PART I. THE LAST GALLEY

“Mutato nomine, de te, Britannia, fabula narratur.”

It was a spring morning, one hundred and forty-six years before the

coming of Christ. The North African Coast, with its broad hem of golden

sand, its green belt of feathery palm trees, and its background of

barren, red-scarped hills, shimmered like a dream country in the opal

light. Save for a narrow edge of snow-white surf, the Mediterranean lay

blue and serene as far as the eye could reach. In all its vast expanse

there was no break but for a single galley, which was slowly making its

way from the direction of Sicily and heading for the distant harbour of

Carthage.

Seen from afar it was a stately and beautiful vessel, deep red in

colour, double-banked with scarlet oars, its broad, flapping sail

stained with Tyrian purple, its bulwarks gleaming with brass work. A

brazen, three-pronged ram projected in front, and a high golden figure

of Baal, the God of the Phoenicians, children of Canaan, shone upon the

after deck. From the single high mast above the huge sail streamed the

tiger-striped flag of Carthage. So, like some stately scarlet bird, with

golden beak and wings of purple, she swam upon the face of the waters--a

thing of might and of beauty as seen from the distant shore.

But approach and look at her now! What are these dark streaks which foul

her white decks and dapple her brazen shields? Why do the long red oars

move out of time, irregular, convulsive? Why are some missing from the

staring portholes, some snapped with jagged, yellow edges, some trailing

inert against the side? Why are two prongs of the brazen ram twisted and

broken? See, even the high image of Baal is battered and disfigured! By

every sign this ship has passed through some grievous trial, some day of

terror, which has left its heavy marks upon her.

And now stand upon the deck itself, and see more closely the men who man

her! There are two decks forward and aft, while in the open waist are

the double banks of seats, above and below, where the rowers, two to

an oar, tug and bend at their endless task. Down the centre is a narrow

platform, along which pace a line of warders, lash in hand, who cut

cruelly at the slave who pauses, be it only for an instant, to sweep the

sweat from his dripping brow. But these slaves--look at them! Some are

captured Romans, some Sicilians, many black Libyans, but all are in the

last exhaustion, their weary eyelids drooped over their eyes, their

lips thick with black crusts, and pink with bloody froth, their arms

and backs moving mechanically to the hoarse chant of the overseer. Their

bodies of all tints from ivory to jet, are stripped to the waist, and

every glistening back shows the angry stripes of the warders. But it is

not from these that the blood comes which reddens the seats and tints

the salt water washing beneath their manacled feet. Great gaping wounds,

the marks of sword slash and spear stab, show crimson upon their naked

chests and shoulders, while many lie huddled and senseless athwart the

benches, careless for ever of the whips which still hiss above them. Now

we can understand those empty portholes and those trailing oars.

Nor were the crew in better case than their slaves. The decks were

littered with wounded and dying men. It was but a remnant who still

remained upon their feet. The most lay exhausted upon the fore-deck,

while a few of the more zealous were mending their shattered armour,

restringing their bows, or cleaning the deck from the marks of combat.

Upon a raised platform at the base of the mast stood the sailing-master

who conned the ship, his eyes fixed upon the distant point of Megara

which screened the eastern side of the Bay of Carthage. On the

after-deck were gathered a number of officers, silent and brooding,

glancing from time to time at two of their own class who stood apart

deep in conversation. The one, tall, dark, and wiry, with pure, Semitic

features, and the limbs of a giant, was Magro, the famous Carthaginian

captain, whose name was still a terror on every shore, from Gaul to

the Euxine. The other, a white-bearded, swarthy man, with indomitable

courage and energy stamped upon every eager line of his keen, aquiline

face, was Gisco the politician, a man of the highest Punic blood, a

Suffete of the purple robe, and the leader of that party in the State

which had watched and striven amid the selfishness and slothfulness of

his fellow-countrymen to rouse the public spirit and waken the public

conscience to the ever-increasing danger from Rome. As they talked, the

two men glanced continually, with earnest anxious faces, towards the

northern skyline.

“It is certain,” said the older man, with gloom in his voice and

bearing, “none have escaped save ourselves.”

“I did not leave the press of the battle whilst I saw one ship which I

could succour,” Magro answered. “As it was, we came away, as you saw,

like a wolf which has a hound hanging on to either haunch. The Roman

dogs can show the wolf-bites which prove it. Had any other galley won

clear, they would surely be with us by now, since they have no place of

safety save Carthage.”

The younger warrior glanced keenly ahead to the distant point which

marked his native city. Already the low, leafy hill could be seen,

dotted with the white villas of the wealthy Phoenician merchants. Above

them, a gleaming dot against the pale blue morning sky, shone the brazen

roof of the citadel of Byrsa, which capped the sloping town.

“Already they can see us from the watch-towers,” he remarked. “Even from

afar they may know the galley of Black Magro. But which of all of them

will guess that we alone remain of all that goodly fleet which sailed

out with blare of trumpet and roll of drum but one short month ago?”

The patrician smiled bitterly. “If it were not for our great ancestors

and for our beloved country, the Queen of the Waters,” said he, “I could

find it in my heart to be glad at this destruction which has come upon

this vain and feeble generation. You have spent your life upon the seas,

Magro. You do not know of know how it has been with us on the land. But

I have seen this canker grow upon us which now leads us to our death.

I and others have gone down into the market-place to plead with the

people, and been pelted with mud for our pains. Many a time have

I pointed to Rome, and said, ‘Behold these people, who bear arms

themselves, each man for his own duty and pride. How can you who hide

behind mercenaries hope to stand against them?’--a hundred times I have

said it.”

“And had they no answer?” asked the Rover.

“Rome was far off and they could not see it, so to them it was nothing,”

the old man answered. “Some thought of trade, and some of votes, and

some of profits from the State, but none would see that the State

itself, the mother of all things, was sinking to her end. So might the

bees debate who should have wax or honey when the torch was blazing

which would bring to ashes the hive and all therein. ‘Are we not rulers

of the sea?’ ‘Was not Hannibal a great man?’ Such were their cries,

living ever in the past and blind to the future. Before that sun sets

there will be tearing of hair and rending of garments; what will that

now avail us?”

“It is some sad comfort,” said Magro, “to know that what Rome holds she

cannot keep.”

“Why say you that? When we go down, she is supreme in all the world.”

“For a time, and only for a time,” Magro answered, gravely. “Yet you

will smile, perchance, when I tell you how it is that I know it. There

was a wise woman who lived in that part of the Tin Islands which juts

forth into the sea, and from her lips I have heard many things, but not

one which has not come aright. Of the fall of our own country, and even

of this battle, from which we now return, she told me clearly. There is

much strange lore amongst these savage peoples in the west of the land

of Tin.”

“What said she of Rome?”

“That she also would fall, even as we, weakened by her riches and her

factions.”

Gisco rubbed his hands. “That at least makes our own fall less bitter,”

said he. “But since we have fallen, and Rome will fall, who in turn may

hope to be Queen of the Waters?”

“That also I asked her,” said Magro, “and gave her my Tyrian belt with

the golden buckle as a guerdon for her answer. But, indeed, it was too

high payment for the tale she told, which must be false if all else she

said was true. She would have it that in coining days it was her own

land, this fog-girt isle where painted savages can scarce row a wicker

coracle from point to point, which shall at last take the trident which

Carthage and Rome have dropped.”

The smile which flickered upon the old patrician’s keen features died

away suddenly, and his fingers closed upon his companion’s wrist. The

other had set rigid, his head advanced, his hawk eyes upon the northern

skyline. Its straight, blue horizon was broken by two low black dots.

“Galleys!” whispered Gisco.

The whole crew had seen them. They clustered along the starboard

bulwarks, pointing and chattering. For a moment the gloom of defeat was

lifted, and a buzz of joy ran from group to group at the thought that

they were not alone--that some one had escaped the great carnage as well

as themselves.

“By the spirit of Baal,” said Black Magro, “I could not have believed

that any could have fought clear from such a welter. Could it be young

Hamilcar in the _Africa_, or is it Beneva in the blue Syrian ship? We

three with others may form a squadron and make head against them yet. If

we hold our course, they will join us ere we round the harbour mole.”

Slowly the injured galley toiled on her way, and more swiftly the two

newcomers swept down from the north. Only a few miles off lay the

green point and the white houses which flanked the great African city.

Already, upon the headland, could be seen a dark group of waiting

townsmen. Gisco and Magro were still watching with puckered gaze the

approaching galleys, when the brown Libyan boatswain, with flashing

teeth and gleaming eyes, rushed upon the poop, his long thin arm

stabbing to the north.

“Romans!” he cried. “Romans!”

A hush had fallen over the great vessel. Only the wash of the water and

the measured rattle and beat of the oars broke in upon the silence.

“By the horns of God’s altar, I believe the fellow is right!” cried old

Gisco. “See how they swoop upon us like falcons. They are full-manned

and full-oared.”

“Plain wood, unpainted,” said Magro. “See how it gleams yellow where the

sun strikes it.”

“And yonder thing beneath the mast. Is it not the cursed bridge they use

for boarding?”

“So they grudge us even one,” said Magro with a bitter laugh. “Not even

one galley shall return to the old sea-mother. Well, for my part, I

would as soon have it so. I am of a mind to stop the oars and await

them.”

“It is a man’s thought,” answered old Gisco; “but the city will need us

in the days to come. What shall it profit us to make the Roman victory

complete? Nay, Magro, let the slaves row as they never rowed before, not

for our own safety, but for the profit of the State.”

