ZENOBIA'S DREAM.
The night which followed her heartsearching experience of feeling on
looking down upon the sleeping city of Bath, Zenobia had a dream. It
was a vision of extraordinary vividness, and strangely circumstantial.
Beneath her eyes the golden light of a summer sunset was flooding
the temples, the baths, the stately villas of ancient "Rome in
England"--the city of Sulcastra. Garbed as a Priestess of the Temple,
she stood upon a plateau, high on the Hill of Sul on the east side of
the valley. Behind her rose the Temple of the Goddess, and by her side
stood one whom she knew to be the sculptor Lucius Flaccus, son of that
centurion who was charged to carry Paul from Adramythium to Rome. He
had been telling her in graphic phrases of his association with the
great Apostle; how for the first time he had heard him on Mars' Hill
at Athens boldly rebuking the listening and resentful throng who had
erected there an altar _to the unknown God_. Then with a gesture of
repugnance which horrified the priestess, the narrator, quoting the
Christian preacher's words, had turned and pointed towards the Temple
in which she with other vestals kept ever burning the sacred fire of
Sul.
"Forasmuch, then, as we are the offspring of God, we ought not to
think that the Godhead is like silver or gold, graven by art or man's
device...." Thus far he had spoken when her own voice interrupted
passionately:
"Do not blaspheme the gods!"
"The gods are dead," he answered sternly, "nay, rather, they have never
lived. Our Roman gods have eyes that see not, ears that hear not, they
are but silver, gold, or stone--the work of hands like these." Thus
speaking, he held forth his hands, delicate and mobile, in one of which
was grasped the chisel of his ancient art. The priestess stood for a
moment looking in his eyes, silent, terror-stricken. "Yet," he went on,
bending his gaze upon the city with a sigh, "Sulcastra is beautiful."
He knew and loved each particular feature of artistic beauty in the
city. Its architecture afforded him a delight that never failed. The
symbolic work of the chisel was evidenced on every side. The noble
columns that supported the terraces; the pavements resembling those
of Pompeii; the graceful friezes and delicate cornices appealed
irresistibly to every votary of art. Indeed, the Thermæ of Sulcastra
were held by many of the cultured Romans to be not less splendid than
the baths at Scipio Africanus, or even those built at Rome by Caracalla
and Diocletian. For here, too, the lofty chambers were ornamented
with curious mosaics, varied in rich colours and infinitely delicate
in design. And here, also, the medicinal waters were poured into vast
reservoirs through wide mouths of precious metal and Egyptian granite,
while the green marble of Numidia had been brought from afar to give
variety to the native stone from the adjacent quarries. The fame of
the wonderful waters went back for eight centuries before the birth of
Christ. Here, according to tradition, Bladud, son of Lud the British
King, father of King Lear, had found a cure for his foul leprosy.
Yonder had stood the first Temple of Minerva, dedicated by that same
Bladud to the goddess. Had he not sought by magical aid to soar aloft
like the eagle, only to fall and be dashed to pieces on Minerva's altar?
The sculptor shaded his eyes against the slanting rays of sunlight,
and turned his gaze upon the vast stadium in which at stated intervals
the people of Sulcastra witnessed the elaborated games of mighty Rome.
Such an occasion recently had occurred, a scene of splendid pageantry
and power which invariably moved the spectators to superstitious awe,
and often to wild excesses of fanaticism. Young and old had implored
the favour of the gods, and pledged themselves to maintain unbroken the
religious observances of the Rome people. In the darkness of night,
mystic sacrifices had been offered on the banks of the river; and the
whole city, as the sculptor and the priestess now looked down upon
it, still seemed to be fermenting with the excitement which the great
celebration had occasioned.
At that very moment an imposing procession was seen to be advancing
towards the Temple of Minerva. Trumpet note after trumpet note echoed
round the hills. Chariots full of garlands and branches of myrtle
approached the shrine. A large black bull was being led to the
sacrificial altar, and youths and maidens, chanting a hymn to Minerva,
carried in procession costly vases full of wine and milk to be poured
as libations to the goddess, while others bore cruets of wine, oil, and
perfumed essences to anoint the pillars of the sacred monuments within
the temple.
Lucius Flaccus looked down upon the procession with sad and moody
eyes. The Vestal's eyes were bent no less sadly on the sculptor, as
if divining all his thoughts. They sprang, she doubted not, out of
the subject of their conversation, and she turned uneasily towards the
pillar-altar on which the sculptor's skilful hands had been at work. It
stood upon the turf at the entrance to a little grove which gave access
to the gates of the Temple of Sul, the temple in which she herself
ministered as priestess.
