Agrippina’s worthy son, had poisoned his half-brother Britannicus,
murdered his mother, kicked his wife to death, and committed unnatural
crime. He falsified the coinage and plundered the temples. He made an
artistic tour to Greece, where he first appeared as a public singer
and brought eight hundred wreaths home, then as a charioteer, in which
capacity he upset everything, but received the prize because nobody
dared to refuse it to him.
To such a depth had Rome and Greece sunk. Claudius was an angel compared
to this monster; but he also received apotheosis.
To-day the Emperor had returned home from his artistic tour, and found
his capital in flames. Since, in his fits of intoxication, he had so
often raged against his old-fashioned Rome, with its narrow streets, and
had on various occasions expressed the wish that fire might break out at
all its corners, he came under the suspicion of having set it in flames.
He sat in his palace on the Esquiline in a great columned hall, and
feasted his eyes on the magnificent conflagration. It was a marble hall
with only a few articles of furniture, because the Emperor feared they
might afford lurking-places for murderers. But in the background of the
hall was a strong gilded iron grating, behind which could be caught a
glimpse of two yellow-brown lions from Libya. These the Emperor called
his “cats.”
At the door of the grating stood two slaves, Pallas and Alexander, and
watched every change in the Emperor’s face.
“He smiles,” whispered Pallas; “then it is all over with us. Brother, we
shall meet again. Pray for me and give me the kiss of peace.”
“The Lord shall deliver thee from all evil, and preserve thee for
His heavenly kingdom. This mortal must put on immortality, and this
corruptible, incorruption.”
The red face of the Emperor, red with wine and the light of the
conflagration, began to assume a look of attention, and it could be seen
from his eyes and ears that he was listening. Did he hear perhaps how
the masses of people whispered their suspicions of the “incendiary”?
“Pallas!” he roared, “Rome is burning!”
The slave remained speechless from fright.
“Pallas! Are you deaf?”
No answer.
“Pallas! Are you dumb? They say down there that I have fired the town,
but I have not. Run out in the streets and spread about the report that
the Christians have done it.”
“No, I will not!” answered the slave.
Nero believed that his ears had deceived him.
“Do you not know,” he said, “that the Christians are magicians, and live
like rats in the catacombs, and that all Rome is undermined by them? I
have thought of making the Tiber flow in to drown them, or of opening
the walls of the cloacas and submerging the catacombs in filth. Their
Sibylline books have prophesied the fall of Rome, though they use the
name ‘Babylon.’ See, now the Capitol takes fire. Pallas, run out, and
say the Christians have done it.”
“That I will not do,” answered Pallas loud and clearly, “because it is
not true.”
“This time my ears have not deceived me,” roared the Emperor rising.
“You will not go into the town; then go in through the grating-door and
play with my lions.”
He opened the door, and pushed Pallas into the fore-court of the lions.
“Alexander!” said Pallas, “I have prayed you to be firm and courageous!”
“I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the latter day He shall
raise me from the earth.”
“What is that you are saying?” said the Emperor, and pulled a cord,
which opened the second door to the lions.
“Alexander, go out into the town, and spread the report that the
Christians have set Rome on fire.”
“No,” answered Alexander, “for I am a Christian.”
“What is a Christian?”
“God so loved the world that He gave His only-begotten Son that
whosoever believeth on Him should not perish but have everlasting life.”
“Will you not perish? Have I not the power to destroy you?”
“You have no power over me, except it be given from above.”
“He does not fear death. Lentulus! bring fire here; I will set fire to
your clothes, that we may see if you can burn, I will set your hair,
your beard, your nails on fire; but we will first soak you in oil and
naphtha, in pitch and sulphur. Then we will see whether you have an
everlasting life. Lentulus!”
Lentulus rushed in: “Emperor! The city is in an uproar! Fly!”
“Must I fly? First bring fire!”
“Spain has revolted, and chosen Galba as Emperor.”
“Galba! Eheu! fugaces, Postume ... Galba! Well, then, let us fly, but
whither?”
“Through the catacombs, sire.”
“No! the Christians live there, and they will kill me.”
“They kill no one,” said Alexander.
“Not even their enemies?”
“They pray for their enemies.”
“Then they are mad! All the better!”
* * * * *
The Christians were assembled in one of the crypts of the catacombs.
“The Capitol is burning; that is the heathen’s Zion,” said Alexander.