So the great red ship laboured and lurched onwards, like a weary panting

stag which seeks shelter from his pursuers, while ever swifter and ever

nearer sped the two lean fierce galleys from the north. Already

the morning sun shone upon the lines of low Roman helmets above the

bulwarks, and glistened on the silver wave where each sharp prow shot

through the still blue water. Every moment the ships drew nearer, and

the long thin scream of the Roman trumpets grew louder upon the ear.

Upon the high bluff of Megara there stood a great concourse of the

people of Carthage who had hurried forth from the city upon the news

that the galleys were in sight. They stood now, rich and poor, effete

and plebeian, white Phoenician and dark Kabyle, gazing with breathless

interest at the spectacle before them. Some hundreds of feet beneath

them the Punic galley had drawn so close that with their naked eyes

they could see those stains of battle which told their dismal tale. The

Romans, too, were heading in such a way that it was before their very

faces that their ship was about to be cut off; and yet of all this

multitude not one could raise a hand in its defence. Some wept in

impotent grief, some cursed with flashing eyes and knotted fists, some

on their knees held up appealing hands to Baal; but neither prayer,

tears, nor curses could undo the past nor mend the present. That broken,

crawling galley meant that their fleet was gone. Those two fierce

darting ships meant that the hands of Rome were already at their throat.

Behind them would come others and others, the innumerable trained hosts

of the great Republic, long mistress of the land, now dominant also

upon the waters. In a month, two months, three at the most, their armies

would be there, and what could all the untrained multitudes of Carthage

do to stop them?

“Nay!” cried one, more hopeful than the rest, “at least we are brave men

with arms in our hands.”

“Fool!” said another, “is it not such talk which has brought us to our

ruin? What is the brave man untrained to the brave man trained? When

you stand before the sweep and rush of a Roman legion you may learn the

difference.”

“Then let us train!”

“Too late! A full year is needful to turn a man to a soldier. Where

will you--where will your city be within the year? Nay, there is but one

chance for us. If we give up our commerce and our colonies, if we strip

ourselves of all that made us great, then perchance the Roman conqueror

may hold his hand.”

And already the last sea-fight of Carthage was coming swiftly to an end

before them. Under their very eyes the two Roman galleys had shot in,

one on either side of the vessel of Black Magro. They had grappled with

him, and he, desperate in his despair, had cast the crooked flukes of

his anchors over their gunwales, and bound them to him in an iron

grip, whilst with hammer and crowbar he burst great holes in his own

sheathing. The last Punic galley should never be rowed into Ostia, a

sight for the holiday-makers of Rome. She would lie in her own waters.

And the fierce, dark soul of her rover captain glowed as he thought that

not alone should she sink into the depths of the mother sea.

Too late did the Romans understand the man with whom they had to deal.

Their boarders who had flooded the Punic decks felt the planking sink

and sway beneath them. They rushed to gain their own vessels; but they,

too, were being drawn downwards, held in the dying grip of the great red

galley. Over they went and ever over. Now the deck of Magro’s ship is

flush with the water, and the Romans, drawn towards it by the iron bonds

which held them, are tilted downwards, one bulwark upon the waves, one

reared high in the air. Madly they strain to cast off the death grip

of the galley. She is under the surface now, and ever swifter, with

the greater weight, the Roman ships heel after her. There is a rending

crash. The wooden side is torn out of one, and mutilated, dismembered,

she rights herself, and lies a helpless thing upon the water. But a last

yellow gleam in the blue water shows where her consort has been dragged

to her end in the iron death-grapple of her foemen. The tiger-striped

flag of Carthage has sunk beneath the swirling surface, never more to be

seen upon the face of the sea.

For in that year a great cloud hung for seventeen days over the African

coast, a deep black cloud which was the dark shroud of the burning city.

And when the seventeen days were over, Roman ploughs were driven from

end to end of the charred ashes, and salt was scattered there as a sign

that Carthage should be no more. And far off a huddle of naked, starving

folk stood upon the distant mountains, and looked down upon the desolate

plain which had once been the fairest and richest upon earth. And they

understood too late that it is the law of heaven that the world is given

to the hardy and to the self-denying, whilst he who would escape the

duties of manhood will soon be stripped of the pride, the wealth, and

the power, which are the prizes which manhood brings.

THE CONTEST.

In the year of our Lord 66, the Emperor Nero, being at that time in the

twenty-ninth year of his life and the thirteenth of his reign, set sail

for Greece with the strangest company and the most singular design that

any monarch has ever entertained. With ten galleys he went forth

from Puteoli, carrying with him great stores of painted scenery and

theatrical properties, together with a number of knights and senators,

whom he feared to leave behind him at Rome, and who were all marked for

death in the course of his wanderings. In his train he took Natus, his

singing coach; Cluvius, a man with a monstrous voice, who should bawl

out his titles; and a thousand trained youths who had learned to applaud

in unison whenever their master sang or played in public. So deftly had

they been taught that each had his own role to play. Some did no more

than give forth a low deep hum of speechless appreciation. Some clapped

with enthusiasm. Some, rising from approbation into absolute frenzy,

shrieked, stamped, and beat sticks upon the benches. Some--and they

were the most effective--had learned from an Alexandrian a long droning

musical note which they all uttered together, so that it boomed over the

assembly. With the aid of these mercenary admirers, Nero had every hope,

in spite of his indifferent voice and clumsy execution, to return

to Rome, bearing with him the chaplets for song offered for free

competition by the Greek cities. As his great gilded galley with two

tiers of oars passed down the Mediterranean, the Emperor sat in his

cabin all day, his teacher by his side, rehearsing from morning to

night those compositions which he had selected, whilst every few hours

a Nubian slave massaged the Imperial throat with oil and balsam, that it

might be ready for the great ordeal which lay before it in the land of

poetry and song. His food, his drink, and his exercise were prescribed

for him as for an athlete who trains for a contest, and the twanging of

his lyre, with the strident notes of his voice, resounded continually

from the Imperial quarters.

Now it chanced that there lived in those days a Grecian goatherd named

Policles, who tended and partly owned a great flock which grazed upon

the long flanks of the hills near Heroea, which is five miles north of

the river Alpheus, and no great distance from the famous Olympia. This

person was noted all over the countryside as a man of strange gifts and

singular character. He was a poet who had twice been crowned for his

verses, and he was a musician to whom the use and sound of an instrument

were so natural that one would more easily meet him without his staff

than his harp. Even in his lonely vigils on the winter hills he would

bear it always slung over his shoulder, and would pass the long hours

by its aid, so that it had come to be part of his very self. He was

beautiful also, swarthy and eager, with a head like Adonis, and in

strength there was no one who could compete with him. But all was

ruined by his disposition, which was so masterful that he would brook

no opposition nor contradiction. For this reason he was continually at

enmity with all his neighbours, and in his fits of temper he would spend

months at a time in his stone hut among the mountains, hearing nothing

from the world, and living only for his music and his goats.

One spring morning, in the year of 67, Policles, with the aid of his

boy Dorus, had driven his goats over to a new pasturage which overlooked

from afar the town of Olympia. Gazing down upon it from the mountain,

the shepherd was surprised to see that a portion of the famous

amphitheatre had been roofed in, as though some performance was being

enacted. Living far from the world and from all news, Policles could

not imagine what was afoot, for he was well aware that the Grecian

games were not due for two years to come. Surely some poetic or musical

contest must be proceeding of which he had heard nothing. If so, there

would perhaps be some chance of his gaining the votes of the judges; and

in any case he loved to hear the compositions and admire the execution

of the great minstrels who assembled on such an occasion. Calling to

Dorus, therefore, he left the goats to his charge, and strode swiftly

away, his harp upon his back, to see what was going forward in the town.

When Policles came into the suburbs, he found them deserted; but he was

still more surprised when he reached the main street to see no single

human being in the place. He hastened his steps, therefore, and as he

approached the theatre he was conscious of a low sustained hum which

announced the concourse of a huge assembly. Never in all his dreams had

he imagined any musical competition upon so vast a scale as this. There

were some soldiers clustering outside the door; but Policles pushed his

way swiftly through them, and found himself upon the outskirts of the

multitude who filled the great space formed by roofing over a portion of

the national stadium. Looking around him, Policles saw a great number of

his neighbours, whom he knew by sight, tightly packed upon the benches,

all with their eyes fixed upon the stage. He also observed that there

were soldiers round the walls, and that a considerable part of the hall

was filled by a body of youths of foreign aspect, with white gowns

and long hair. All this he perceived; but what it meant he could not

imagine. He bent over to a neighbour to ask him, but a soldier prodded

him at once with the butt end of his spear, and commanded him fiercely

to hold his peace. The man whom he had addressed, thinking that Policles

had demanded a seat, pressed closer to his neighbour, and so the

shepherd found himself sitting at the end of the bench which was nearest

to the door. Thence he concentrated himself upon the stage, on which

Metas, a well-known minstrel from Corinth and an old friend of Policles,

was singing and playing without much encouragement from the audience.

To Policles it seemed that Metas was having less than his due, so he

applauded loudly, but he was surprised to observe that the soldiers

frowned at him, and that all his neighbours regarded him with some

surprise. Being a man of strong and obstinate character, he was the more

inclined to persevere in his clapping when he perceived that the general

sentiment was against him.

But what followed filled the shepherd poet with absolute amazement.

When Metas of Corinth had made his bow and withdrawn to half-hearted and

perfunctory applause, there appeared upon the stage, amid the wildest

enthusiasm upon the part of the audience, a most extraordinary figure.

