
'knows nothing; per- [165] haps never will know. Take them, and do it at once.'
I got up and went out with the children. It was a stormy night, and raining in
torrents. I was at my wits' end. Then a thought occurred to me. I had a sister,
a nurse, living in the town; perhaps she might help me. I took the babies to
her house, and told her the whole story.
" 'You have come in time,' she said; 'I know of a home for
the dear little beauties. It is with one of the best couples in the world, but the
gods have not given them any children.'—'So be it,' I
said; 'but you must swear that you will never tell where they came from.' So
she took an oath, and I left them there. But I did not dare to go back to my
master. I ran away, leaving my hat and shoes on the river-side, to make people
think that I had been drowned. I made my way to a village in
"And
now tell us your master's name," said the Governor.
The
whole audience listened in breathless silence for his answer.
"My
master's name was Lucilius."
A LETTER FROM TRAJAN
[166] "IS this man Lucilius in
court?" asked the Governor of one of the officials.
"I
saw him this morning, my lord," said the person addressed.
"Crier,
call Lucilius."
The
crier called the name, but there was no answer. The wretched man had listened
to the evidence of the slave with growing apprehension, which was soon changed
into dismay. At first, indeed, he had wholly failed to recognise the man. The
lapse of twenty years and more had of course made a great change in Geta's appearance. The old shepherd, tanned to an almost
African hue by exposure to wind and sun, with his grizzled beard and moustache,
and long, unkempt locks falling over his shoulders, and his roughly made
garments of skin, was as different a figure as possible from the neat,
well-dressed, confidential servant [167] whom Lucilius
had known in time past. Still, some vague indication of the voice, as soon as
the man began to speak, had troubled him; and of course little room had been
left to him for doubt as soon as the man began to tell his story.
Lucilius was not so heartless but that he had often thought
with regret of the two beautiful girl babies whom he had put out to die. The
crime was indeed far too common in the ancient world to rouse the horror which
it now excites. Indeed, it was a recognised practice. The fate of a new-born
child was not considered to be fixed till the father by taking it up in his
arms had signified his wish that it should be reared.
Still,
the remembrance of that night's deed had troubled him. Prosperous days had soon
come, and the losses which had infuriated him had been repaired. Then the grief
of his wife, whom he loved with all the affection of which his nature was
capable, had much troubled him. As a mere matter of domestic peace, her
mourning for her lost darlings—though, as we shall see, she did not know of
their actual fate—had destroyed all the comfort of his home. And for some years
his home was childless. When, after an interval, a son was born, and the mother
forgot something of her grief in the care which she lavished upon him, the
father was stricken by a new fear—what if [168] this child should be taken from
him by way of retribution for the hard-heartedness with which he had treated
his first-born? Every ailment of infancy and childhood had made him terribly anxious ; and he watched over the boy who was to carry out
his ambitions with an apprehension which conscience never allowed him to set
free.
As the
lad grew up these fears had fallen into the background. But we have seen how
they had of late been revived, and, it seemed, justified. The shepherd's story
made them more intense than ever, while it added a new horror. It was a hideous
thought that he should have helped to doom his own daughters to torture and
death; and he saw what would be the end when his son should know of it. The
wretched man waited in court till he had heard enough to banish all doubt from
his mind, and then hurried home, half expecting as he came near the house to
hear the lamentations for the newly dead.
As a
matter of fact, no change had taken place in the condition of the invalid. He
had woke two or three times since the departure of Cleoné, but never so thoroughly as to become aware
of her absence. He had taken mechanically from his mother's hand the
nourishment offered him, and had almost instantly fallen asleep. The physician
had just paid his morning visit, and [169] was more hopeful. For the present at
least the lad was doing well. But when the explanation had to be made, that was
another matter altogether.
Lucilius entered the sick boy's chamber with a silent step.
His wife took no notice of his coming; but when he stood fronting her on the
opposite side of the bed, and she could not help seeing his face, her woman's
heart was touched by its inexpressible misery. She went round to his side, and
laid her hand with a caressing gesture on his arm.
"What
ails you, my husband?" she said. "Our darling, I hope, is doing well.
The good Dioscorides speaks well of him."
He made
no answer, but, falling on his knees beside the bed, buried his face in the
coverlet. She could see his body shaken with silent and tearless sobs. At last
he managed to articulate: "Call Manto"—Manto was an old and trustworthy servant who had been long
a member of the household—"and let her watch for a while. I have something
to tell you."
When Manto had obeyed the summons, Lucilius,
who seemed to have become almost helpless, was led by his wife into an
adjoining chamber.
Then, in
a voice broken by sobs and tears, he told the miserable story.
[170] He
had scarcely finished when an official arrived from the Governor's court,
bringing a summons for his attendance.