“The Lord of Hosts avenges his destroyed Jerusalem.”
“Say not ‘avenges,’ say ‘punishes.’”
“Someone is coming down the passage.”
“Is it a brother?”
“No, he makes no obeisance before the cross.”
“Then it is an executioner.”
The Emperor appeared in rags, dirty, with a handkerchief tied round his
forehead. As he approached the Christians, whom in their white cloaks he
took for Greeks, he became quiet and resolved to bargain with them.
“Are you Greeks?”
“Here is neither Jew nor Greek, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free, but
all are brothers in Christ! Welcome, brother!”
“It is the Wild Beast,” said Alexander.
The Emperor now recognised his escaped slave, and in his terror fell on
his knees.
“Kill me not! I am a poor stone-cutter, who has lost his way. Show me
the way out, whether right or left.”
“Do you know me?” asked Alexander.
“Alexander!” answered the Emperor.
“He whom you wished to burn. It is I!”
“Mercy! Kill me not!”
“Stand up, Caesar! Thy life is in God’s hand.”
“Do I find mercy?”
“You shall have a guide.”
“Say whether right or left; then I can help myself.”
“Keep to the left.”
“And if you lie.”
“I cannot lie! Do you see, that is the difference.”
“Why do you not lie? I should have done so.”
“Keep to the left.”
The Emperor believed him, and went. But after going some steps, he stood
still and turned round.
“Out upon you, slaves! Now I shall help myself.”
It was a terribly stormy night, when Nero, accompanied by the boy
Sporus, and a few slaves, reached the estate of his freedman Phaon.
Phaon did not dare to receive him, but advised him to hide in a
clay-pit. But the Emperor did not wish to creep into the earth, but
sprang into a pond, when he heard the pursuers approaching, and remained
standing in the water. From this place he heard those who were going
by seeking him, say that he was condemned to be flogged to death. Then,
after some hesitation, he thrust a dagger into his breast.
His nurse Acte, who had also been his paramour, buried him in a garden
on Monte Pincio. The Romans loved him after his death, and brought
flowers to his grave. But the Christians saw in him the Wild Beast and
the Antichrist of the Apocalypse.
THE APOSTATE
At a date rather more than three hundred years after the Birth
of Christ, the stage of the world’s history had shifted from the
Mediterranean to the East. Greece was sunk in everlasting sleep, Rome
lay in ruins and had become a tributary state. Jerusalem was destroyed,
Alexandria at the mouth of the Nile in a state of decay. The world’s
metropolis lay on the Black Sea, and was a half-oriental colony called
Byzantium, or, after Constantine the Great, Constantinople. The heathen
world was a waste, and Christianity had become the State religion.
But the spirit of Christianity had not penetrated the empire. Doctrine
indeed there was--plenty of doctrine--but those at court lived worse
lives than the heathen, and the way to the throne in Byzantium was
generally through a murder.
But while the centre of gravity in Europe had shifted to the East, new
conquests had been made in the West and in the North. The Romans had
founded fifty cities on the Rhine, and, since Julius Caesar’s time, all
Gaul lay under Roman ploughs and worshipped Roman gods in Roman temples.
But now that Christianity was to be introduced into Gaul, it encountered
great difficulties. The original religion of the country, Druidism, had
been proscribed by the Emperor Claudius, and the Roman cult of the gods
substituted. And now that a second alteration of their religion was
proposed, the Gauls strongly resented it. Accordingly Gaul was in a
state of disorganisation, which was likely to result in some new growth.
But under the rule of Constantius, new danger from another side
threatened the newly-formed provinces of Gaul. The German races, the
Franks and the Alemanni, were attracted by the charm of the fertile
land, where the mountains seemed to drop with wine, and the plains were
covered with yellow corn. In order to protect the best of his provinces,
and perhaps for other reasons, the Emperor sent his cousin and
brother-in-law, Julian, to subdue the Germans. Although Julian had been
educated in a convent and at a university, he seems to have understood
the art of war, for he defeated the invaders and then retired to Lutetia
Parisiorum.
The legions had marched up the Mons Martis or Martyrorum, as it was
called by turns. At their head went the insignificant-looking man with
his beard trimmed like a philosopher’s--Julian, surnamed Caesar, but
not therefore Emperor. High on the summit of the hill stood a temple of
Mars, but it was closed. When the army had encamped, Julian went alone
to the edge of the hill, in order to view the town Lutetia, which he had
never seen.