He was a short fat man, neither old nor young, with a bull neck and a

round, heavy face, which hung in creases in front like the dewlap of an

ox. He was absurdly clad in a short blue tunic, braced at the waist

with a golden belt. His neck and part of his chest were exposed, and his

short, fat legs were bare from the buskins below to the middle of his

thighs, which was as far as his tunic extended. In his hair were two

golden wings, and the same upon his heels, after the fashion of the

god Mercury. Behind him walked a negro bearing a harp, and beside him

a richly dressed officer who bore rolls of music. This strange creature

took the harp from the hands of the attendant, and advanced to the front

of the stage, whence he bowed and smiled to the cheering audience. “This

is some foppish singer from Athens,” thought Policles to himself, but

at the same time he understood that only a great master of song could

receive such a reception from a Greek audience. This was evidently some

wonderful performer whose reputation had preceded him. Policles settled

down, therefore, and prepared to give his soul up to the music.

The blue-clad player struck several chords upon his lyre, and then burst

suddenly out into the “Ode of Niobe.” Policles sat straight up on his

bench and gazed at the stage in amazement. The tune demanded a rapid

transition from a low note to a high, and had been purposely chosen for

this reason. The low note was a grunting, a rumble, the deep discordant

growling of an ill-conditioned dog. Then suddenly the singer threw up

his face, straightened his tubby figure, rose upon his tiptoes, and

with wagging head and scarlet cheeks emitted such a howl as the same dog

might have given had his growl been checked by a kick from his master.

All the while the lyre twanged and thrummed, sometimes in front of and

sometimes behind the voice of the singer. But what amazed Policles most

of all was the effect of this performance upon the audience. Every Greek

was a trained critic, and as unsparing in his hisses as he was lavish

in his applause. Many a singer far better than this absurd fop had been

driven amid execration and abuse from the platform. But now, as the

man stopped and wiped the abundant sweat from his fat face, the whole

assembly burst into a delirium of appreciation. The shepherd held his

hands to his bursting head, and felt that his reason must be leaving

him. It was surely a dreadful musical nightmare, and he would wake soon

and laugh at the remembrance. But no; the figures were real, the faces

were those of his neighbours, the cheers which resounded in his ears

were indeed from an audience which filled the theatre of Olympia.

The whole chorus was in full blast, the hummers humming, the shouters

bellowing, the tappers hard at work upon the benches, while every now

and then came a musical cyclone of “Incomparable! Divine!” from the

trained phalanx who intoned their applause, their united voices sweeping

over the tumult as the drone of the wind dominates the roar of the sea.

It was madness--insufferable madness! If this were allowed to pass,

there was an end of all musical justice in Greece. Policles’ conscience

would not permit him to be still. Standing upon his bench with waving

hands and upraised voice, he protested with all the strength of his

lungs against the mad judgment of the audience.

At first, amid the tumult, his action was hardly noticed. His voice was

drowned in the universal roar which broke out afresh at each bow and

smirk from the fatuous musician. But gradually the folk round Policles

ceased clapping, and stared at him in astonishment. The silence grew in

ever widening circles, until the whole great assembly sat mute, staring

at this wild and magnificent creature who was storming at them from his

perch near the door.

“Fools!” he cried. “What are you clapping at? What are you cheering? Is

this what you call music? Is this cat-calling to earn an Olympian prize?

The fellow has not a note in his voice. You are either deaf or mad, and

I for one cry shame upon you for your folly.”

Soldiers ran to pull him down, and the whole audience was in confusion,

some of the bolder cheering the sentiments of the shepherd, and others

crying that he should be cast out of the building. Meanwhile the

successful singer having handed his lyre to his negro attendant, was

inquiring from those around him on the stage as to the cause of the

uproar. Finally a herald with an enormously powerful voice stepped

forward to the front and proclaimed that if the foolish person at the

back of the hall, who appeared to differ from the opinion of the rest

of the audience, would come forward upon the platform, he might, if he

dared, exhibit his own powers, and see if he could outdo the admirable

and wonderful exhibition which they had just had the privilege of

hearing.

Policles sprang readily to his feet at the challenge, and the great

company making way for him to pass, he found himself a minute later

standing in his unkempt garb, with his frayed and weather-beaten harp in

his hand, before the expectant crowd. He stood for a moment tightening

a string here and slackening another there until his chords rang

true. Then, amid a murmur of laughter and jeers from the Roman benches

immediately before him, he began to sing.

He had prepared no composition, but he had trained himself to improvise,

singing out of his heart for the joy of the music. He told of the land

of Elis, beloved of Jupiter, in which they were gathered that day, of

the great bare mountain slopes, of the swift shadows of the clouds, of

the winding blue river, of the keen air of the uplands, of the chill of

the evenings, and the beauties of earth and sky. It was all simple and

childlike, but it went to the hearts of the Olympians, for it spoke

of the land which they knew and loved. Yet when he at last dropped his

hand, few of them dared to applaud, and their feeble voices were drowned

by a storm of hisses and groans from his opponents. He shrank back in

horror from so unusual a reception, and in an instant his blue-clad

rival was in his place. If he had sung badly before, his performance

now was inconceivable. His screams, his grunts, his discords, and harsh

jarring cacophanies were an outrage to the very name of music. And yet

every time that he paused for breath or to wipe his streaming forehead a

fresh thunder of applause came rolling back from the audience. Policles

sank his face in his hands and prayed that he might not be insane.

Then, when the dreadful performance ceased, and the uproar of admiration

showed that the crown was certainly awarded to this impostor, a horror

of the audience, a hatred of this race of fools, and a craving for the

peace and silence of the pastures mastered every feeling in his mind. He

dashed through the mass of people waiting at the wings, and emerged

in the open air. His old rival and friend Metas of Corinth was waiting

there with an anxious face.

“Quick, Policles, quick!” he cried. “My pony is tethered behind yonder

grove. A grey he is, with red trappings. Get you gone as hard as hoof

will bear you, for if you are taken you will have no easy death.”

“No easy death! What mean you, Metas? Who is the fellow?”

“Great Jupiter! did you not know? Where have you lived? It is Nero

the Emperor! Never would he pardon what you have said about his voice.

Quick, man, quick, or the guards will be at your heels!”

An hour later the shepherd was well on his way to his mountain home, and

about the same time the Emperor, having received the Chaplet of Olympia

for the incomparable excellence of his performance, was making inquiries

with a frowning brow as to who the insolent person might be who had

dared to utter such contemptuous criticisms.

“Bring him to me here this instant,” said he, “and let Marcus with his

knife and branding-iron be in attendance.”

“If it please you, great Caesar,” said Arsenius Platus, the officer of

attendance, “the man cannot be found, and there are some very strange

rumours flying about.”

“Rumours!” cried the angry Nero. “What do you mean, Arsenius? I tell you

that the fellow was an ignorant upstart, with the bearing of a boor and

the voice of a peacock. I tell you also that there are a good many who

are as guilty as he among the people, for I heard them with my own ears

raise cheers for him when he had sung his ridiculous ode. I have half

a mind to burn their town about their ears so that they may remember my

visit.”

“It is not to be wondered at if he won their votes, Caesar,” said the

soldier, “for from what I hear it would have been no disgrace had you,

even you, been conquered in this conquest.”

“I conquered! You are mad, Arsenius. What do you mean?”

“None know him, great Caesar! He came from the mountains, and he

disappeared into the mountains. You marked the wildness and strange

beauty of his face. It is whispered that for once the great god Pan has

condescended to measure himself against a mortal.”

The cloud cleared from Nero’s brow. “Of course, Arsenius! You are right!

No man would have dared to brave me so. What a story for Rome! Let

the messenger leave this very night, Arsenius, to tell them how their

Emperor has upheld their honour in Olympia this day.”

THROUGH THE VEIL.

He was a great shock-headed, freckle-faced Borderer, the lineal

descendant of a cattle-thieving clan in Liddesdale. In spite of his

ancestry he was as solid and sober a citizen as one would wish to see, a

town councillor of Melrose, an elder of the Church, and the chairman of

the local branch of the Young Men’s Christian Association. Brown was his

name--and you saw it printed up as “Brown and Handiside” over the

great grocery stores in the High Street. His wife, Maggie Brown, was an

Armstrong before her marriage, and came from an old farming stock in

the wilds of Teviothead. She was small, swarthy, and dark-eyed, with a

strangely nervous temperament for a Scotch woman. No greater contrast

could be found than the big tawny man and the dark little woman; but

both were of the soil as far back as any memory could extend.

One day--it was the first anniversary of their wedding--they had driven

over together to see the excavations of the Roman Fort at Newstead. It

was not a particularly picturesque spot. From the northern bank of the

Tweed, just where the river forms a loop, there extends a gentle slope

of arable land. Across it run the trenches of the excavators, with here

and there an exposure of old stonework to show the foundations of the

ancient walls. It had been a huge place, for the camp was fifty acres

in extent, and the fort fifteen. However, it was all made easy for them

since Mr. Brown knew the farmer to whom the land belonged. Under his

guidance they spent a long summer evening inspecting the trenches, the

pits, the ramparts, and all the strange variety of objects which were

waiting to be transported to the Edinburgh Museum of Antiquities. The

buckle of a woman’s belt had been dug up that very day, and the farmer

was discoursing upon it when his eyes fell upon Mrs. Brown’s face.

“Your good leddy’s tired,” said he. “Maybe you’d best rest a wee before

we gang further.”

Brown looked at his wife. She was certainly very pale, and her dark eyes

were bright and wild.

“What is it, Maggie? I’ve wearied you. I’m thinkin’ it’s time we went

back.”

“No, no, John, let us go on. It’s wonderful! It’s like a dreamland

place. It all seems so close and so near to me. How long were the Romans

here, Mr. Cunningham?”

“A fair time, mam. If you saw the kitchen midden-pits you would guess it

took a long time to fill them.”

“And why did they leave?”

