Christmas Day of 800 A.D. in Rome, when the Western Roman Empire
was restored, and the crown was bestowed on Germany. This had been
prophesied by Tacitus, and Hermann in the Teutoburger Wald had shed
his martyr’s blood for it. Rome and Germany! A spiritual and a worldly
kingdom! Inscrutable are the ways of the Lord!
When we drank to the strong and gentle Carolus Magnus Augustus, we both
rose, Thiodolf and I, and bowed before the empty chair, as though he
sat there in bodily presence. Where is he now, the departed of blessed
memory--where is his great kingdom, which only his powerful spirit could
hold together? What he united has now been scattered by his successors!
You know, after the last treaty at Verdun, the kingdom of Karl the Great
has ceased to exist; in its place we now have three--Germany, France,
and Italy. Perhaps it must be so, and perhaps a single man cannot rule
so great an empire. But it is sad to perceive in history that every
great achievement carries within it the seeds of decay, and that the
heights are always bordered by deep abysses. Brother Thiodolf brought
disquieting news from France. The Saxons, who were finally overthrown
with their powerful chief Widukind, have devised a terrible revenge.
They have invited Danish and Swedish pirates, called Vikings, into the
country. These have sailed up the Rhine, up the Seine as far as Rouen,
and up the Loire. These Scandinavians are of German stock, and are
therefore of kin to us Franks, but are more nearly related to the
Goths, Heruli, Rugieri, and Longobards, of whom the last three are
Scandinavian. Odovacer, who overthrew the Western Roman Empire, and
deposed the last Emperor Romulus Augustulus, was a Rugier from the
Danish island Rugen. These men from the North seem to be now about to
step on the stage. Possibly they are the Gog and Magog concerning whom
the Old Testament prophesied that they should come from the North. We
did not end our conversation till midnight, Thiodolf and I; then we
walked up and down in the garden till early mass, for we could not
sleep.
Now I close this letter, dear wife, by wishing you happy days far from
all the tumult of the world. I only wait for my departure, for life has
lost its relish for me, since my lord and Emperor has passed into the
great silence. Greet the brethren and the few who still survive from the
time of the Great Emperor, and accept, dear Emma, the greeting of your
dead husband, whom you will not see before the Day of Resurrection, the
great Easter, when we shall all meet again. Till then, “Be of one mind,
live in peace, and the God of Jove and of peace shall be with you.”
THE CLOSE OF THE FIRST MILLENNIUM
In the year 998 A.D. Rome had become a German Empire and the German
Emperor had become a Roman. Otto III, brought up by his Graeco-Byzantine
mother Theofano, had inherited her love of the southern lands, and
therefore generally occupied his palace on the Aventine, installed
himself as Emperor, and cherished a plan of converting Rome into the
capital of the German Empire. He was now twenty years old, ambitious,
crochety, pious, and cruel.
During one of his absences, the old Roman spirit had revived, and the
high-born senator Crescentius had set up himself as Tribune of the
people, freed Rome from the Germans, driven away Pope Gregory V, and
installed John XVI in his place. The Emperor returned quickly to Rome,
took Crescentius and his Pope prisoner, and then presented the Romans
with a vivid spectacle, the like of which they had not seen, though
their fathers had.
The Leonine quarter, which embraced the Vatican Hill, with the oldest
St. Peter’s Church and a papal palace, was connected with the town by
the Pons Aelius or Bridge of Hadrian. At the head of the bridge, on the
right side, was the sepulchre of Hadrian, a tower-shaped building in
which the Emperors up to the time of Caracalla had been buried. When the
Goths took Rome, the sepulchre became a fortress, and remained so for a
long time.
When the Romans woke up on that memorable morning of the year 998 A.D.,
they saw twelve wooden crosses erected on Hadrian’s Tower terrace. Right
above them was to be seen the image of the Archangel Michael, with his
drawn sword, which had been erected by Gregory the Great. Many people
were assembled on the Aelian Bridge to see the spectacle, and among them
were a French merchant and a Gothic pilgrim who had come from the west
across the Leonine quarter. The sword of the Archangel flamed in the
beams of the sun, which was now high.
“What are those crosses for?” asked the pilgrim, shading his eyes.
“There are twelve! Perhaps they are intended to represent the twelve
Apostles.”
“No, they have finished their sufferings, and the pious Emperor does not
crucify the disciples of the Lord anew.”