On the island between the two arms of the Seine lay the main part of
the town with the temple of Jupiter; but the Imperial Palace and the
Amphitheatre stood on the slope of Mount Parnassus, on the left bank of
the river. For three hundred years from the time of Julius Caesar, the
Emperors had stayed here at intervals. The two last occupants had been
Constantine the Great and Constantius.
After thoughtfully contemplating for a while the valley with the river
flowing through it, Julian exclaimed, “Urbs! Why, it is Rome! A river,
a valley, and hills, seven or more, just as at Rome. Don’t you see,
we stand on the Capitoline? On the opposite side we have Janiculum
represented by Mount Parnassus, and in the north Mons Valerian forms our
Vatican. And the city on the island! The island resembles a ship, just
like the island in the Tiber, on which they have erected an obelisk as a
mast, so striking was the similarity. Caesar indeed was too original to
have wished to copy. They call Byzantium New Rome, but Rome is like a
worm; when cut in two, a living creature is formed from each piece. What
do you say, Maximus?”
“Rome was the city of the seven hills and the seven kings; how many
there will be here, none can say.”
“It had never occurred to me,” answered Julian, “that Rome had had just
as many kings as hills--a curious coincidence!”
Maximus the Mystic, who, together with the Sophist Priscus, always
accompanied the Emperor, in order to give him opportunities for
philosophising, immediately objected: “There are no ‘coincidences,’
Caesar, everything is reckoned and numbered; everything is created with
a conscious purpose, and in harmonious correspondence--the firmament of
heaven and the circle of the earth.”
“You have learnt that in Egypt,” Priscus interrupted, “for the Egyptians
see the river Nile in the constellation Eridanus. I should like to know
under which constellation this Lutetia lies!”
“It lies under Andromeda, like Rome,” answered Maximus, “but Perseus
hangs over the Holy Land, so that Algol stands over Jerusalem.”
“Why do you call that cursed land ‘holy’?” broke in Julian, who could
not control his generally quiet temper as soon as any subject was
mentioned connected with Christianity, which he hated.
“I call the land ‘holy’ because the Redeemer of the world was born
there. And you know that He was born without a father, like Perseus; you
know also that Perseus delivered Andromeda, as Jesus Christ will deliver
Rome and Lutetia.”
Julian was silent, for, as a Neo-platonist, he liked analogies between
the heavenly and the temporal, and a poetic figure was more for him than
a rhetorical ornament.
Educated in a convent by Christian priests, he had early gained an
insight into the new teaching of Christianity; but he believed that
his philosophic culture had shown him that the seed of Christianity
had already germinated in Socrates and Plato. After he had made the
acquaintance of the Neo-Platonists, he found nothing to object to in
the recently-promulgated dogmas of Christianity. But he felt a boundless
hate against these Galilaeans who wished to appropriate all the wisdom
of the past ages and give it their own name. He regarded them as
thieves. The doctrine of Christ’s Divine Sonship seemed to him quite
natural, for as a Pantheist he believed that the souls of all men are
born of God and have part in Him. He himself acknowledged the dogma
recently promulgated at Nicaea, that the Son is of the same essence as
the Father, although he interpreted, it in his own way. As to miracles,
they happened every day, and could be imitated by magicians. He
acknowledged the truth of the Fall of Man, for Plato also had declared
that the soul is imprisoned in matter--in sinful matter, with which we
must do battle. And this had been confirmed by St. Paul’s saying in the
Epistle to the Romans, “The good which I would, that I do not, but the
evil, which I would not, that I do,” and again, “I delight in the law
of God after the inward man. But I see another law in my members, which
warreth against the law of my mind.... O wretched man that I am! who
shall deliver me from the body of this death?” That was the lament of
the thinking sensitive man regarding the soul’s imprisonment in matter;
the disgust of human nature at itself.
Julian, as a sensitive and struggling spirit, had felt this pressure,
and had honestly and successfully combated the lusts of the flesh. Grown
up though he was, among murderers and sybarites, in the extravagant
luxury of the Byzantine Court, where, for example, he had at first
possessed a thousand barbers and a thousand cooks, he had abandoned
luxury, lived like a Christian ascetic, acted justly, and was
high-minded. He had a perfect comprehension of the soul’s imprisonment
in the flesh or of “sin,” but understood nothing of the Redemption
through Christ. Three hundred years had passed since the birth of
Christ, and the world had become continually more wretched. The
Christians he had seen, especially his uncle Constantine the Great,
lived worse than the heathen. As a young man he had tested the new
teaching in his own internal struggles; he had prayed to Christ as to
God, but had not been heard. When he had lamented his plight to the
devout Eusebius, the latter had answered, “Be patient in hope! Continue
constant in prayer.”