The
wretched man rose from his seat as if to obey. But the limit of his strength
and endurance had been reached, and he fell swooning upon the floor. Before
long he was restored to partial consciousness; but it was evident that his
attendance at the court was out of the question. In fact, he was suffering from
a slight shock of paralysis.
"Let
me go instead of him," said the wife. "I can at least tell what I
know, and you can examine him when he is fit to answer."
Accordingly,
after giving directions to Manto as to what was to be
done for the patient during her absence, she accompanied the official to the
court.
It was
not much that she had to say; but, so far as it went, it confirmed the
shepherd's story.
"I
became the mother of two female children," she said, "on the
fourteenth of May, twenty-one years ago. They were born alive, and were healthy
and strong. I nursed them for fourteen days, as far as I can remember. Then I
fell ill of a fever, and they had to be taken from me. I remember seeing them
several times in the day for two or three days afterwards; then I knew nothing
[171] more. When I recovered my senses they were gone. It was then nearly the
end of June. My husband told me that they were dead."
"Had
you any doubt whether he was telling you the truth?" asked the Governor.
"I
had none. Why should I? And when we were reckoning up our expenses at the end
of the year, I found a paper which seemed to show the sum paid for the
funeral."
"Do
you remember the slave Geta?"
"Yes;
I remember him. My husband said that he had been drowned. Some articles of his
clothing were found by the river."
"Have
you had any suspicion at all up to this time?"
"Lately
I have had. Since my son has been ill, my husband has been much troubled in
mind. He has talked in his sleep; and he said the same things over and over
again, till I could not choose but heed them. 'Why did I kill them? Why did I
kill them?' 'Geta, Geta,
bring them back!' and 'Childless! Childless!' These
were the things that he repeated. I put them together till I began to suspect
that there had been some foul play. And then I remembered some words the old
woman, Geta's sister, had said."
"And
have you anything else to say?"
"Nothing,
my lord, except that within the [172] last hour my husband has confessed to me
the whole."
"Why
is he not here?"
"He
is paralysed."
Here the
poor woman, who had given her evidence with extraordinary firmness and
self-possession, utterly broke down.
The
Governor took but little time to consider his decision. It was to this effect:—
"The
legal proof in this case is not complete, for it needs the formally attested
confession of the man Lucilius. Substantially,
however, the truth has been established, and I have no hesitation in
pronouncing the sisters Rhoda and Cleoné to be
of free condition."
Clitus now rose to address the court.
"I
have an application to make that the proceedings in this case be
annulled."
"On
what ground?" said the Governor.
"On
the ground that they were essentially illegal; that the evidence of the
free-woman Rhoda was extorted from her by questioning that could not lawfully
be applied."
"And
you contend, therefore, that she should be set free?"
"That
is my contention."
"And how about the woman Cleoné?"
"The
question was embarrassing. Cleoné had [173]
suffered no actual wrong, and Clitus felt that here
his case was weak. He tried to make the best of it.
"She
has been treated as if she were of servile condition. The indictment against
her is made out in these terms—'Also the slave-girl Cleoné,'
are the words. I contend that it is informal, and ought therefore to be
quashed."
The
young advocate had the sympathies of the court—so far, at least, as the
Governor was concerned—in his favour. He adjourned the court in order to consult
his assessors. He found them adverse to the claim. A long argument ensued. In
the end the opinion of the Governor prevailed, and he returned to the tribunal
and began to deliver judgment.
"Having
carefully considered the circumstances of this case, and remembering especially
that the law, if ever it has been unwittingly betrayed into error, is anxious
to make such amends as may be possible, I direct that the free women, Rhoda and
Cleoné, wrongfully condemned as being of the
servile condition——"
At this
point the delivery of judgment was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger
bearing an imperial rescript.
The
Governor rose to receive the messenger, took the despatch from his hand, and,
after [174] making a gesture of respect to the document, proceeded to cut the
sealed thread which fastened it. He read it, every one in court watching his
face as he did so with intense interest.
It ran
thus:—"Trajan Augustus, to his dearly beloved Cæcilius Plinius, Proprætor of Bithynia, greeting.—It is my pleasure
that all persons, whether men or women, bond or free, who shall have been found
guilty of cherishing the detestable superstition which has taken to itself the
name of Christus, be forthwith sent to Ephesus, there
to be held at the disposition of the Proconsul of Asia."