“Yes, the Emperor! The Saxon! Neither the Goth, nor the Longobard, nor
the Frank were to have Rome, but the Saxon--one of the cursed nation
whom Charles the Great thought that he had extirpated. He sent ten
thousand to Gaul, in order to make a present of these savages to the
enemy, and he beheaded four thousand five hundred in a single day,
without its costing him a sleepless night. Wonderful are the ways of the
Lord!”
“The last are often the first.”
“O Lord Jesus, Redeemer of the world! there is something moving on the
crosses! Do you see?”
“Yes, by heaven! No, I cannot look! They are crucified men!”
Two Romans stood by the strangers: “Hermann, you are avenged,” said one.
“Was Hermann a Saxon?” objected the other.
“Probably, since he lived in the Harz district.”
“A thousand years ago Thusnelda passed through the streets in the
triumph-train of Germanicus, and carried the unborn Thumelicus under
her heart! To think that a thousand years had to pass before she was
avenged!”
“A thousand years are as a day! But are not these our Roman brothers on
the cross martyrs for Rome’s freedom?”
“Martyrs for our cause! But this time they were wrong, because the gods
so willed it.”
Now there was a change in the scene. Under the tower a band of soldiers
made a passage through the crowd of people. Pope John XVI came riding
backwards on an ass. His ears and nose had been cut off, and his eyes
had been dug out. It was a gruesome sight. A wine-bladder, waving
over his head in the wind, made it worse. The people were silent, and
shuddered simultaneously, for he was, after all, Christ’s representative
and St. Peter’s successor, although no martyr.
A Sicilian stood on the bridge close to a Jew.
The Sicilian was a Muhammedan, for Sicily was then in the possession of
the Saracens, and had been so for about two hundred years.
“He must be suffering for his predecessors’ sins,” said the Jew; “that
is the Christian belief: _satisfactio vicaria_.”
“Suffering is necessary,” answered the Moslem; “and I do not grieve at
such an end to the pornocracy. For a hundred years the Popes have lived
like cannibals. You remember Sergius III, who lived with the harlot
Theodora and her daughters. John X continued with Marozia, who with her
own hand first killed her brother and then suffocated the Pope with a
cushion. John XII was only nineteen when he became Pope. He took bribes,
and consecrated a ten year-old boy as bishop in a stable. He committed
incest, and turned the Lateran into a brothel. He played cards, drank
and swore by Jupiter and Venus.... You know it well.”
“Yes,” answered the Jew, “the Christians live in hell since they have
abandoned the one true God. The fools have, however, stolen from us the
Messianic promise; but the promise to Abraham we still possess. Rome is
a mad-house, Germany a slaughter-house, and France a brothel. It is a
matter to rejoice at, to see how they destroy each other.”
He placed himself by the balustrade of the bridge, in order to be able
to see better what now followed.
Between the twelve patriots, who writhed on their crosses like worms
on hooks, appeared five men dressed in red, who began to construct a
platform.
“Those are the executioners--on the Emperor’s grave!” said the Jew.
“Against Crescentius I have nothing; he was a noble man who fought for
the Roman State. But there is one Christian the less!”
“The Christians have always two ways of explaining a man’s sufferings.
If he is innocent, his suffering is a test, and if he is guilty, well!
he deserved his fate. There he comes!”
Crescentius, the last Roman, was led forth. His head fell, and thereby
Rome became German, or Germany Roman--till 1806! In the afternoon the
nomination of the new Pope (for one could not call it an election)
took place, and Gerbert of Auvergne was made Pope, with the title of
Silvester II.
* * * * *
The Emperor sat in his palace on the Aventine, and did not venture to go
out, for the Romans hated him. In the little hermitage on the slope of
the hill, where his friend Adalbert of Prague, the missionary martyr
recently killed by the Saxons, used to live, the Emperor shut himself up
with his teacher, the new Pope, Silvester II.
The latter--a Frenchman--had studied in Cordova, where the Caliph had
built a university, where Arabian philosophy, itself derived from Greece
and India, was taught. In Rheims Silvester has also studied philosophy,
mathematics, astronomy, and chemistry. He had been Abbot of Bobbio,
Archbishop of Rheims and Ravenna, and, after protesting in many
ecclesiastical assemblies against the corruption of the Papacy, had
himself become Pope.