“Well, mam, by all accounts they left because they had to. The folk

round could thole them no longer, so they just up and burned the fort

aboot their lugs. You can see the fire marks on the stanes.”

The woman gave a quick little shudder. “A wild night--a fearsome night,”

said she. “The sky must have been red that night--and these grey stones,

they may have been red also.”

“Aye, I think they were red,” said her husband. “It’s a queer thing,

Maggie, and it may be your words that have done it; but I seem to see

that business aboot as clear as ever I saw anything in my life. The

light shone on the water.”

“Aye, the light shone on the water. And the smoke gripped you by the

throat. And all the savages were yelling.”

The old farmer began to laugh. “The leddy will be writin’ a story aboot

the old fort,” said he. “I’ve shown many a one over it, but I never

heard it put so clear afore. Some folk have the gift.”

They had strolled along the edge of the foss, and a pit yawned upon the

right of them.

“That pit was fourteen foot deep,” said the farmer. “What d’ye think we

dug oot from the bottom o’t? Weel, it was just the skeleton of a man wi’

a spear by his side. I’m thinkin’ he was grippin’ it when he died. Now,

how cam’ a man wi’ a spear doon a hole fourteen foot deep? He wasna’

buried there, for they aye burned their dead. What make ye o’ that,

mam?”

“He sprang doon to get clear of the savages,” said the woman.

“Weel, it’s likely enough, and a’ the professors from Edinburgh couldna

gie a better reason. I wish you were aye here, mam, to answer a’ oor

difficulties sae readily. Now, here’s the altar that we foond last week.

There’s an inscreeption. They tell me it’s Latin, and it means that the

men o’ this fort give thanks to God for their safety.”

They examined the old worn stone. There was a large deeply-cut “VV” upon

the top of it. “What does ‘VV’ stand for?” asked Brown.

“Naebody kens,” the guide answered.

“_Valeria Victrix_,” said the lady softly. Her face was paler than ever,

her eyes far away, as one who peers down the dim aisles of overarching

centuries.

“What’s that?” asked her husband sharply.

She started as one who wakes from sleep. “What were we talking about?”

she asked.

“About this ‘VV’ upon the stone.”

“No doubt it was just the name of the Legion which put the altar up.”

“Aye, but you gave some special name.”

“Did I? How absurd! How should I ken what the name was?”

“You said something--‘_Victrix_,’ I think.”

“I suppose I was guessing. It gives me the queerest feeling, this place,

as if I were not myself, but someone else.”

“Aye, it’s an uncanny place,” said her husband, looking round with an

expression almost of fear in his bold grey eyes. “I feel it mysel’. I

think we’ll just be wishin’ you good evenin’, Mr. Cunningham, and get

back to Melrose before the dark sets in.”

Neither of them could shake off the strange impression which had been

left upon them by their visit to the excavations. It was as if some

miasma had risen from those damp trenches and passed into their blood.

All the evening they were silent and thoughtful, but such remarks as

they did make showed that the same subject was in the minds of each.

Brown had a restless night, in which he dreamed a strange connected

dream, so vivid that he woke sweating and shivering like a frightened

horse. He tried to convey it all to his wife as they sat together at

breakfast in the morning.

“It was the clearest thing, Maggie,” said he. “Nothing that has ever

come to me in my waking life has been more clear than that. I feel as if

these hands were sticky with blood.”

“Tell me of it--tell me slow,” said she.

“When it began, I was oot on a braeside. I was laying flat on the

ground. It was rough, and there were clumps of heather. All round me

was just darkness, but I could hear the rustle and the breathin’ of men.

There seemed a great multitude on every side of me, but I could see

no one. There was a low chink of steel sometimes, and then a number of

voices would whisper ‘Hush!’ I had a ragged club in my hand, and it had

spikes o’ iron near the end of it. My heart was beatin’ quickly, and I

felt that a moment of great danger and excitement was at hand. Once I

dropped my club, and again from all round me the voices in the darkness

cried, ‘Hush!’ I put oot my hand, and it touched the foot of another

man lying in front of me. There was some one at my very elbow on either

side. But they said nothin’.

“Then we all began to move. The whole braeside seemed to be crawlin’

downwards. There was a river at the bottom and a high-arched wooden

bridge. Beyond the bridge were many lights--torches on a wall. The

creepin’ men all flowed towards the bridge. There had been no sound

of any kind, just a velvet stillness. And then there was a cry in the

darkness, the cry of a man who has been stabbed suddenly to the hairt.

That one cry swelled out for a moment, and then the roar of a thoosand

furious voices. I was runnin’. Every one was runnin’. A bright red light

shone out, and the river was a scarlet streak. I could see my companions

now. They were more like devils than men, wild figures clad in skins,

with their hair and beards streamin’. They were all mad with rage,

jumpin’ as they ran, their mouths open, their arms wavin’, the red light

beatin’ on their faces. I ran, too, and yelled out curses like the rest.

Then I heard a great cracklin’ of wood, and I knew that the palisades

were doon. There was a loud whistlin’ in my ears, and I was aware that

arrows were flyin’ past me. I got to the bottom of a dyke, and I saw a

hand stretched doon from above. I took it, and was dragged to the top.

We looked doon, and there were silver men beneath us holdin’ up their

spears. Some of our folk sprang on to the spears. Then we others

followed, and we killed the soldiers before they could draw the spears

oot again. They shouted loud in some foreign tongue, but no mercy was

shown them. We went ower them like a wave, and trampled them doon into

the mud, for they were few, and there was no end to our numbers.

“I found myself among buildings, and one of them was on fire. I saw the

flames spoutin’ through the roof. I ran on, and then I was alone among

the buildings. Some one ran across in front o’ me. It was a woman. I

caught her by the arm, and I took her chin and turned her face so as the

light of the fire would strike it. Whom think you that it was, Maggie?”

His wife moistened her dry lips. “It was I,” she said.

He looked at her in surprise. “That’s a good guess,” said he. “Yes,

it was just you. Not merely like you, you understand. It was you--you

yourself. I saw the same soul in your frightened eyes. You looked white

and bonny and wonderful in the firelight. I had just one thought in my

head--to get you awa’ with me; to keep you all to mysel’ in my own home

somewhere beyond the hills. You clawed at my face with your nails. I

heaved you over my shoulder, and I tried to find a way oot of the light

of the burning hoose and back into the darkness.

“Then came the thing that I mind best of all. You’re ill, Maggie. Shall

I stop? My God! You nave the very look on your face that you had last

night in my dream. You screamed. He came runnin’ in the firelight. His

head was bare; his hair was black and curled; he had a naked sword in

his hand, short and broad, little more than a dagger. He stabbed at me,

but he tripped and fell. I held you with one hand, and with the other--”

His wife had sprung to her feet with writhing features.

“Marcus!” she cried. “My beautiful Marcus! Oh, you brute! you brute! you

brute!” There was a clatter of tea-cups as she fell forward senseless

upon the table.

They never talk about that strange isolated incident in their married

life. For an instant the curtain of the past had swung aside, and some

strange glimpse of a forgotten life had come to them. But it closed

down, never to open again. They live their narrow round--he in his shop,

she in her household--and yet new and wider horizons have vaguely formed

themselves around them since that summer evening by the crumbling Roman

fort.

AN ICONOCLAST.

It was daybreak of a March morning in the year of Christ 92. Outside

the long Semita Alta was already thronged with people, with buyers and

sellers, callers and strollers, for the Romans were so early-rising a

people that many a Patrician preferred to see his clients at six in the

morning. Such was the good republican tradition, still upheld by the

more conservative; but with more modern habits of luxury, a night of

pleasure and banqueting was no uncommon thing. Thus one, who had learned

the new and yet adhered to the old, might find his hours overlap, and

without so much as a pretence of sleep come straight from his night of

debauch into his day of business, turning with heavy wits and an aching

head to that round of formal duties which consumed the life of a Roman

gentleman.

So it was with Emilius Flaccus that March morning. He and his fellow

senator, Caius Balbus, had passed the night in one of those gloomy

drinking bouts to which the Emperor Domitian summoned his chosen friends

at the high palace on the Palatine. Now, having reached the portals of

the house of Flaccus, they stood together under the pomegranate-fringed

portico which fronted the peristyle and, confident in each other’s tried

discretion, made up by the freedom of their criticism for their long

self-suppression of that melancholy feast.

“If he would but feed his guests,” said Balbus, a little red-faced,

choleric nobleman with yellow-shot angry eyes. “What had we? Upon my

life, I have forgotten. Plovers’ eggs, a mess of fish, some bird or

other, and then his eternal apples.”

“Of which,” said Flaccus, “he ate only the apples. Do him the justice to

confess that he takes even less than he gives. At least they cannot say

of him as of Vitellius, that his teeth beggared the empire.”

“No, nor his thirst either, great as it is. That fiery Sabine wine of

his could be had for a few sesterces the amphora. It is the common drink

of the carters at every wine-house on the country roads. I longed for

a glass of my own rich Falernian or the mellow Coan that was bottled in

the year that Titus took Jerusalem. Is it even now too late? Could we

not wash this rasping stuff from our palates?”

“Nay, better come in with me now and take a bitter draught ere you go

upon your way. My Greek physician Stephanos has a rare prescription for

a morning head. What! Your clients await you? Well, I will see you later

at the Senate house.”