Every
one knew what this meant, for the great show of wild beasts and gladiators that
was about to be exhibited at
THE AMPHITHEATRE
[175] ALL
A
wealthy merchant of
The
Emperor had sent a present of money from his private purse, besides putting at
the disposal of the managers of the spectacle a select troop of forty
gladiators from his own establishment. The Prince's liberality found, as such
liberality commonly does, many imitators. There were some especially notable
gifts in the way of wild beasts; all parts of Lesser Asia of course
contributed. There were panthers from
[177] Altogether,
the show promised to be one of the greatest splendour, and the city was
thronged with visitors from far and near. Among these were some connoisseurs,
who were familiar with the splendid spectacles of the capital. And now a
whisper went round that an exhibition of a peculiarly exciting kind was to be
added to the usual entertainments. A number of persons who had been found
guilty of holding the "odious superstition" of the Christians were to
fight with wild beasts.
Public
opinion was, indeed, not a little divided on this matter.
The
amphitheatre was a huge building, which must have contained—when closely
packed, as we may be sure it was on the occasion about to be described—as many
as thirty thousand spectators. The centre was occupied by the arena, in which
the various spectacles were to be exhibited—a circular space, about two hundred
yards in diameter, and covered with sand, from which substance, indeed, it got
its name. Round it, tier upon tier, rose the seats of
the spectators. These were divided into wedgelike
portions, broad [179] at the top, and tapering down to a comparatively narrow
width at the bottom. The uppermost rows might have held about two hundred
seats, the lowest something like five-and-twenty. A strong railing separated
the lowest row from the arena. Between each two divisions there was a passage
by which the various rows might be approached.
This
railing, indeed, did not go round the whole circle. On the north side were
ranged a number of enclosures, each with a strong door of its own, opening into
the arena. From some of these the gladiators entered; in others the wild beasts
that were intended for exhibition were kept. Others, again, served to hold the
chariots before they started for a race. Above these receptacles was placed the
seat of the Governor. His retinue and friends occupied other seats close by,
and the notables of the city were placed at a greater or less distance,
according to their rank. This was the aristocratic part of the amphi- [180] theatre, but generally the lower rows of seats
were occupied by the more respectable class, while the upper were assigned to
slaves and the lower class. A huge awning sheltered the whole of the audience
from the sun or an occasional shower of rain. That part of it which was
stretched over the seats of the Governor and the aristocratic company generally
was of a rich purple. The effect of the sunlight falling through it was
particularly striking.
The
audience began to assemble as soon as it was light, for there was likely to be
a crush for places; but it was about
The
first part of the show was, we may say, ornamental. The ostriches, which had
never been seen before in
[182] The afternoon was devoted to exhibitions of agility and
skill. Gymnasts lifted astonishing weights and made astonishing leaps, or
constructed themselves into pyramids or other curious erections. Then there was
fencing with foils and sword-play with staves, high leaping and long leaping,
foot races, and quoit-throwing. It was the rule that
there should be no bloodshed in the first day's performance; and the rule was
not distasteful to a Greek audience. Greek feeling, indeed, was distinctly
adverse to the cruel spectacles in which human life was so wantonly wasted. The
more brutal taste of Rome had gone far to corrupt it, but the very best society
at Ephesus, that which prided itself on a pure Greek descent, still held aloof
from the theatre when these spectacles were going on.
However
this may have been, there was no visible falling off in the attendance on the
morning of the second day, and the interest was undoubtedly keener. A hundred
pairs of gladiators contended during the day, and though this number was
insignificant compared with what had been seen at
Accordingly
all went well; the wounded were permitted to escape with their lives, with the
exception of an unlucky Thracian, who slipped where some blood had been spilt
upon the sand, and spitted himself on his adversary's sword. But early in the
afternoon an unfortunate mishap irritated the spectators. One of the most
popular combats was that between a "netman"
and a "fisherman," if we may so translate the classical names. The
first was armed with a net and a trident, or three-pronged fork; the second had
the ordinary weapons of a soldier. Zeno, the "netman,"
was a favourite with the Ephesians. He was a native of the city, he had fought
for [184] several years without ever suffering a defeat, and he was noted for
the audacious agility with which he baffled his antagonists.
On this
occasion he carried his tricks a little too far. He had already disabled three
opponents, in each case bringing down roars of laughter by the comical way in
which he made sport of his enemy—just as a matador makes sport of
a bull. To put himself almost within reach of his sword; to elude him; to
"net" him with a dexterous throw; and then, after dragging him,
helplessly struggling in the folds, from one side of the arena to the other, to
administer a disabling wound—had been the game which he had three times
repeated, to the intense delight of his patrons. But the pitcher that goes
often to the spring is broken in the end, and Zeno's fourth antagonist was his
last. The man was a heavy, clumsy-looking fellow, and seemed to promise an easy
victory. Deceived by his appearance, and elated by his previous successes, Zeno
committed the fatal error of despising his enemy. He had thrown his net and
missed his aim—that, of course, was a common occurrence: indeed, to finish the
combat at the first encounter would have been held nothing less than a blunder.