The excitement caused by the execution of Crescentius compelled him to
seek refuge on the Aventine with his pupil, the Emperor. From the cell
of the little convent, near Adalbert’s chapel, he guided the destinies
of Europe, while at leisure moments he devoted himself to his favourite
sciences. For this reason he was reported to be a wizard.
One night as he sat, sunk in thought, at his table, which was covered
with letters, the Emperor entered unannounced. He was a tall young man,
dressed in an extraordinary garb, a dalmatica adorned with symbols from
the Book of the Apocalypse, the Wild Beast and the Harlot, the Book of
Seven Seals, and so on.
“Let me talk,” he said; “I cannot sleep.”
“What has happened, my son?”
“Letters have come--warnings--dreams.”
“Tell me.”
“Yes; you listen to me, but you don’t believe me, when I tell you the
truth, and you are afraid of all new thoughts.”
“What is new under the sun? Does not St. Augustine say regarding our
holy faith, ‘What is called in our days Christianity, already existed
since the creation of mankind to the birth of Christ. It was then that
they began to call Christianity the true religion, which had already
existed before. The truths taught by Christ are the same as the ancient
ones, only more developed’?”
“Heretic, beware! You do not know what is taking place in the world.”
“Let me hear.”
“Pilgrims from many lands have been here, and tell of prodigies,
visions, and wonders. In the south of France there are pestilence and
famine, and human flesh has been sold in the butchers’ shops; in Germany
a fiery iron rod has been seen in the sky, and here in Italy these
endless pilgrimages have recommenced. In Jerusalem the Church of the
Holy Sepulchre has been plundered, and the temple of the False Prophet
erected. The whole of Christendom is trembling, for in the immoral Popes
of the last century they have seen the Antichrist. Christ’s ambassador
is murdered; yes, my friend Adalbert was the last up there in Poland:
the heathen have reconquered all Christ’s conquests in Asia and Africa.
The followers of the False Prophet are in Spain, Sicily, and Naples,
and threaten Rome. This can mean nothing less than the Last Judgment and
destruction of the world, as announced in the Apocalypse.”
“So it is the old story again?”
“Story! Get thee hence Satan, for thou savourest not the things which be
of God, but those which be of men.”
“Do you call me Satan?”
“Yes, when you deny the Word. Is it not written in John’s Apocalypse,
‘And when the thousand years are accomplished, Satan will be let loose
from his prison. And he shall go to deceive the nations which are in
the four ends of the earth, Gog and Magog’? There you have the northern
peoples who are now in England, Normandy, and Sicily. Is not Theodora
the great Babylonian Harlot? Is not the deceiver Muhammed the Wild
Beast?”
“Wait, my son! I might quote a verse from the same chapter: ‘He who
hath part in the first resurrection shall reign with Christ a thousand
years.’ So that the Millennium is _beginning_ now, and cannot end
forthwith.”
“The old one ends, and the new begins.”
“Just so! The old dark age is past, and we await Christ’s second coming
on earth. If you retained the hope, you would see the new era dawn.”
“I do not believe a word of what you say. The last year of the thousand
years is here, and now I go out in the desert to await, with fasting,
prayer, and penance, the day of the Lord, and the coming of my Redeemer.
I will pray for you, my father, but here our ways part, and you will see
me no more.”
The Emperor departed, and Silvester remained alone.
“I wait!” he said to himself, “but meanwhile I look after our worldly
affairs.” And he unfolded a map of the then known world. With a piece
of red chalk he drew crosses and crowns, for the most part in the North.
But above Jerusalem he drew a flag with a lance.
* * * * *
The year 999 approached its end, and the Christians lived in a state of
deadly anxiety. In Rome and its neighbourhood, all the active business
of life had ceased. The fields were not sown, but lay covered with
weeds; trade was at a stand-still; the shops were closed. Those who had
anything gave it away, and had difficulty in finding anyone to take it.
The churches stood open day and night for three months, and each day was
like Sunday. People wore their best clothes, for there was no object in
keeping them, and they wished to be well dressed in order to meet
the Redeemer on His arrival. Christmas had been kept with unwonted
solemnity, and men lived at peace with one another. The guards of the
city had nothing to do, for the fear of what was coming sufficed to
maintain order. People slept with open doors, and no one dared to steal
or to deceive. There was no need to do so, for everyone received what
he asked for; bakers distributed bread gratis, and innkeepers allowed
unlimited credit; the payment of debts was not exacted. The churches
were crowded day and night; there was a ceaseless round of confessions,
absolutions, masses and communions.