The Patrician had entered his atrium, bright with rare flowers, and

melodious with strange singing birds. At the jaws of the hall, true to

his morning duties, stood Lebs, the little Nubian slave, with snow-white

tunic and turban, a salver of glasses in one hand, whilst in the other

he held a flask of a thin lemon-tinted liquid. The master of the house

filled up a bitter aromatic bumper, and was about to drink it off, when

his hand was arrested by a sudden perception that something was much

amiss in his household. It was to be read all around him--in the

frightened eyes of the black boy, in the agitated face of the keeper of

the atrium, in the gloom and silence of the little knot of ordinarii,

the procurator or major-domo at their head, who had assembled to greet

their master. Stephanos the physician, Cleios the Alexandrine reader,

Promus the steward each turned his head away to avoid his master’s

questioning gaze.

“What in the name of Pluto is the matter with you all?” cried the amazed

senator, whose night of potations had left him in no mood for patience.

“Why do you stand moping there? Stephanos, Vacculus--is anything amiss?

Here, Promus, you are the head of my household. What is it, then? Why do

you turn your eyes away from me?”

The burly steward, whose fat face was haggard and mottled with anxiety,

laid his hand upon the sleeve of the domestic beside him.

“Sergius is responsible for the atrium, my lord. It is for him to tell

you the terrible thing that has befallen in your absence.”

“Nay, it was Datus who did it. Bring him in, and let him explain it

himself,” said Sergius in a sulky voice.

The patience of the Patrician was at an end. “Speak this instant,

you rascal!” he shouted angrily. “Another minute, and I will have you

dragged to the ergastulum, where, with your feet in the stocks and the

gyves round your wrists, you may learn quicker obedience. Speak, I say,

and without delay.”

“It is the Venus,” the man stammered; “the Greek Venus of Praxiteles.”

The senator gave a cry of apprehension and rushed to the corner of the

atrium, where a little shrine, curtained off by silken drapery, held the

precious statue, the greatest art treasure of his collection--perhaps

of the whole world. He tore the hangings aside and stood in speechless

anger before the outraged goddess. The red perfumed lamp which always

burned before her had been spilled and broken; her altar fire had

been quenched, her chaplet had been dashed aside. But worst of

all--insufferable sacrilege!--her own beautiful nude body of glistening

Pantelic marble, as white and fair as when the inspired Greek had hewed

it out five hundred years before, had been most brutally mishandled.

Three fingers of the gracious outstretched hand had been struck off, and

lay upon the pedestal beside her. Above her delicate breast a dark mark

showed, where a blow had disfigured the marble. Emilius Flaccus, the

most delicate and judicious connoisseur in Rome, stood gasping and

croaking, his hand to his throat, as he gazed at his disfigured

masterpiece. Then he turned upon his slaves, his fury in his convulsed

face; but, to his amazement, they were not looking at him, but had

all turned in attitudes of deep respect towards the opening of the

peristyle. As he faced round and saw who had just entered his house,

his own rage fell away from him in an instant, and his manner became as

humble as that of his servants.

The newcomer was a man forty-three years of age, clean shaven, with a

massive head, large engorged eyes, a small clear-cut nose, and the

full bull neck which was the especial mark of his breed. He had entered

through the peristyle with a swaggering, rolling gait, as one who walks

upon his own ground, and now he stood, his hands upon his hips, looking

round him at the bowing slaves, and finally at their master, with a

half-humorous expression upon his flushed and brutal face.

“Why, Emilius,” said he, “I had understood that your household was the

best-ordered in Rome. What is amiss with you this morning?”

“Nothing could be amiss with us now that Caesar has deigned to come

under my roof,” said the courtier. “This is indeed a most glad surprise

which you have prepared for me.”

“It was an afterthought,” said Domitian. “When you and the others had

left me, I was in no mood for sleep, and so it came into my mind that

I would have a breath of morning air by coming down to you, and seeing

this Grecian Venus of yours, about which you discoursed so eloquently

between the cups. But, indeed, by your appearance and that of your

servants, I should judge that my visit was an ill-timed one.”

“Nay, dear master; say not so. But, indeed, it is truth that I was in

trouble at the moment of your welcome entrance, and this trouble was, as

the Fates have willed it, brought forth by that very statue in which you

have been graciously pleased to show your interest. There it stands, and

you can see for yourself how rudely it has been mishandled.”

“By Pluto and all the nether gods, if it were mine some of you should

feed the lampreys,” said the Emperor, looking round with his fierce eyes

at the shrinking slaves. “You were always overmerciful, Emilius. It is

the common talk that your catenoe are rusted for want of use. But surely

this is beyond all bounds. Let me see how you handle the matter. Whom do

you hold responsible?”

“The slave Sergius is responsible, since it is his place to tend the

atrium,” said Flaccus. “Stand forward, Sergius. What have you to say?”

The trembling slave advanced to his master. “If it please you, sir, the

mischief has been done by Datus the Christian.”

“Datus! Who is he?”

“The matulator, the scavenger, my lord. I did not know that he belonged

to these horrible people, or I should not have admitted him. He came

with his broom to brush out the litter of the birds. His eyes fell upon

the Venus, and in an instant he had rushed upon her and struck her two

blows with his wooden besom. Then we fell upon him and dragged him away.

But alas! alas! it was too late, for already the wretch had dashed off

the fingers of the goddess.”

The Emperor smiled grimly, while the Patrician’s thin face grew pale

with anger.

“Where is the fellow?” he asked.

“In the ergastulum, your honour, with the furca on his neck.”

“Bring him hither and summon the household.”

A few minutes later the whole back of the atrium was thronged by the

motley crowd who ministered to the household needs of a great Roman

nobleman. There was the arcarius, or account keeper, with his stylum

behind his ear; the sleek praegustator, who sampled all foods, so as to

stand between his master and poison, and beside him his predecessor, now

a half-witted idiot through the interception twenty years before of a

datura draught from Canidia; the cellarman, summoned from amongst his

amphorae; the cook, with his basting-ladle in his hand; the pompous

nomenclator, who ushered the guests; the cubicularius, who saw to

their accommodation; the silentiarius, who kept order in the house; the

structor, who set forth the tables; the carptor, who carved the food;

the cinerarius, who lit the fires--these and many more, half-curious,

half-terrified, came to the judging of Datus. Behind them a chattering,

giggling swarm of Lalages, Marias, Cerusas, and Amaryllides, from the

laundries and the spinning-rooms, stood upon their tiptoes and extended

their pretty wondering faces over the shoulders of the men. Through this

crowd came two stout varlets leading the culprit between them. He was a

small, dark, rough-headed man, with an unkempt beard and wild eyes which

shone, brightly with strong inward emotion. His hands were bound behind

him, and over his neck was the heavy wooden collar or furca which was

placed upon refractory slaves. A smear of blood across his cheek showed

that he had not come uninjured from the preceding scuffle.

“Are you Datus the scavenger?” asked the Patrician.

The man drew himself up proudly. “Yes,” said he, “I am Datus.”

“Did you do this injury to my statue?”

“Yes, I did.”

There was an uncompromising boldness in the man’s reply which compelled

respect. The wrath of his master became tinged with interest.

“Why did you do this?” he asked.

“Because it was my duty.”

“Why, then, was it your duty to destroy your master’s property?”

“Because I am a Christian.” His eyes blazed suddenly out of his dark

face. “Because there is no God but the one eternal, and all else are

sticks and stones. What has this naked harlot to do with Him to whom the

great firmament is but a garment and the earth a footstool? It was in

His service that I have broken your statue.”

Domitian looked with a smile at the Patrician. “You will make nothing of

him,” said he. “They speak even so when they stand before the lions in

the arena. As to argument, not all the philosophers of Rome can break

them down. Before my very face they refuse to sacrifice in my honour.

Never were such impossible people to deal with. I should take a short

way with him if I were you.”

“What would Caesar advise?”

“There are the games this afternoon. I am showing the new

hunting-leopard which King Juba has sent from Numidia. This slave

may give us some sport when he finds the hungry beast sniffing at his

heels.”

The Patrician considered for a moment. He had always been a father to

his servants. It was hateful to him to think of any injury befalling

them. Perhaps even now, if this strange fanatic would show his sorrow

for what he had done, it might be possible to spare him. At least it was

worth trying.

“Your offence deserves death,” he said. “What reasons can you give why

it should not befall you, since you have injured this statue, which is

worth your own price a hundred times over?”

The slave looked steadfastly at his master. “I do not fear death,” he

said. “My sister Candida died in the arena, and I am ready to do the

same. It is true that I have injured your statue, but I am able to find

you something of far greater value in exchange. I will give you the

truth and the gospel in exchange for your broken idol.”

The Emperor laughed. “You will do nothing with him, Emilius,” he said.

“I know his breed of old. He is ready to die; he says so himself. Why

save him, then?”

But the Patrician still hesitated. He would make a last effort.

“Throw off his bonds,” he said to the guards. “Now take the furca off

his neck. So! Now, Datus, I have released you to show you that I trust

you. I have no wish to do you any hurt if you will but acknowledge your

error, and so set a better example to my household here assembled.”

“How, then, shall I acknowledge my error?” the slave asked.

“Bow your head before the goddess, and entreat her forgiveness for

the violence you have done her. Then perhaps you may gain my pardon as

well.”

“Put me, then, before her,” said the Christian.

Emilius Flaccus looked triumphantly at Domitian. By kindness and tact he

was effecting that which the Emperor had failed to do by violence. Datus

walked in front of the mutilated Venus. Then with a sudden spring he

tore the baton out of the hand of one of his guardians, leaped upon the

pedestal, and showered his blows upon the lovely marble woman. With

a crack and a dull thud her right arm dropped to the ground. Another

fierce blow and the left had followed. Flaccus danced and screamed

with horror, while his servants dragged the raving iconoclast from his

impassive victim. Domitian’s brutal laughter echoed through the hall.

“Well, friend, what think you now?” he cried. “Are you wiser than your

Emperor? Can you indeed tame your Christian with kindness?”