What the populace wanted to see was a victim gradually reduced to helplessness.
Then he turned to fly. Here, commonly [185] came in the best of the sport. To
see the heavy-armed soldier toiling in vain after his light-footed antagonist;
feeling him, time after time, almost within reach of his sword; sometimes
striking out and missing him by little more than a hand's breadth (the
dexterous netman often found the moment after the
delivery of a fruitless stroke an excellent opportunity for a throw)—all this
was a prime amusement to the crowd. But in this case the "fishman" was, though no one knew it, an athlete of
uncommon strength. With a bound, of which no one would have thought a
heavy-armed man to be capable, he leapt upon his antagonist, caught him by his
girdle, and drove his sword into his back with such force that the point stood
out under the ribs in front. Zeno fell almost instantaneously dead upon the
ground.
A hoarse
murmur of discontent ran round the benches. But the blow had been a fair one;
in any other case it would have excited shouts of applause; and now it was
impossible to find fault with it. Still, the people were profoundly irritated.
When another pair of gladiators appeared in the arena, they were received with
shouts of "Away! Away!" Then some one cried: "The Christians!
The Christians!" and another voice answered with, "The lions! the lions!" The next moment the cries were blended into
one—"The Christians [186] to the lions!" and this was taken up with
furious zeal by the whole assembly.
The
Proconsul waited till the first rage of the outburst had been spent. Then he
rose in his place.
"Men
of
At the
same time he gave the signal for closing the entertainment, and the crowd, who
knew that he meant what he said, dispersed in silence.
"THE CHRISTIANS TO THE LIONS"
[187] SIXTEEN Christian
prisoners in all had been sent from Nicæa to the great show at
Rhoda,
indeed, was almost beyond suffering from these or any other causes. The journey
to
The
first rays of dawn were just falling through the hole in the dungeon which
admitted such light and air as were permitted to visit it, when, for the first
time since her arrival, Rhoda seemed to rouse herself from her stupor. Cleoné, who, after a wakeful night, had fallen into
a brief sleep, heard her move, and was immediately at her side. The sick girl
turned a smiling face on her sister.
"I
am going home to-day," she said.
"Yes,
dearest," answered Cleoné, who had no
difficulty in putting a meaning on her words.
"But
you will stay," she went on.
"Nay,
dearest, we will go together," said Cleoné,
with a little tone of reproach in her voice.
[189]
"The Lord has not willed it so. You have something to do for Him here; but
me He suffers to depart and be with Him; which," she added, after a pause,
"is far better."
For a
few minutes she was lost in thought. Then she threw her arms round her sister's
neck, kissed her tenderly, and said: "You will marry Clitus,
dearest?"
Cleoné, lost in astonishment, said nothing; she thought that
her sister was wandering.
"I
was wrong," Rhoda went on to say, "to hinder his love for you. Wives,
too, have a vocation from the Lord. You will be not less faithful because you
are happy."
"But,
sister dear, you forget!" said Cleoné.
"No,"
returned the other, "I do not forget. But I have had a dream, and I know
that the Lord showed me in it what shall be. This is what I saw. I dreamt that
we two were walking together on a narrow road; and as we walked I saw two men
in shining apparel who were talking together; and it was given to me to
understand that they were two of the blessed Apostles, and that one, who seemed
to be a man of middle age, and somewhat rugged and stern of look, was Peter;
and the other, a youth of very fair and sweet countenance, was John. And Peter
pointed to us two as we walked, and said to his companion, [190] 'Brother, how
shall it be with these two? Will they follow me or thee?' To whom
answered John, 'One for thee, and one for me.' And it was given me to know that
they to whom the Lord gives the crown of martyrdom are they that follow Peter,
and that they who live long, and die after the common manner of men, follow
John. For thus it was with these two when they were upon earth. And, lest I
should doubt which of us two should live, and which should die, I dreamt again.
And this time I saw you sitting with children standing by your knees; but the
place where you were was wholly strange to me, and all
the things about you such as I had never seen. Therefore I am sure that for you
the Lord will shut the lions' mouths. And now, dearest, I would sleep again,
that I may be ready when the time shall come."
Both sisters
were resting peacefully when the keeper's wife entered their cell, about an
hour after daybreak. She brought with her some food, which she had made as
dainty as her means and skill permitted, and a pitcher of wine. Those doomed to
death were commonly wont to dull their senses with heavy draughts of some
intoxicating drink, and the kind woman was doing, as she thought, her best for
the prisoners by giving them a liberal allowance. The sisters surprised [191]
her by begging for their usual supply of water from the well.