It was the day before New Year’s Eve. Views were divided as to the
nature of the coming catastrophe--whether it would come as a flood or as
an earthquake. Most of the people remained outside their houses, some
on the plain, others on the hills; all with their eyes directed towards
heaven.
In the morning, the Plain of Mars was full of men, and a crowd formed a
circle round a pile of wood. A madman stood on the pile and spoke, with
a quantity of papers and parchments in his hand. He was a rich citizen
who for three months had practised fasting and penance, and now, reduced
to a skeleton, wished to escape the wrath to come. He had collected a
large quantity of dry wood under the pretext of giving warmth to all
passing beasts of burthen. Since nobody troubled about what others did,
he was allowed to do as he liked.
Near the pile of wood stood the remains of an old orator’s pulpit, and
in that he took his stand after he had kindled the pile. “In the name
of the Eternal God,” he said, “so surely as I burn these bonds, will God
the Lord erase my sins from His Book. For all sufferings which I
have caused others, I will now suffer myself. Purifying fire, burn my
wretched body with all its sins! Mounting flames, let me follow you
upwards! Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!” He leaped from the pulpit, and
fell in the midst of the flames, where he remained on his knees with
folded hands till he was suffocated.
In the Forum a man was seen working with a miner’s iron bar at a
rubbish-heap which should cover him: “Say to the mountains, Cover us,”
he sang.
From the Pons Sublicius a young couple sprang into the river, locked in
an embrace which death could not loosen.
At mid-day the prisons were opened, and the prisoners were received as
heroes and martyrs. They were taken to the houses of the nobility, made
to sit at table, and senators and their wives washed their feet.
“We are all sinners,” people said, “and have nothing to boast of. These
prisoners have endured their punishment while we went about free.”
Never had there been such a display of philanthropy and mercy since the
early days of Christianity.
The sick in the hospitals wanted to come outside, and their beds were
carried into the streets and market-places. Everyone, in fact, wanted
to be in the open air, and families brought their furniture into the
streets. Birds were liberated from their cages, and horses from their
stables. At first the latter ran about in the town, but as they scented
the fresh air and reached the town gates they galloped off to the
Campagna, to seek green pasture. Many, however, remained in the town,
and lay about here and there, while children clambered on their backs.
The children were the only ones who felt no fear. They jumped about and
played as usual, rejoicing in their freedom and the unusual aspect of
things. No one wanted to restrain them, and as they did not understand
what was the matter, they remained free from anxiety and went on
playing.
New Year’s Eve had arrived, and the universal alarm rose to a great
height. Masters and servants were seen embracing each other and weeping,
the former lamenting their severity--the latter, their dishonesty. Old
enemies, who met each other on the street, grasped hands and led each
other about like children, singing hymns of praise. It was something
like the Golden Age as imagined by the Fathers of the early Church.
The air was as mild as that of a spring day, and the sky was clear till
noon. Then it became overclouded. No one ate or drank, but all bathed
and put on their festal attire. During the afternoon processions of
priests and monks marched through the town, and sang litanies, in which
the people joined. Their Kyrie Eleison, “Christ, have mercy upon us,”
rang all over the town. All Rome was preparing for its own judgment and
execution.
There were, however, a number of unbelieving and profligate persons who
expected nothing new; they had assembled themselves in the catacombs
and ruins, where they celebrated Bacchanalian feasts and orgies. In
the ruins of Nero’s Golden House a banquet on a large scale had been
arranged. In the centre on the ground there burned a fire, surrounded
by tables and seats. There was abundance of victuals and wine, for which
they only needed to go to the store-room and cellar. There were music,
dancing, and singing, and between whiles they amused themselves by
watching the bats and owls, which flitted about, scorch and singe
themselves in the fire.
Their hilarity was loud, but not unforced. Here, too, philosophising and
prophecy were in evidence.
“There is not going to be any Last Judgment to-day,” said a young man,
who looked as though he were a descendant of the Emperor Nero.
“Anyhow, if it comes, death cannot introduce us to anything worse than
we have had in life.”
“It has always seemed to me that we are in hell. Headaches every
morning, debts and disgrace, varied by occasional imprisonments.”
“The Emperor sits naked in a grotto at the foot of Soracte.”
“Vides ut alta stet nive candidum, Soracte.”
“As we are speaking, life the envious flits away. Enjoy the present day,
nor trust the morrow!”