A cloth lay over the graceful monument, to the inscription upon
which the young Roman had but just now put the final touch. His work
upon the monument, screened from view, had long excited the interest
and curiosity of the Romans and the slaves who passed that way, but
reverence for the goddess and respect for the sculptor himself had
served to arrest all questions. The work of art, it was thought, would
be unveiled in time; and doubtless it would prove to be another and a
worthy tribute to the goddess who presided in a special manner over the
fortunes of the city.
Lucius Flaccus had studied in a great and noble school. He had gazed
long and often on the famous statue of the Olympian Jove modelled in
ivory by the master hand of Phidias. He had marked every curve and
feature of the Minerva--standing sixty cubits high--on whose shield the
great Athenian sculptor had so marvellously represented the wars of the
Amazons. There were those, indeed, familiar with the work of the young
Roman who foretold for him an imperishable reputation as an exponent of
the noble art to which he was devoted.
Lucius Flaccus had been welcomed in Sulcastra as one who was likely to
add to the beauty of the city, and the honour of the special goddess
of the citizens. The sculptor's art, like the Ten Commandments, was
written on tables of stone. It was for all time; nearly five hundred
years had passed since the chisel dropped from the hand of Phidias,
but the glory of his work remained. It was indestructible. So also,
thought some, might the handiwork of Lucius Flaccus be handed down from
century to century.
The cult of Sul was scarcely distinguishable from that of Vesta. Like
Vesta, she was a home-goddess, a national deity, whose vestals were
solemnly pledged ever to maintain her altar-fire, lest its extinction
should bring disaster on the people.
Sul, also, was a fire deity. According to the kindred mythology of
Scandinavia, the goddess was so beautiful a being that she had been
placed in heaven to drive the chariot of the Sun from which she took
her name--that glorious sun, the rays of which were now illuminating
the city of Sulcastra. Sul, in the eyes of the Romans, was more exalted
than Soma, daughter of the Moon, though in the East Soma was held in
the highest reverence as the mother of Buddha. Soma was the sovereign
goddess of plants and planets. In the Vedic hymns she was identified
with the moon-plant which a falcon had brought down from heaven. Its
juice was an elixir of life. To drink it conferred immortality on
mortals, and even exhilarated the gods themselves. But even greater
virtue and miraculous power did the Romans attribute to the waters of
Sul, and with better evidence of their potency. For here, in Sulcastra,
century after century, and ever at the same temperature, the magical,
unfathomable well had poured forth its mystic waters for the healing of
the people.
The Temple of Sul, like that of Vesta, was circular, to represent the
world; and in the centre of the temple stood the altar of the sacred
flame, ever burning to symbolise the central fires of Mother Earth,
just as the sun was deemed to be the centre of the universe.
There were nothing strange or unusual in freedom of conversation
between the Priestess and the Sculptor--who, in former years, had added
many decorations to the Temple. The virgin priestesses were permitted
to receive the visits of men by day; by night none but women were
suffered to enter their apartments, which adjoined the sacred building
in which they ministered. Each priestess was pledged to continence for
thirty years. During the first ten they were employed in learning the
tenets and rites of their religion. During the next ten they engaged
in actual ministrations. In the final ten years they were employed in
training the younger vestals, and after the age of thirty they might
abandon the functions of the temple and marry. Few exercised that
option. Custom, when such an age was reached, had become ingrained, the
impulses of youth frozen, and the honour paid to their office became
more valued than the prospects of marriage.
The reverence shown to them was very great, but so also was the
punishment that followed a lapse from the letter or the spirit of
their duties. The least levity in conduct, the smallest neglect of
ministerial duty, was dealt with by the Pontifex or the Flamens,
and visited with great severity. The loss of virginal honour, or
the failure to maintain the sacred fire, involved a penalty of
inexpressible terror. The condemned priestess, placed in a litter, shut
up so closely that her loudest cries were scarcely audible, was carried
through the city in the order, and with the adjuncts, of a funeral
procession, a journey of death in life--its goal the niche or narrow
vault in which the living vestal was to be immured.
THE SCULPTOR'S STORY.
The dreamer knew these things, and still dreamed on. It seemed as if
her own voice broke the silence:
"Fain would I know more of this same Paul of whom you speak."
Then she paused, but looks still questioned him. Presently the young
Roman spoke again--
"My father, the centurion Julius, was charged to carry him to Rome,
and I had planned to bear him company. We took ship to sail along the
coasts of Asia; touched at Sidon and afterwards at Cyprus, the winds
being contrary. Later we transhipped at Alexandria, and thus reached
Crete. The seas grew dangerous, and the sailors feared. Scarcely had
we sailed when there arose that strong, tempestuous wind they call
Euroclydon. The ship, being caught, could not bear against the wind,
and we let her drive. Then, near the island of Clauda, we were like to
be driven on the shore; and fearing quicksands, we struck sail, and so
were driven again. The tempest tossed us, and the ship was lightened.