"Please
yourselves," said the woman, "but I will leave the pitcher, in case
you should think better of it when the time comes."
"Sister,"
said Rhoda, when they were left alone, "nothing need hinder us from
remembering the Lord's death, according to His commandment, even though there be no minister to give us the bread and wine."
Cleoné gave a ready assent, and the two went through the
simple ritual which
"By
special favour of the Governor," she said, "you are permitted to wear
your usual clothing, and I have brought you these, for what you have is sadly
soiled."
"The
Lord reward you!" said the two sisters together.
The
woman helped them to dress and arrange their hair, which, for want of a mirror
(not part of the furniture of a prison), was sadly in disorder. [192] She had just finished when the barrier that separated the
cell from the arena was raised. One of the attendants of the amphitheatre
beckoned them to come forward. Their companions had preceded them, and were
standing in front of the Governor's seat. As the sisters, in obedience to the
bidding of the attendant, moved across the arena to join them, there were
visible and audible signs of emotion in the vast multitude that watched them.
More pathetic figures could not have been seen than these two, as, hand in
hand, with downcast eyes but unfaltering steps, they
walked to their death. A ray of sunshine, falling through a chink in the
awning, touched with a golden light the long tresses which fell over their
shoulders. The angry cries which had greeted their fellow-victims were changed
to a murmur of mingled admiration and pity. Not a few voices even raised a cry
of "Pardon! pardon!" Had the Governor
interposed to save them at that moment, not the sternest bigot for the old
faith, not the most cruel frequenter of those hideous spectacles, would have
questioned his action. But the multitude had not yet tasted blood; let them once
have feasted their eyes on death, and innocence and beauty would plead for
mercy in vain.
The
condemned, after being thus exhibited, were put into an enclosure, from which
they could be [193] brought out one by one, or in pairs to be exposed to the
fury of the wild beasts.
I shall
not harrow the feelings of my readers by describing in detail the hideous
scenes which followed. Each victim was provided with a weapon, a short sword or
javelin, according to the animal which he was called upon to encounter. It was
supposed that he fought with the beast,
and the weapon was to give him a chance of victory—a chance that was a mere
mockery, as scarcely even the most practised hunter could have used it to any
purpose. Most dropped the weapon on the ground; one or two would have thought
it sinful to use it. There was one exception, and this was the centurion Fabius, the officer whom my readers will remember as having
commanded the arresting party on the occasion when the Christian assembly was
surprised. Fabius had felt great remorse for the part
which he had played on this occasion. The courage and faith of the prisoners
whom he had been the unwilling instrument of taking had touched him to the
heart, and he had resolved to make his long-delayed profession. Between the
first and second hearing of the accused he had been secretly baptized,
travelling to a neighbouring city for the purpose, and had then come forward
and boldly avowed himself to be a Christian. He was now matched with a [194]
panther from
The old
fighting instincts of the soldier revived when the weapon was put into his
hand, and though he did not hope or even wish for life, he resolved to strike a
blow for himself. A pole stood in the centre of the arena, with the ground
slightly rising round it. Fabius planted himself by
this, with his short sword in his hand, and his eyes fixed on the panther as it
crept cat-like towards him, waving its long tail backwards and forwards in its
rage. His resolute attitude was greeted with a roar of applause from the
spectators, who had viewed with contempt and disgust what they regarded as the
cowardly submission of the other prisoners to their fate. When the panther had
come within the length of its leap it paused awhile, dropping its eyes before
the soldier's resolute gaze, but watching its opportunity. This was not long in
coming. A puff of wind moved aside one of the edges of the awning, and sent a
ray of sunshine into the soldier's face. For a moment he was dazzled, and at
that moment, with a loud roar, the panther made his spring. Simultaneously, Fabius dropped upon his left knee, holding his sword firmly
with both hands, as if it [195] had been a pike. Had it been a more effective
weapon, he might have escaped almost unharmed; as it was, the blade inflicted a
long gash in the animal's breast, but bent, so poor was its temper, when it
came into contact with the bone. Still, it checked the panther's attack, and
the soldier was able to find a temporary shelter behind the pole. But the
creature was not seriously wounded, and what was he to do without a weapon? The
bent sword lay useless on the ground, and the beast was gathering its forces
for another spring. Suddenly the soldier's eye seemed to be caught by something
which he saw on one of the benches near the Proconsul's seat. He ran in this
direction at the top of his speed, amidst a howl of disapprobation from the
spectators, who thought this attempt at flight as cowardly as it was useless.
But as he approached the side of the arena the reason for this strange movement
became evident. A long hunting-knife, thrown by one of the spectators, came
whirling through the air. An old comrade of the centurion's had bethought him
of this as the only possible help that he could give. Fabius
caught it dexterously by the hilt, and turned to face his savage antagonist.