But the youth answered, “I cannot be patient.”
Then Eusebius said, “The deliverance comes, but not in our time. A
thousand years are as a day before the Lord God! Wait five days, then
you will see.”
“I will not wait,” exclaimed the youth angrily.
“So say the damned souls also. But look you, impatience is one of
the torments of hell, and you make a hell for yourself with your
impatience.”
Julian became a hater of Christ, without exactly knowing why. The
philosophers did not teach it him, for they adapted Christianity to
their philosophy. Celsus’ feeble attack on Christianity had not misled
Julian’s ripe and cultured intelligence. Eusebius explained his pupil’s
hatred of Christ in the following way: “He has heathen blood in him, for
he comes of Illyrian stock; he does not belong to this sheepfold. Or is
his pride so boundless, his envy so great, that he cannot tolerate any
Autocrat in the realm of the spirit? He lives himself like a Christian,
and teaches the same as Christ, but at the same time is a Christ-hater.”
* * * * *
Meanwhile Julian, in order to hide his anger, had approached the little
Temple of Mars on the hill. The building was in ruins, the doors had
been carried away, and the columns were broken. As he entered it, he saw
the statue of Mars, modelled after a good Greek one of Ares, standing in
the apse, but the nose was broken off, the fingers were lacking, and the
whole statue was streaked with dirt.
“This is the work of the Galilaeans,” said Julian, “but they shall pay
for it.”
“They have already paid with their lives,” answered Maximus.
“Dionysius [Footnote: St. Denis] was beheaded on the hill, and his
chapel stands there on the slope.”
“Are you also a Galilaean?”
“No; but I love justice.”
“Justice and its guardian-goddess Astrasa left the earth when the Iron
Age began; now she is a star in heaven.”
“In the Zodiac,” interrupted Priscus; “I believe also, we all live in
Zodiacs, and there justice has no place.”
A sudden murmur of voices was heard from the camp. Julian mounted a heap
of stones to see what was the matter. The whole of the north-east side
of Mars’ Hill was covered with soldiers, and below in the valley were
to be seen tents and camp-fires. These thousands belonged to all the
nations of the world. They comprised Romans, Greeks, Egyptians, Negroes,
Hebrews, Persians, Afghans, Scythians, Germans, Britons, and Gauls. But
now they were in movement and swarming, as gnats do when they dance.
“What is the excitement about?” asked Julian.
A little bell from the chapel of St. Denis sounded the Angelus, and the
Christians fell on their knees, while the heathen remained standing
or continued their occupations. The Christians considered themselves
disturbed, and so did the heathen.
“This religion,” said Julian, “which should unite all, only divides
them. If the Church Councils, instead of formulating new creeds, had
done away with all forms, and proclaimed free worship with praise and
adoration of the Highest, all peoples would have bent the knee before
the Nameless, but look at the Christians! Since the law is on their
side, they have the upper hand, and therefore compel the heathen to
adore their Galilaean! But I will not help them. I can hold nations
together, but not professors of creeds. Let us go into the town. I will
not mix in the matter.”
Some Christian tribunes approached Julian, with the evident purpose of
complaining, but he waved them off.
* * * * *
Julian had entered Lutetia on foot, accompanied by his philosophers. He
had not allowed himself to be escorted by generals or other officers,
because he did not trust them.
He found the new town to be a miniature of the Rome of the Caesars. It
is true that huts with straw roofs formed the nucleus of it, but there
were also several temples and chapels, a prefecture, a forum, and an
amphitheatre. The forum or market-place was surrounded by colonnades,
in which tradesmen and money-changers’ had opened their shops. One
side--the shortest--of it was occupied by the prefecture, in which the
Aedile and Quaestor lived.