Emilius Flaccus wiped the sweat from his brow. “He is yours, great

Caesar. Do with him as you will.”

“Let him be at the gladiators’ entrance of the circus an hour before

the games begin,” said the Emperor. “Now, Emilius, the night has been a

merry one. My Ligurian galley waits by the river quay. Come, cool your

head with a spin to Ostia ere the business of State calls you to the

Senate.”

GIANT MAXIMIN.

I THE COMING OF MAXIMIN

Many are the strange vicissitudes of history. Greatness has often sunk

to the dust, and has tempered itself to its new surrounding. Smallness

has risen aloft, has flourished for a time, and then has sunk once more.

Rich monarchs have become poor monks, brave conquerors have lost their

manhood, eunuchs and women have overthrown armies and kingdoms. Surely

there is no situation which the mind of man can invent which has not

taken shape and been played out upon the world stage. But of all the

strange careers and of all the wondrous happenings, stranger than

Charles in his monastery, or Justin on his throne, there stands the case

of Giant Maximin, what he attained, and how he attained it. Let me tell

the sober facts of history, tinged only by that colouring to which the

more austere historians could not condescend. It is a record as well as

a story.

In the heart of Thrace some ten miles north of the Rhodope mountains,

there is a valley which is named Harpessus, after the stream which runs

down it. Through this valley lies the main road from the east to the

west, and along the road, returning from an expedition against the

Alani, there marched, upon the fifth day of the month of June in

the year 210, a small but compact Roman army. It consisted of three

legions--the Jovian, the Cappadocian, and the men of Hercules. Ten

turmae of Gallic cavalry led the van, whilst the rear was covered by

a regiment of Batavian Horse Guards, the immediate attendants of the

Emperor Septimus Severus who had conducted the campaign in person. The

peasants who lined the low hills which fringed the valley looked with

indifference upon the long files of dusty, heavily-burdened infantry,

but they broke into murmurs of delight at the gold-faced cuirasses

and high brazen horse-hair helmets of the guardsmen, applauding their

stalwart figures, their martial bearing, and the stately black chargers

which they rode. A soldier might know that it was the little weary men

with their short swords, their heavy pikes over their shoulders, and

their square shields slung upon their backs, who were the real terror of

the enemies of the Empire, but to the eyes of the wondering Thracians it

was this troop of glittering Apollos who bore Rome’s victory upon their

banners, and upheld the throne of the purple-togaed prince who rode

before them.

Among the scattered groups of peasants who looked on from a respectful

distance at this military pageant, there were two men who attracted

much attention from those who stood immediately around them. The one was

commonplace enough--a little grey-headed man, with uncouth dress and

a frame which was bent and warped by a long life of arduous toil,

goat-driving and wood-chopping among the mountains. It was the

appearance of his youthful companion which had drawn the amazed

observation of the bystanders. In stature he was such a giant as is

seen but once or twice in each generation of mankind. Eight feet and two

inches was his measure from his sandalled sole to the topmost curls of

his tangled hair. Yet for all his mighty stature there was nothing heavy

or clumsy in the man. His huge shoulders bore no redundant flesh, and

his figure was straight and hard and supple as a young pine tree. A

frayed suit of brown leather clung close to his giant body, and a cloak

of undressed sheep-skin was slung from his shoulder. His bold blue

eyes, shock of yellow hair and fair skin showed that he was of Gothic or

northern blood, and the amazed expression upon his broad frank face as

he stared at the passing troops told of a simple and uneventful life in

some back valley of the Macedonian mountains.

“I fear your mother was right when she advised that we keep you at

home,” said the old man anxiously. “Tree-cutting and wood-carrying will

seem but dull work after such a sight as this.”

“When I see mother next it will be to put a golden torque round her

neck,” said the young giant. “And you, daddy; I will fill your leather

pouch with gold pieces before I have done.”

The old man looked at his son with startled eyes. “You would not leave

us, Theckla! What could we do without you?”

“My place is down among yonder men,” said the young man. “I was not born

to drive goats and carry logs, but to sell this manhood of mine in the

best market. There is my market in the Emperor’s own Guard. Say nothing,

daddy, for my mind is set, and if you weep now it will be to laugh

hereafter. I will to great Rome with the soldiers.”

The daily march of the heavily laden Roman legionary was fixed at twenty

miles; but on this afternoon, though only half the distance had been

accomplished, the silver trumpets blared out their welcome news that a

camp was to be formed. As the men broke their ranks, the reason of their

light march was announced by the decurions. It was the birthday of Geta,

the younger son of the Emperor, and in his honour there would be games

and a double ration of wine. But the iron discipline of the Roman

army required that under all circumstances certain duties should be

performed, and foremost among them that the camp should be made secure.

Laying down their arms in the order of their ranks, the soldiers seized

their spades and axes, and worked rapidly and joyously until sloping

vallum and gaping fossa girdled them round, and gave them safe refuge

against a night attack. Then in noisy, laughing, gesticulating crowds

they gathered in their thousands round the grassy arena where the sports

were to be held. A long green hillside sloped down to a level plain, and

on this gentle incline the army lay watching the strife of the chosen

athletes who contended before them. They stretched themselves in the

glare of the sunshine, their heavy tunics thrown off, and their naked

limbs sprawling, wine-cups an baskets of fruit and cakes circling

amongst them, enjoying rest and peace as only those can to whom it comes

so rarely.

The five-mile race was over, and had been won as usual by Decurion

Brennus, the crack long-distance champion of the Herculians. Amid the

yells of the Jovians, Capellus of the corps had carried off both the

long and the high jump. Big Brebix the Gaul had out-thrown the long

guardsman Serenus with the fifty pound stone. Now, as the sun sank

towards the western ridge, and turned the Harpessus to a riband of gold,

they had come to the final of the wrestling, where the pliant Greek,

whose name is lost in the nickname of “Python,” was tried out against

the bull-necked Lictor of the military police, a hairy Hercules, whose

heavy hand had in the way of duty oppressed many of the spectators.

As the two men, stripped save for their loin-cloths, approached the

wrestling-ring, cheers and counter-cheers burst from their adherents,

some favouring the Lictor for his Roman blood, some the Greek from their

own private grudge. And then, of a sudden, the cheering died, heads were

turned towards the slope away from the arena, men stood up and peered

and pointed, until finally, in a strange hush, the whole great assembly

had forgotten the athletes, and were watching a single man walking

swiftly towards them down the green curve of the hill. This huge

solitary figure, with the oaken club in his hand, the shaggy fleece

flapping from his great shoulders, and the setting sun gleaming upon a

halo of golden hair, might have been the tutelary god of the fierce and

barren mountains from which he had issued. Even the Emperor rose from

his chair and gazed with open-eyed amazement at the extraordinary being

who approached him.

The man, whom we already know as Theckla the Thracian, paid no heed

to the attention which he had aroused, but strode onwards, stepping as

lightly as a deer, until he reached the fringe of the soldiers. Amid

their open ranks he picked his way, sprang over the ropes which guarded

the arena, and advanced towards the Emperor, until a spear at his breast

warned him that he must go no nearer. Then he sunk upon his right knee

and called out some words in the Gothic speech.

“Great Jupiter! Whoever saw such a body of a man!” cried the Emperor.

“What says he? What is amiss with the fellow? Whence comes he, and what

is his name?”

An interpreter translated the Barbarian’s answer. “He says, great

Caesar, that he is of good blood, and sprung by a Gothic father from a

woman of the Alani. He says that his name is Theckla, and that he would

fain carry a sword in Caesar’s service.”

The Emperor smiled. “Some post could surely be found for such a man,

were it but as janitor at the Palatine Palace,” said he to one of the

Prefects. “I would fain see him walk even as he is through the forum.

He would turn the heads of half the women in Rome. Talk to him, Crassus.

You know his speech.”

The Roman officer turned to the giant. “Caesar says that you are to come

with him, and he will make you the servant at his door.”

The Barbarian rose, and his fair cheeks flushed with resentment.

“I will serve Caesar as a soldier,” said he, “but I will be

house-servant to no man-not even to him. If Caesar would see what manner

of man I am, let him put one of his guardsmen up against me.”

“By the shade of Milo this is a bold fellow!” cried the Emperor. “How

say you, Crassus? Shall he make good his words?”

“By your leave, Caesar,” said the blunt soldier, “good swordsmen are too

rare in these days that we should let them slay each other for sport.

Perhaps if the Barbarian would wrestle a fall--”

“Excellent!” cried the Emperor. “Here is the Python, and here Varus the

Lictor, each stripped for the bout. Have a look at them, Barbarian, and

see which you would choose. What does he say? He would take them both?

Nay then he is either the king of wrestlers or the king of boasters,

and we shall soon see which. Let him have his way, and he has himself to

thank if he comes out with a broken neck.”

There was some laughter when the peasant tossed his sheep-skin mantle to

the ground and, without troubling to remove his leathern tunic, advanced

towards the two wrestlers; but it became uproarious when with a quick

spring he seized the Greek under one arm and the Roman under the other,

holding them as in a vice. Then with a terrific effort he tore them both

from the ground, carried them writhing and kicking round the arena, and

finally walking up to the Emperor’s throne, threw his two athletes down

in front of him. Then, bowing to Caesar, the huge Barbarian withdrew,

and laid his great bulk down among the ranks of the applauding soldiers,

whence he watched with stolid unconcern the conclusion of the sports.

It was still daylight, when the last event had been decided, and the

soldiers returned to the camp. The Emperor Severus had ordered his

horse, and in the company of Crassus, his favourite prefect, rode down

the winding pathway which skirts the Harpessus, chatting over the future

dispersal of the army. They had ridden for some miles when Severus,

glancing behind him, was surprised to see a huge figure which trotted

lightly along at the very heels of his horse.