Man and beast closed in fierce encounter. More than once they rolled together
on the sand. But the blade of the knife was of a better temper than the
faithless sword. [196] Again and again the soldier plunged it into the animal's
side. In a few minutes he stood breathless, and bleeding from a score of deep
scratches, but substantially unhurt, with the panther dead at his feet. A roar
of applause, mingled with cries of "Pardon! pardon!"
went up from the multitude.
The
Governor beckoned the centurion to approach. "Well done, comrade!" he
said. "The Emperor must not lose so brave a soldier. Hush!" he went
on, perceiving that the centurion was about to speak, and fearing lest some
ill-timed declaration of his faith might make it impossible to save him.
"Hush! it is not a time to ask questions. A
surgeon must look to your wounds; I will see you to-morrow." And the
centurion was led out of the arena.
The turn
of the two sisters was now come. Led to the centre of the arena, they sat down
side by side awaiting their fate. Immediately the barrier of one of the dens
was raised, and a huge lion bounded forth with a roar. It walked round the
arena, and not a few of the spectators on the lowest tier trembled as he passed
them even behind the stout iron railings which protected them. Of the two
stationary figures in the centre the creature seemed to take no notice.
The
spectators watched its movements with so [197] fixed an attention that they
scarcely noticed the darkness that had been for some time spreading over the
building. A storm had been working up against the wind, and now broke, as it
seemed, directly overhead. A vivid flash was followed by a deafening crash of
thunder, and this again by a loud cry of dismay. The huge gilded eagle that
stood over the Proconsul's seat had been struck, and came crashing to the
ground, striking in its fall, and instantaneously killing, two of the
Governor's attendants.
A thrill
of fear was felt by the boldest and most philosophical spectator. As for the
multitude, their superstitious terror rose to the pitch of agony. "The
gods are angry!"—"Dismiss the assembly!"—"Let us
depart!" were the cries that could be heard on all sides. The Governor
rose in his place, and at the very moment of his rising
the darkness seemed to roll away, and all eyes were turned again to the arena.
Two white-robed figures were lying prostrate on the ground, clasped in each
other's arms, and the lion was standing motionless by their side.
|
|
A few
minutes afterwards, in obedience to the Proconsul's commands, the animal's
keeper appeared. Several attendants accompanied him, for his errand was a
dangerous one, and his best chance of safety was in being able to distract the
creature's [198] attention. As it turned out, nothing could have been more
easily done. The lion seemed entirely to forget his hunger and his rage, and
answering to the call of his name as readily as if he had been a dog, walked
quietly back to his cage.
The
sisters still lay motionless on the sand. The lion had not touched them, for
there was not a trace of blood on their white robes; nor did it seem likely, so
undisturbed were the two figures, that the lightning had struck them. But the
attendants who had advanced to carry out the bodies readily perceived the
truth. Rhoda was dead. Her strange revival on the morning of the day had been
the last flash of an expiring fire. She had died, clasped in her sister's arms,
without a struggle and without a pang. Cleoné
had felt the heart cease to beat, and the cheek pressed against her own grow
chill in death. Then her own sorrows were lost in a
merciful unconsciousness. The spectators almost universally believed that the
attendants were carrying away two corpses.
ESCAPE
[199] CLITUS had watched
the proceedings in the amphitheatre, not indeed from among the spectators,
whose company would have been odious to him, but from the barred opening of one
of the cages, which he had induced an attendant to allow him to occupy. As to
what his course of action should be, he had been greatly perplexed. One thing
only was clear to him: that he would not survive Cleoné.
The law of his faith forbade suicide; yet surely, he thought to himself, it
would not be difficult to die! He armed himself with a hunting-knife, though,
of course, the idea of rescue was hopeless, and to use the weapon could only
serve to provoke his own fate. Perhaps this was not very logical, if it was his
duty not without necessity to endanger his own life; but much may be pardoned to
a lover reduced to such desperate straits.
[200] He
had, as may easily be believed, never taken his eyes off the sisters. When, in
the very crisis of the thunderstorm, he saw the lion approach them, he actually
started from his hiding-place, and traversed half of the distance that
separated them from him. When he saw them fall to the ground, some old story
that he had read, of how the lion will not tear what he thinks to be a dead
body, had come back to him, and this with such force that it seemed a message.
He retraced his steps, and, so occupied was the audience with the storm, was
unobserved both in coming and going.
He had
since heard from the keeper's wife of the real fact about the sisters, and he
had been anxiously considering what he could do. His hope, of course, was in
Pliny. The Governor of Bithynia had treated him as a personal friend, and,
though his conduct with regard to the Christians had not been consistent, it
was clear that, on the whole, his leaning was to mercy. But how was he to be approached?