“And the Pope is going to hold a midnight mass--he who has no faith in
it himself.”
“But he must put a good face on it, and go through with it.”
“I know one woman who will not go to mass to-day.”
“That is the beautiful Stephania, the widow of Crescentius.”
“But she watches for vengeance.”
“What have these Germans to do in Rome? I wish the owner of this Golden
House could rise from the dead. He was the last Roman!”
“He was a man who did not caress his enemies. He feared nothing
between heaven and earth, not even the lightning. Once there was a
lightning-flash in his dining-hall as he reclined at table. What do you
think he said? ‘To your health!’ and raised his goblet.”
At this moment a heated stone fell from the vaulted roof into the fire,
and caused a shower of sparks. The night wind rushed through the hole
thus formed, and blew the smoke into the feasters faces. At first they
were amused at the occurrence, but were soon obliged to leave the vault.
“Let us go out and witness the end of the world!” cried one of the
youths. They formed a procession of Bacchanals and Maenads, one in front
carrying a filled wineskin. There were flute-players among them, and all
carried goblets in their hands.
* * * * *
Below, in the old Basilica of St. Peter, stood the Pope before the
altar, and performed in silence the midnight mass. The church was
crowded, and everyone was on his knees. The silence was so deep that
the rustle of the white sleeve of the officiant could be heard when
he elevated the cup. But another sound was audible, which seemed to be
measuring out the last moments of the Millennium. It beat like the pulse
in the ear of a feverish man, and at the same rate. The door of the
sacristy stood open, and the great clock which hung there ticked calmly
and steadfastly, once in a second.
The Pope, who was outwardly just as calm, had probably left the door
open in order to produce the utmost effect at the great moment, for his
face was pale with emotion, but he did not move, and his hands did not
tremble.
The mass was over, and a death-like silence ensued. The people expected
the Lord’s servant at the altar to speak a few words of comfort. But he
said nothing; he seemed absorbed in prayer, and had stretched out his
hands towards heaven.
The clock ticked, the people sighed, but nothing happened. Like children
afraid of the dark, the congregation lay with their faces towards the
ground, and dared not look up. A cold sweat of anxiety dropped from many
brows, knees which had gone to sleep caused pain, or were numb, and felt
as though they had been amputated.
Then the clock suddenly ceased ticking.
Had the works run down? Was it an omen? Was everything going to stand
still, time to be at an end, and eternity begin? From the congregation
rose some stifled cries, and, lifeless with terror, some bodies dropped
on the stone pavement.
Then the clock began to strike--One, Two, Three, Four.... The twelfth
stroke sounded, and the echoes died away. A fresh death-like silence
ensued.
Then Silvester turned round, and, with the proud smile of a victor, he
extended his hands in blessing. At the same moment all the bells in the
tower rang out joyfully, and from the organ-loft a choir of voices began
to sing, somewhat unsteadily at first, but soon firmly and clearly, “Te
Deum Laudamus!”
The congregation joined in, but it was some time before they could
straighten their stiffened backs, and recover from the spectacle of
those who had died of fright. When the hymn was over, the people fell in
each other’s arms, weeping and laughing like lunatics, as they gave each
other the kiss of peace.
So ended the first Millennium after the birth of Christ.
In the little castle Paterno on Mount Soracte, the Emperor had spent the
Christmas week and New Year’s Eve in the strictest fast and penance. But
when New Year’s Day was come, and nothing had happened, he returned to
Rome to meet Silvester and take measures for the future. The Emperor’s
friend and teacher received him with a smile which was easy to
interpret. But the monarch was still so much under the effect of his fit
of alarm that he did not venture to be angry.
“Will you now return to earth, my son, and look after your mundane
affairs?” said Silvester.
“I will, but I must first fulfil two vows which I made in the hour of
need.”
“Fulfil them certainly.”
“I go to the grave of my friend Adalbert in Gnesen, and I must visit the
funeral vault of Charles the Great in Aachen.”
“Do so, but you must at the same time fulfil some commissions which I
give you for the journey.”
So they parted.
* * * * *
Two years had passed, when, one day in January, Pope Silvester
was summoned to Paterno, the little castle on Soracte, where the
Roman-German Emperor dwelt, and now lay ill.
When Silvester entered the sick-room, the Emperor sat upright, but
looked troubled. “You are ill,” said Silvester: “is it the soul or
body?”
“I am tired.”
“Already, at twenty-two years of age.”
“I am despondent.”