“Surely this is Mercury as well as Hercules that we have found among

the Thracian mountains,” said he with a smile. “Let us see how soon our

Syrian horses can out-distance him.”

The two Romans broke into a gallop, and did not draw rein until a good

mile had been covered at the full pace of their splendid chargers. Then

they turned and looked back; but there, some distance off, still

running with a lightness and a spring which spoke of iron muscles and

inexhaustible endurance, came the great Barbarian. The Roman Emperor

waited until the athlete had come up to them.

“Why do you follow me?” he asked. “It is my hope, Caesar, that I may

always follow you.” His flushed face as he spoke was almost level with

that of the mounted Roman.

“By the god of war, I do not know where in all the world I could find

such a servant!” cried the Emperor. “You shall be my own body-guard, the

one nearest to me of all.”

The giant fell upon his knee. “My life and strength are yours,” he said.

“I ask no more than to spend them for Caesar.”

Crassus had interpreted this short dialogue. He now turned to the

Emperor.

“If he is indeed to be always at your call, Caesar, it would be well to

give the poor Barbarian some name which your lips can frame. Theckla is

as uncouth and craggy a word as one of his native rocks.”

The Emperor pondered for a moment. “If I am to have the naming of him,”

said he, “then surely I shall call him Maximus, for there is not such a

giant upon earth.”

“Hark you,” said the Prefect. “The Emperor has deigned to give you a

Roman name, since you have come into his service. Henceforth you are no

longer Theckla, but you are Maximus. Can you say it after me?”

“Maximin,” repeated the Barbarian, trying to catch the Roman word.

The Emperor laughed at the mincing accent. “Yes, yes, Maximin let it

be. To all the world you are Maximin, the body-guard of Severus. When

we have reached Rome, we will soon see that your dress shall correspond

with your office. Meanwhile march with the guard until you have my

further orders.”

So it came about that as the Roman army resumed its march next day, and

left behind it the fair valley of the Harpessus, a huge recruit, clad

in brown leather, with a rude sheep-skin floating from his shoulders,

marched beside the Imperial troop. But far away in the wooden farmhouse

of a distant Macedonian valley two old country folk wept salt tears, and

prayed to the gods for the safety of their boy who had turned his face

to Rome.

II THE RISE OF GIANT MAXIMIN

Exactly twenty-five years had passed since the day that Theckla the huge

Thracian peasant had turned into Maximin the Roman guardsman. They had

not been good years for Rome. Gone for ever were the great Imperial days

of the Hadrians and the Trajans. Gone also the golden age of the two

Antonines, when the highest were for once the most worthy and most

wise. It had been an epoch of weak and cruel men. Severus, the swarthy

African, a stark grim man, had died in far away York, after fighting all

the winter with the Caledonian Highlanders--a race who have ever

since worn the martial garb of the Romans. His son, known only by his

slighting nick-name of Caracalla, had reigned during six years of insane

lust and cruelty, before the knife of an angry soldier avenged the

dignity of the Roman name. The nonentity Macrinus had filled the

dangerous throne for a single year before he also met a bloody end,

and made room for the most grotesque of all monarchs, the unspeakable

Heliogabalus with his foul mind and his painted face. He in turn was cut

to pieces by the soldiers, and Severus Alexander, a gentle youth, scarce

seventeen years of age, had been thrust into his place. For thirteen

years now he had ruled, striving with some success to put some virtue

and stability into the rotting Empire, but raising many fierce enemies

as he did so-enemies whom he had not the strength nor the wit to hold in

check.

And Giant Maximin--what of him? He had carried his eight feet of manhood

through the lowlands of Scotland, and the passes of the Grampians.

He had seen Severus pass away, and had soldiered with his son. He

had fought in Armenia, in Dacia, and in Germany. They had made him a

centurion upon the field when with his hands he plucked out one by

one the stockades of a northern village, and so cleared a path for

the stormers. His strength had been the jest and the admiration of the

soldiers. Legends about him had spread through the army and were the

common gossip round the camp fires--of his duel with the German axeman

on the Island of the Rhine, and of the blow with his fist which broke

the leg of a Scythian’s horse. Gradually he had won his way upwards,

until now, after quarter of a century’s service he was tribune of the

fourth legion and superintendent of recruits for the whole army. The

young soldier who had come under the glare of Maximin’s eyes, or had

been lifted up with one huge hand while he was cuffed by the other, had

his first lesson from him in the discipline of the service.

It was nightfall in the camp of the fourth legion upon the Gallic shore

of the Rhine. Across the moonlit water, amid the thick forests which

stretched away to the dim horizon, lay the wild untamed German tribes.

Down on the river bank the light gleamed upon the helmets of the Roman

sentinels who kept guard along the river. Far away a red point rose and

fell in the darkness--a watch-fire of the enemy upon the further shore.

Outside his tent, beside some smouldering logs, Giant Maximin was

seated, a dozen of his officers around him. He had changed much since

the day when we first met him in the Valley of the Harpessus. His huge

frame was as erect as ever, and there was no sign of diminution of his

strength. But he had aged none the less. The yellow tangle of hair was

gone, worn down by the ever-pressing helmet. The fresh young face was

drawn and hardened, with austere lines wrought by trouble and privation.

The nose was more hawk-like, the eyes more cunning, the expression more

cynical and more sinister. In his youth, a child would have run to

his arms. Now it would shrink screaming from his gaze. That was what

twenty-five years with the eagles had done for Theckla the Thracian

peasant.

He was listening now--for he was a man of few words--to the chatter of

his centurions. One of them, Balbus the Sicilian, had been to the main

camp at Mainz, only four miles away, and had seen the Emperor Alexander

arrive that very day from Rome. The rest were eager at the news, for it

was a time of unrest, and the rumour of great changes was in the air.

“How many had he with him?” asked Labienus, a black-browed veteran from

the south of Gaul. “I’ll wager a month’s pay that he was not so trustful

as to come alone among his faithful legions.”

“He had no great force,” replied Balbus. “Ten or twelve cohorts of the

Praetorians and a handful of horse.”

“Then indeed his head is in the lion’s mouth,” cried Sulpicius, a

hot-headed youth from the African Pentapolis. “How was he received?”

“Coldly enough. There was scarce a shout as he came down the line.”

“They are ripe for mischief,” said Labienus. “And who can wonder, when

it is we soldiers who uphold the Empire upon our spears, while the lazy

citizens at Rome reap all of our sowing. Why cannot a soldier have what

a soldier gains? So long as they throw us our denarius a day, they think

that they have done with us.”

“Aye,” croaked a grumbling old greybeard. “Our limbs, our blood, our

lives--what do they care so long as the Barbarians are held off, and

they are left in peace to their feastings and their circus? Free bread,

free wine, free games--everything for the loafer at Rome. For us the

frontier guard and a soldier’s fare.”

Maximin gave a deep laugh. “Old Plancus talks like that,” said he; “but

we know that for all the world he would not change his steel plate for a

citizen’s gown. You’ve earned the kennel, old hound, if you wish it. Go

and gnaw your bone and growl in peace.”

“Nay, I am too old for change. I will follow the eagle till I die. And

yet I had rather die in serving a soldier master than a long-gowned

Syrian who comes of a stock where the women are men and the men are

women.”

There was a laugh from the circle of soldiers, for sedition and mutiny

were rife in the camp, and even the old centurion’s outbreak could not

draw a protest. Maximin raised his great mastiff head and looked at

Balbus.

“Was any name in the mouths of the soldiers?” he asked in a meaning

voice.

There was a hush for the answer. The sigh of the wind among the pines

and the low lapping of the river swelled out louder in the silence.

Balbus looked hard at his commander.

“Two names were whispered from rank to rank,” said he. “One was Ascenius

Pollio, the General. The other was--”

The fiery Sulpicius sprang to his feet waving a glowing brand above his

head.

“Maximinus!” he yelled, “Imperator Maximinus Augustus!”

Who could tell how it came about? No one had thought of it an hour

before. And now it sprang in an instant to full accomplishment. The

shout of the frenzied young African had scarcely rung through the

darkness when from the tents, from the watch-fires, from the sentries,

the answer came pealing back: “Ave, Maximinus! Ave Maximinus Augustus!”

From all sides men came rushing, half-clad, wild-eyed, their eyes

staring, their mouths agape, flaming wisps of straw or flaring torches

above their heads. The giant was caught up by scores of hands, and sat

enthroned upon the bull-necks of the legionaries. “To the camp!” they

yelled. “To the camp! Hail! Hail to the soldier Caesar!”

That same night Severus Alexander, the young Syrian Emperor, walked

outside his Praetorian camp, accompanied by his friend Licinius Probus,

the Captain of the Guard. They were talking gravely of the gloomy

faces and seditious bearing of the soldiers. A great foreboding of evil

weighed heavily upon the Emperor’s heart, and it was reflected upon the

stern bearded face of his companion.

“I like it not,” said he. “It is my counsel, Caesar, that with the first

light of morning we make our way south once more.”

“But surely,” the Emperor answered, “I could not for shame turn my back

upon the danger. What have they against me? How have I harmed them that

they should forget their vows and rise upon me?”

“They are like children who ask always for something new. You heard the

murmur as you rode along the ranks. Nay, Caesar, fly tomorrow, and your

Praetorians will see that you are not pursued. There may be some loyal

cohorts among the legions, and if we join forces--”

A distant shout broke in upon their conversation--a low continued roar,

like the swelling tumult of a sweeping wave. Far down the road upon

which they stood there twinkled many moving lights, tossing and sinking

as they rapidly advanced, whilst the hoarse tumultuous bellowing broke

into articulate words, the same tremendous words, a thousand-fold

repeated. Licinius seized the Emperor by the wrist and dragged him under

the cover of some bushes.