We cast adrift the tackling; but still the tempest held us; neither sun
nor star appeared for many days, and all that time the ship was driven
before the storm, until at length the shipmen deemed that we drew near
to land. They sounded and found twenty fathoms. Again they sounded and
found five fathoms less. Then, fearing we should be upon the rocks,
they made all haste to cast four anchors from the stern, and waited for
the day."
"The storm had lasted long?"
"For fourteen days and nights."
"And there were many in the ship?"
"Two hundred, three-score and sixteen souls; and everyone was saved.
Land lay before us, though we knew it not. But we discovered close at
hand a creek. So they took up the anchors, loosed the rudder-bands,
hoisted the mainsail to the wind, and made for shore. She ran into
a place where two seas met, and went aground. The forepart held and
seemed immovable, but soon the hinder part was broken by the violence
of the waves. The soldiers then would have killed all the prisoners,
lest they should escape, but my father stayed their hands. Those who
could swim sprang first into the sea. Others on boards, and some on
broken pieces of the ship, made for the land, and I, with all the rest,
came safe ashore."
"The gods be thanked; the gods be thanked for that." The words came
fervently from the Vestal's lips.
He turned on her and sighed. "What! still the gods?"
She pressed her hands upon her brow. "Is there no more to tell?"
He paused a moment. "Already I have told too much if told in vain.
The island we had reached was Melita, and Publius, the chief man
of the place, received us courteously. Paul healed his father of a
grievous sickness, and many others also, ere we departed in a ship of
Alexandria. We touched at Syracuse, and then at Rhegium, whence we went
towards Rome. There many brethren greeted Paul with joy, and there in
reverence and sorrow did I part from him."
"And he--this Paul himself?"
"Remains at Rome, having his own hired house, receiving all who come to
him, preaching of the Heavenly kingdom, teaching with all confidence,
of the coming of the Christ--no man yet forbidding him."
Deep silence fell between them, and the only sound came from a droning
that in Sulcastra never ceased by night or day--the voice of the
rushing river as it poured across the weir.
Now they stood erect; each was tall and nobly framed; each face had
beauty intellectual and physical. Yet in the sculptor's features and
his deep-set eyes there was the look that visionaries wear, the stamp
of those who nourish great ideals. The gaze the priestess bent upon
him told a different tale. The dreamer knew this woman loved this man,
while he, as yet, had found no passion in his soul for her. She raised
her hand in gesture of adieu, and moved with slow steps towards the
temple. Then, as if stirred by sudden impulse, she turned to him again.
"And this Paul--tell me--what teacheth he concerning women?"
"He teacheth that man is the image and the glory of God, and woman the
glory of the man. That man is not of the woman, but the woman of the
man: neither was man created for the woman, but the woman for the man.
He commandeth that women keep silence in the Christian churches, and in
all things be subject to their husbands, for the husband is the head of
the wife."
"Then he forbiddeth not to marry?"
"Is not Paul the Apostle of Him who blessed the marriage feast of Cana?"
"In whom thou dost believe?"
"In whom I do believe," he answered steadfastly. "I tell thee that
the banner of the Cross shall one day float above the capitol of Rome
itself."
The priestess took two swifter steps towards him. "Then why, O Lucius
Flaccus, hast thou built here an altar to our Goddess Sul?" She pointed
to the pedestal beside them; and he, answering not a word, stretched
forth his hand and drew away the covering that concealed the apex.
There, in the fading light, there stood revealed the hated emblem of
the Christian Faith.
"A cross!" she cried, "a cross!"
The sculptor raised his eyes and clasped his hands:
"The Cross of Him who died for all the world!"
THE VESTAL'S FATE.
The spirit of the dream had changed. A sense of horrible foreboding
agonized the dreamer. No longer did the sculptor and the priestess look
down upon Sulcastra. Yet the dreamer knew all that had happened and was
happening still.
The city was in tumult. The baths, the public schools, the temples were
deserted. People thronged the streets. There was but one thing spoken
of--an outrage on the goddess whom they all revered. Lucius Flaccus,
the favoured sculptor of Sulcastra, son of Julius the centurion, had
erected on the threshold of her temple an altar to the God-Man of the
Nazarenes. Nor was that all. The sacred fire that should have been kept
burning in Sul's temple had been suffered to die out, if indeed it had
not been deliberately extinguished; climax of all--Verenia, priestess
of Sul, had been found in the broad light of day kneeling with bowed
head before the hated emblem that profaned the grove. Amazement had
given place to fury. The cry went up for punishment--a cry redoubled
when it became known that the augurs foretold dire calamity for
Sulcastra and the citizens, as the inevitable consequence of an outrage
so profane. The people feared the vengeance of the gods!