Unnoticed and unrecognised by the people, Julian went into the
prefecture. In the hall he saw Christian symbols--the cross, the fish,
the good shepherd, etc. Christianity was certainly the State religion,
but Julian’s hatred against everything Christian was so great that he
could not look at these figures. Accordingly he went out again, called
the Prefect down, and bade him show the way to the Imperial palace and
the left side of the river. There he took up his abode in a simple room
resembling a monk’s cell. As he had been obliged to make many detours
since he had left Byzantium, and the punitive expedition against the
Franks and Alemanni had consumed much time, he found letters waiting his
arrival. Among them was one from the Emperor which seriously discomposed
Julian.
The attitude of the Emperor towards his cousin had always been somewhat
dubious, almost hostile, and now, after the latter’s victories, envy
and fear had taken possession of the mind of the Byzantine despot. The
letter contained a command for Julian to send back the legions at once,
as the war was at an end. Julian saw the danger if he stripped the
newly recovered land bare of defence, but his sense of duty and
conscientiousness bade him obey, and without hesitation he sent the
Emperor’s edict to the camp. This was on the evening of the first day of
his arrival.
The next morning Julian had gone out for an excursion with his learned
staff. They slowly climbed Mount Parnassus, and wandered through the oak
wood on the north side, avoiding the beaten paths. He and his companions
philosophised and disputed eagerly, and, forgetting their surroundings,
wandered ever deeper into the forest. Finally they reached an open space
where grazing deer had taken refuge, and set themselves down to rest on
strangely-shaped stones which lay in a circle. In the oaks over their
heads were large green clumps of a different colour from the oak-leaves,
and these they thought were birds’ nests.
“I have never seen so many crows’ nests together,” said Julian.
“They are not crows’ nests, your Majesty,” answered the scribe Eleazar,
who acted as Julian’s secretary. “That is the sacred mistletoe, which
grows on the oak, and through the operation of cosmic forces takes this
globular form, which is also said to be that of the earth and the other
heavenly bodies.”
“Is that...?”
“Yes, and we seem to have entered a sacred sacrificial grove, in which
the primeval deities of the land are still worshipped by the Druids,
although their worship is forbidden.”
“Forbidden in spite of the Emperor’s edict regarding religious freedom,”
broke in the Sophist Priscus.
Julian did not like to be reminded of this edict, through which
Christianity had won freedom to suppress other creeds. He rose with
his companions in order to continue their excursion. After a while they
reached Suresnes and its vineyards, where figtrees and peach-trees lined
the walls. When they had ascended a height, they saw the whole Seine
Valley lying before them, with its fields, gardens, and villas.
“Why, that is like the sacred land of Canaan!” exclaimed Julian,
enchanted by the lovely landscape.
On the other side of the river rose the Hill of Mars, with its temples
and chapels, and where the soil had been laid bare the white chalk
gleamed in patches, as though a countless number of tents had been
erected on the slopes.
The philosophers stood for a long time there, and contemplated the view,
when a sound was heard like that of an approaching tempest. But no
cloud was visible, and they remained listening and wondering. The noise
increased till cries, shouts, and the clash of arms were heard. Now the
Hill of Mars seemed to be in movement; there were swarms of men on its
summit, and here and there steel could be seen flashing. Like a river,
the mass began to roll down the hill to the town.
Then the spectators understood. “It is a revolt of the legions,”
exclaimed Maximus.
“The edict has taken effect.”
“They seek their own Emperor.”
“Then the only thing for us to do is to turn round and go home.” They
turned into the path which ran along the river, and followed it up the
stream, in order to be able to see what the legions were doing. The dark
mass, interspersed with flashes From swords and helmets, poured on in an
ever stronger tide.
Quickening their steps, Julian and his companions reached the palace, in
which there was great excitement. Julian was naturally a courageous man,
but as a philosopher he was retiring, and wished to avoid public scenes.
He therefore went through the bath-house and sought his lonely chamber,
in order to await what would happen. He paced restlessly up and down
the room, feeling that the destiny of his whole future life was just now
being decided. So there came what he half expected. Cries were audible
from the courtyard of the palace,--“Ave Caesar Julianus Imperator! We
choose Julian as Emperor! The crown for Julian! Death to Constantius the
murderer and weakling!”
There was no longer any room for doubt. The legions had chosen Julian
Emperor because they would not leave this fertile land, which they had
conquered at the cost of their blood. Julian, who had not striven
for power because he feared responsibility, wished to decline; but
messengers from the army warned him, “If you do not accept, you will
be slain.” He who does not dare to rule will be enslaved. Thus Julian
became Emperor of the great realm which stretched from the Black Sea to
the Atlantic Ocean.
* * * * *