He was the Proconsul's guest, and was probably now assisting at some state
banquet, from which he could hardly be called. Yet time was short, and the need
of taking some immediate action was urgent. He was walking up and down in front
of the Proconsul's palace, deep in thought about his next step, when the
problem was unexpectedly solved [201] for him. A hand was laid upon his
shoulder, and, turning to see who it was that wished to speak to him, he
recognised the Governor's private secretary.
"Well
met, most excellent Clitus!" was the young man's
greeting. "I was just about to seek you at your lodgings. The Governor
desires to see you without delay. Follow me!"
The
secretary led the way to the Governor's apartment. Pliny was reclining on a
couch. He was reading, for he never lost a moment that could be given to study;
but he put down the volume when he heard the door open, and beckoned Clitus to approach. The secretary saluted, and withdrew.
The
young Greek, who had not seen his patron close at hand for some time, was
shocked at the change in his appearance. Occupied though he was with his own
thoughts, he could not help remarking it. Pliny had the look of one who had not
many days to live. He was beginning some expression of regret, when the Governor
interrupted him.
"That
matters not. I have more important things to speak of, and things that will not
wait. But how did my secretary find you so soon? It is but just now that I sent
him to fetch you."
"I
had myself come, most Excellent, to the [202] palace, in the hope of seeing
you, but did not know how it was to be done. I thought you must be still at the
Proconsul's table."
"Ah!"
said Pliny, "I escaped from him. But not till I had got from him what I
wanted. Look here!"
He took
from a writing-case three documents sealed with the Proconsul's seal. He handed
two of them to Clitus. They were orders addressed to
the keeper of the prisoners, authorizing him to deliver up to the bearer the
persons of Cleoné and the centurion Fabius.
"I
had not much difficulty about the matter," said Pliny. "As to the
girl Cleoné, I fancy that the way had been
smoothed for me. The Proconsul has a heart, and possibly he might have let the
girl go free after the wonderful deliverance of to-day; but her father has been
with him, my secretary tells me, and, I fancy, gave him substantial reasons for
pardoning her. He came yesterday, indeed, and offered three million sesterces for her and her sister's liberty; but then, of
course, it was impossible. What he has paid now I do not know, but I feel sure
that it was something large. However, this does not matter. There is the order
for her release. As for the centurion, there was never any doubt. The
Proconsul—you see, I [203] speak freely to you—did not require any inducement here.
He can admire a brave man without being bribed. So they are free. But the
question is: Where can they go? Have you anything to suggest?"
"I
thought of making my way into the Cilician
Highlands," answered the young Greek.
" 'Tis a long journey to make, and a doubtful refuge after
all. I have a better thought than that. There is a merchant of my acquaintance
at Miletus who trades with Massilia
and Britain. I have been able to do him some service, and he is anxious to
repay me. Ever since I came I have cherished a hope of being able to do
something for the prisoners, especially for the two sisters, whose case touched
me more than I can say; indeed, but for this reason, I would have had nothing
to do with this horrible spectacle. Well, I sent for my friend the merchant. He
has a ship ready to sail, I believe, to-morrow morning. Get Cleoné
and the centurion on board without delay: it should be done, if possible,
before dawn to-morrow. I should say, Go as far as Britain. It is quite out of
the world; no questions will be asked you there as to what you are or whence
you come. But now there is another matter. Look at this!"
And he
handed him the third of the three documents. It was an order for the delivery
to the [204] bearer of the body of Rhoda, lately a prisoner in the amphitheatre
of Ephesus.
"There
will be a difficulty here," Pliny continued; "I must leave you to
overcome it. Cleoné, hard as it will be, must
leave the care of her sister's funeral to others. To delay might be to ruin
all. Unless you escape at once, there are some in this city who will take care
that you do not escape at all. My advice is this. Take this document at once to
the chiefs of your Society in Ephesus. Do it, I would say, before Cleoné knows anything about it. Let them remove the
body. When it is gone, and not before, tell her. She will ask to see her sister
before she goes. Then you must tell her. It will be a bitter pang to her; but
she will see that it has been for the best. And now go—there is no time to
lose; you have much to do before morning. The Proconsul has provided horses for
your party, and an escort under an officer whom he can trust. And now for a few
words for yourself. I shall never see you again; for my days, as I know well,
are numbered. It seems a pity to banish so fine a scholar to an island of
barbarians; but there is clearly no choice, and you can court the Muses there
also. And then you will have your Cleoné. But
you must not go penniless. I have arranged with my friend the merchant to hand
you some- [205] thing wherewith you can start. That you may consider a loan, if
you will, and repay to my estate. I shall not be alive to receive it. And I
have put your name into my will; a legacy you can hardly choose but take. And
now farewell! Remember me to Cleoné, and bid
her not think too hardly of the Governor, though he was a pagan and an enemy of
the faith."