Yet there were some who kept a grief-stricken silence in the midst of
all the raging of the citizens, for each of the offenders was well
esteemed, and both belonged to honoured Roman families. The dreadful
fate that lay in store alike for the sculptor and the priestess moved
many hearts to awe and anguished apprehension. In each case the
appalling penalty was as certain as the dawn of day. Lucius Flaccus
would be carried to the rock of Sul, high on the steepest hill that
overlooked the valley, and thence cast headlong on the rocks below. For
Verenia, the priestess, a yet more awful punishment was prepared--the
slow starvation of a living tomb.
The dreadful preparations were complete. The Vestal's grave was
ready--a narrow niche in the massive stone foundations of the
Temple--the temple of that goddess whose worship she had mocked. In
this tiny cell was placed a pallet, a lamp that when lighted would burn
for forty hours, and a small quantity of food. All knew what course the
funeral ceremonies would follow. The Pontifex would read some prayers
over the doomed priestess, but without the lustrations and other
expiatory ceremonies that were used at the burial of the dead. When the
last prayer had been uttered, the lictors would let her down into the
vault, the entrance would be filled with slabs of stone, then covered
up with earth.
The awful hours, the agonizing days, would slowly pass. The lamp
would flicker and the light expire. Deep silence that no shriek could
pierce would shut the buried vestal from the ken of all who loved her.
The food would fail; then, slowly, hour by hour, and day by day, the
dreadful sentence of the law would be fulfilled. No father, mother,
lover, friend, could save the victim, or by one iota lessen the
torture of starvation, or that still greater torture of the brain to
which her judges had condemned her.
Did not the crime of which she was convicted strike at the root of the
religion of the people? The maintenance of the sacred fire as a pious
and propitiatory observance was not peculiar to the Romans. The Hebrews
held it a divine commandment: "The fire shall ever be burning upon
the altar, saith the Lord; it shall never go out." Undying fires were
maintained in the temples of Ceres at Mantinea; of Apollo at Delphos
and at Athens; and in that of Diana at Echatan. A lamp was always
burning in the temple of Jupiter Ammon. The ancient custom came from
the Egyptians to the Greeks, and from the Greeks to the Romans, who had
made it a vital, essential feature of their faith. Like the veil of
Astoreth in the temple of the moon-goddess at Carthage; like the sacred
shield which, as Numa Pompilius avowed, had fallen from heaven, the
altar-fire of Sul safeguarded the domestic prosperity, the political
wisdom, the military supremacy of Rome in Britain.
And this gross insult to the mighty goddess had been perpetrated in the
midst of the festival; on the very eve of the ceremony of the blessed
waters used specially on that occasion for purifying the temple of Sul.
It was a local event of paramount importance, for then the statue of
Sul was covered with flowers and anointed with perfumed oil. The Salii
marched through the city carrying vessels, richly decorated and of
beautiful design, containing water from the sacred spring. The feast
lasted for three days, and during that time the Romans undertook no
serious or important business. The banquets with which the festival
was concluded were magnificent and costly. The edict of Numa Pompilius
enjoining reverence to the gods remain unrepealed. It was obeyed in
Sulcastra as in Rome itself. Inscribed on tables of stone, it could be
read in all the schools and temples:
"Let none appear in the presence of the gods but with a pure heart
and sincere piety. Let none there make a vain show and ostentation of
their riches but fear lest they should thereby bring on themselves the
vengeance of heaven.
"Let no one have particular gods of his own, or bring new ones into his
house, or receive strange ones unless allowed by edict. Let everyone
preserve in his house the oratories established by his fathers, and pay
his domestic gods the worship that has always been paid to them.
"Let all honour the ancient gods of heaven, and the heroes whose
exploits have carried them thither, such as Bacchus, Hercules, Castor
and Pollux. Let altars be erected to the virtues which carry us up to
heaven; but never to vices."
These dread laws the sculptor and the priestess had impiously broken
and defied.
The climax was at hand. A strange, loud clangour beat upon the ear,
pierced by the wailing cry of weeping women. The dreamer heard the
tramp of many feet; then saw a long and closely packed procession
emerging from the centre of the city. Slowly and solemnly the multitude
advanced. The first section of the great procession reached the
narrower road which wound amid the trees that beautified the Hill
of Sul. High up on the barer slopes of the great hill stood out the
jutting rock from which the sculptor was to take his last long gaze
upon the sunlit world. A band of lictors headed the procession. Behind
them, with head erect, walked Lucius Flaccus on the road to death.
The trees swayed gently in the morning breeze, the birds were singing
in the groves; the glory of the summer decked the land. Yet the
tenderness of nature and all the splendour of the world seemed but
to mock the tragedy of that slow procession. On every side was life,
life, strong, abundant, free; but this one lonely man, bare-headed and
white-faced, who climbed the hill, had done with life. With each step
of the slow advance he drew nearer and nearer to the gate of death.
The second part of the procession was lead by twelve Salii, each of
whom carried a shield on his left arm and a javelin in his right hand.
They were dressed in habits striped with purple, girded with broad
belts, and clasped with buckles of brass. On their heads they wore
helmets which terminated in a point. From these men the clangour came.
Sometimes they sang in concert a hymn to Sul; sometimes they advanced
with dancing step, beating time with their javelins on their shields.
Next came many mourners, women and children, weeping and wringing their
hands as in a funeral procession; and then a closely-curtained litter,
with priests on either hand followed by the Pontifex, magnificently
habited and carrying a staff or sceptre in his hand.
Priestesses, with bowed heads and clasped hands, followed the Pontifex.
Then came another body of lictors, followed by a miscellaneous
multitude of citizens and their families; and, finally, a tall
centurion leading a company of soldiers.
The road grew steeper, narrower, winding round the hill; and the first
body of lictors, with their prisoner, had passed out of view of the
company that followed, when suddenly arose a violent outcry and the
clash of arms. The sculptor had turned upon his guard, seized a javelin
from one of them, and mounted the steep bank beside the road. The
whole procession halted in confusion. Disconcerted priests whispered
and gesticulated; the crowd closed up and filled the narrow way from
side to side.
"Romans! hear me!" The appeal, in high-pitched, fervent tones, came
from Lucius Flaccus, and was not unanswered by the people:
"Hear him! let him speak!"
The lictors at the bidding of the Pontifex half turned, but being few
in number were daunted by the strenuous cries of the excited crowd. The
sculptor seized the moment of their irresolution and raised his voice
again:
"Romans! spare her." He pointed to the litter. "You who have sisters,
daughters, restrain your rulers from an act that would disgrace a
barbarous nation."
Murmurs and conflicting cries were raised. The priests sent messengers
to the soldiers at the rear of the procession. But the crowd, closer
and closer packed, rendered it difficult for the messengers to pass.
Above the tumult, the Pontifex cried in shrill excited tones: "The gods
demand her death!"
Thus incited, many in the crowd shouted in assent, while others cried
again: "Hear Lucius Flaccus, hear him!"
Once more the sculptor raised his voice: "The gods are names for
priests to conjure with...."
For a moment indescribable tumult prevailed. The centurion sought in
vain to force a way through the dense, now struggling, mass of people.
Again the sculptor made a passionate appeal: "I implore the aid of the
Roman people. I call upon my fellow citizens to save a woman. To what
purpose do we expose our lives in war? Why do we defend our wives and
sisters from a foreign enemy if Rome has tyrants who incite the people
to violent and vindictive acts? Soldiers in arms, do not endure these
things! Free citizens, exalt yourselves by being merciful."
The frantic appeal now met with no response. Lucius Flaccus looked
wildly round, despair and desperation in his face.
He raised the javelin, and for the last time his voice was heard:
"Then thus, and thus only, can I save her from a crueller fate!"
In an instant he sprang upon the lictors who confronted him, and,
striking left and right, actually reached the curtains of the litter.
A shudder of horror ran through all the crowd. The women shrieked. The
people swayed and struggled, and the next moment it was seen that the
sculptor had been beaten back, though not yet secured. He sprang upon a
rock beside the road and raised the javelin high in air.
"Then, Romans, if infernal gods there be, let them accept another
sacrifice!"
Down flashed the steel, the sharp point plunged into his heart; and,
throwing out his hands, he swayed into the lictors' arms.
A dreadful silence fell upon the people.
Then from within the thickly-curtained litter came a despairing and
half-stifled shriek.
* * * * *
With that wild, agonizing cry Zenobia awoke. The cry from the litter
was her cry. It was her own voice that died away, and what was this
mysterious sound--rising from the valley with the mists that melted
at the break of day? The sound was the same that the sculptor and
the priestess had heard nearly two thousand years ago; the voice of
many waters as they swept across the weir, insistent, unceasing--the
monotone of doom.