"O
my lord," broke in the young Athenian, eagerly, "it is not too late!
There are those who will teach you; and if, as you say, you have but a few days
to live——"
"I
must make haste, you mean," said Pliny, with a faint smile. "Nay, my
dear young friend, it is too late; or, rather, this faith of yours was never
meant for me. It seems to make good men and women. I am sure that no one would
die for the old gods as bravely and cheerfully as I have seen slaves and weak
women die for their Christ. And you have a hope, too, I hear, of a life after
death. It is a beautiful thought. I wish that I could have heard of it before.
But now, you see, it is impossible. You will think of me, and pray for me. I
hear that you do pray for others, even for those who hate you. Perhaps it will
be well with me, after all; and, if not, I must bear it as I can, for I have
tried to do my duty as a Roman and a man. But I must not keep you, or else our
[206] trouble will have been wasted. And now farewell!"
He
reached his hand to Clitus. The young man would have
kissed it, but Pliny drew him towards him, kissed him on both cheeks, and then
laid both hands on his head. "My blessing on you," he said, "if
the blessing of a heathen can avail. The gods, or, rather, the God, the Father
whom we all acknowledge, protect you! And now, do not lose another
moment."
It was a
hard night's work that Clitus had to do. His first
care was to see the Bishop of Ephesus. The good man willingly, or, it should
rather be said, joyfully undertook the care of Rhoda's burial rites. One lock
of her hair was taken as a remembrance for her sister. Then the body was
removed by the bishop himself, with some helpers of assured loyalty, who might
be trusted not to reveal the secret of her resting-place till the return, if
such should be granted to the Church, of more peaceful times. The pious task
was finished by the time, an hour after midnight, when Clitus
presented himself at the house of the keeper of the amphitheatre, with the
order of release in his hand.
In a few
minutes Cleoné knew that she would never again
see the outward form of the sister whom she loved, who was more than the half
of [207] her heart. But she had a faith, more vivid than is often granted to
us, that the body is but the perishable image of the true man, and a hope of a
future life, which the tribulations of the present intensified into an absolute
assurance. And then she saw that the safety of her two companions, not to speak
of herself, depended upon speedy action.
"You
have done well," she said, after the first burst of grief was over,
"and I trust you."
And she
reached her hand to him, with a little smile that flashed for a moment through
her tears.
The sun
had scarcely risen when the good ship Centaur had cleared the
harbour of Miletus and was speeding westward over the
waters of the Ægean. Pliny, anxious to secure
as far as was possible the party against disaster, had arranged with the
captain to make the voyage to Britain direct, touching at as few ports as
possible on the way, and these the most obscure. For some weeks after her
embarkation, Cleoné was prostrated by
illness—the natural consequence of all that she had endured. She was carefully
and tenderly nursed by the captain's wife, for whose companionship the
thoughtful care of Pliny had provided. Once or twice during her illness she
seemed to herself to catch the tones of familiar voices; and [208] several
times, while she was slowly coming back to health, she saw figures which she
seemed to know, and which appeared carefully to avoid her. It was not till
after she had landed that the secret was revealed. It was her father and mother
whom she had seen.
"Forgive
him, for my sake," cried the poor woman, falling on her knees before her
child; "you are all that he, that we, have left to us."
The old
man stood two or three paces behind, his head bowed down with a shame and a
remorse that passed all utterance. Cleoné
threw her arms round his neck. Her tenderness divined that it was to him who
had sinned that her love must first be shown. And the mother, to whom, by all
laws of justice, that first embrace was due, was glad to have it so.
Lucilius had lost his son, who died the day after the removal
of the sisters to Ephesus. Most of his property had been spent in purchasing
the Proconsul's favour; with what remained he had determined to commence a new
life in the land for which his daughter was bound. Clitus
and Cleoné were married at the Christmas
festival next after their arrival in the island, which, indeed, they did not
reach till late in November. The next Easter Lucilius
and his wife were baptized. Of the life of the family thus strangely brought
together, [209] little need be said, but that it was remarkably happy and
prosperous. As the years went on, a little Bion and a
little Rhoda recalled the sweet and tender memory of those who were sleeping
far away under an Asian sky,—far away, but in that "sure and certain
hope" which under all skies is still the same. Both were dear to their
good neighbour Fabius, one of the senators of their
little colony; but it was to Rhoda that the stout soldier-farmer would talk of
one who had borne her name in days long past, best and most beautiful of women
upon earth, and now bearing the martyr's palm before the Throne in heaven.