“Be still, Caesar! For your life be still!” he whispered. “One word and

we are lost!”

Crouching in the darkness, they saw that wild procession pass, the

rushing screaming figures, the tossing arms, the bearded, distorted

faces, now scarlet and now grey, as the brandished torches waxed or

waned. They heard the rush of many feet, the clamour of hoarse voices,

the clang of metal upon metal. And then suddenly, above them all, they

saw a vision of a monstrous man, a huge bowed back, a savage face, grim

hawk eyes, that looked out over the swaying shields. It was seen for an

instant in a smoke-fringed circle of fire, and then it had swept on into

the night.

“Who is he?” stammered the Emperor, clutching at his guardsman’s sleeve.

“They call him Caesar.”

“It is surely Maximin the Thracian peasant.” In the darkness the

Praetorian officer looked with strange eyes at his master.

“It is all over, Caesar. Let us fly your tent.”

But even as they went a second shout had broken forth tenfold louder

than the first. If the one had been the roar of the oncoming wave, the

other was the full turmoil of the tempest. Twenty thousand voices from

the camp had broken into one wild shout which echoed through the night,

until the distant Germans round their watch-fires listened in wonder and

alarm.

“Ave!” cried the voices. “Ave Maximinus Augustus!”

High upon their bucklers stood the giant, and looked round him at the

great floor of upturned faces below. His own savage soul was stirred

by the clamour, but only his gleaming eyes spoke of the fire within.

He waved his hand to the shouting soldiers as the huntsman waves to the

leaping pack. They passed him up a coronet of oak leaves, and clashed

their swords in homage as he placed it on his head. And then there came

a swirl in the crowd before him, a little space was cleared, and there

knelt an officer in the Praetorian garb, blood upon his face, blood upon

his bared forearm, blood upon his naked sword. Licinius too had gone

with the tide.

“Hail, Caesar, hail!” he cried, as he bowed his head before the giant.

“I come from Alexander. He will trouble you no more.”

III THE FALL OF MAXIMIN

For three years the soldier Emperor had been upon the throne. His palace

had been his tent, and his people had been the legionaries. With them he

was supreme; away from them he was nothing. He had gone with them from

one frontier to the other. He had fought against Dacians, Sarmatians,

and once again against the Germans. But Rome knew nothing of him, and

all her turbulence rose against a master who cared so little for her or

her opinion that he never deigned to set foot within her walls. There

were cabals and conspiracies against the absent Caesar. Then his heavy

hand fell upon them, and they were cuffed, even as the young soldiers

had been who passed under his discipline. He knew nothing, and cared as

much for consuls, senates, and civil laws. His own will and the power

of the sword were the only forces which he could understand. Of commerce

and the arts he was as ignorant as when he left his Thracian home. The

whole vast Empire was to him a huge machine for producing the money by

which the legions were to be rewarded. Should he fail to get that money,

his fellow soldiers would bear him a grudge. To watch their interests

they had raised him upon their shields that night. If city funds had to

be plundered or temples desecrated, still the money must be got. Such

was the point of view of Giant Maximin.

But there came resistance, and all the fierce energy of the man, all the

hardness which had given him the leadership of hard men, sprang forth to

quell it. From his youth he had lived amidst slaughter. Life and death

were cheap things to him. He struck savagely at all who stood up to him,

and when they hit back, he struck more savagely still. His giant shadow

lay black across the Empire from Britain to Syria. A strange subtle

vindictiveness became also apparent in him. Omnipotence ripened every

fault and swelled it into crime. In the old days he had been rebuked for

his roughness. Now a sullen dangerous anger arose against those who had

rebuked him. He sat by the hour with his craggy chin between his

hands, and his elbows resting on his knees, while he recalled all the

misadventures, all the vexations of his early youth, when Roman wits had

shot their little satires upon his bulk and his ignorance. He could not

write, but his son Verus placed the names upon his tablets, and they

were sent to the Governor of Rome. Men who had long forgotten their

offence were called suddenly to make most bloody reparation.

A rebellion broke out in Africa, but was quelled by his lieutenant. But

the mere rumour of it set Rome in a turmoil. The Senate found something

of its ancient spirit. So did the Italian people. They would not be for

ever bullied by the legions. As Maximin approached from the frontier,

with the sack of rebellious Rome in his mind, he was faced with every

sign of a national resistance. The countryside was deserted, the farms

abandoned, the fields cleared of crops and cattle. Before him lay the

walled town of Aquileia. He flung himself fiercely upon it, but was met

by as fierce a resistance. The walls could not be forced, and yet there

was no food in the country round for his legions. The men were starving

and dissatisfied. What did it matter to them who was Emperor? Maximin

was no better than themselves. Why should they call down the curse of

the whole Empire upon their heads by upholding him? He saw their sullen

faces and their averted eyes, and he knew that the end had come.

That night he sat with his son Verus in his tent, and he spoke softly

and gently as the youth had never heard him speak before. He had spoken

thus in old days with Paullina, the boy’s mother; but she had been dead

these many years, and all that was soft and gentle in the big man had

passed away with her. Now her spirit seemed very near him, and his own

was tempered by its presence.

“I would have you go back to the Thracian mountains,” he said. “I have

tried both, boy, and I can tell you that there is no pleasure which

power can bring which can equal the breath of the wind and the smell of

the kine upon a summer morning. Against you they have no quarrel.

Why should they mishandle you? Keep far from Rome and the Romans. Old

Eudoxus has money, and to spare. He awaits you with two horses outside

the camp. Make for the valley of the Harpessus, lad. It was thence

that your father came, and there you will find his kin. Buy and stock

a homestead, and keep yourself far from the paths of greatness and of

danger. God keep you, Verus, and send you safe to Thrace.”

When his son had kissed his hand and had left him, the Emperor drew his

robe around him and sat long in thought. In his slow brain he revolved

the past--his early peaceful days, his years with Severus, his memories

of Britain, his long campaigns, his strivings and battlings, all leading

to that mad night by the Rhine. His fellow soldiers had loved him then.

And now he had read death in their eyes. How had he failed them? Others

he might have wronged, but they at least had no complaint against him.

If he had his time again, he would think less of them and more of his

people, he would try to win love instead of fear, he would live

for peace and not for war. If he had his time again! But there were

shuffling Steps, furtive whispers, and the low rattle of arms outside

his tent. A bearded face looked in at him, a swarthy African face that

he knew well. He laughed, and, bearing his arm, he took his sword from

the table beside him.

“It is you, Sulpicius,” said he. “You have not come to cry ‘Ave

Imperator Maximin!’ as once by the camp fire. You are tired of me, and

by the gods I am tired of you, and glad to be at the end of it. Come

and have done with it, for I am minded to see how many of you I can take

with me when I go.”

They clustered at the door of the tent, peeping over each other’s

shoulders, and none wishing to be the first to close with that laughing,

mocking giant. But something was pushed forward upon a spear point, and

as he saw it, Maximin groaned and his sword sank to the earth.

“You might have spared the boy,” he sobbed. “He would not have hurt you.

Have done with it then, for I will gladly follow him.”

So they closed upon him and cut and stabbed and thrust, until his knees

gave way beneath him and he dropped upon the floor.

“The tyrant is dead!” they cried. “The tyrant is dead,” and from all the

camp beneath them and from the walls of the beleaguered city the joyous

cry came echoing back, “He is dead, Maximin is dead!”

I sit in my study, and upon the table before me lies a denarius of

Maximin, as fresh as when the triumvir of the Temple of Juno Moneta

sent it from the mint. Around it are recorded his resounding

titles--Imperator Maximinus, Pontifex Maximus, Tribunitia potestate, and

the rest. In the centre is the impress of a great craggy head, a massive

jaw, a rude fighting face, a contracted forehead. For all the pompous

roll of titles it is a peasant’s face, and I see him not as the Emperor

of Rome, but as the great Thracian boor who strode down the hillside on

that far-distant summer day when first the eagles beckoned him to Rome.

THE COMING OF THE HUNS

In the middle of the fourth century the state of the Christian religion

was a scandal and a disgrace. Patient, humble, and long-suffering in

adversity, it had become positive, aggressive, and unreasonable with

success. Paganism was not yet dead, but it was rapidly sinking, finding

its most faithful supporters among the conservative aristocrats of the

best families on the one hand, and among those benighted villagers on

the other who gave their name to the expiring creed. Between these

two extremes the great majority of reasonable men had turned from the

conception of many gods to that of one, and had rejected for ever the

beliefs of their forefathers. But with the vices of polytheism they had

also abandoned its virtues, among which toleration and religious good

humour had been conspicuous. The strenuous earnestness of the Christians

had compelled them to examine and define every point of their own

theology; but as they had no central authority by which such definitions

could be checked, it was not long before a hundred heresies had put

forward their rival views, while the same earnestness of conviction led

the stronger bands of schismatics to endeavour, for conscience sake, to

force their views upon the weaker, and thus to cover the Eastern world

with confusion and strife.

Alexandria, Antioch, and Constantinople were centres of theological

warfare. The whole north of Africa, too, was rent by the strife of the

Donatists, who upheld their particular schism by iron flails and the

war-cry of “Praise to the Lord!” But minor local controversies sank to

nothing when compared with the huge argument of the Catholic and the

Arian, which rent every village in twain, and divided every household

from the cottage to the palace. The rival doctrines of the Homoousian

and of the Homoiousian, containing metaphysical differences so

attenuated that they could hardly be stated, turned bishop against

bishop and congregation against congregation. The ink of the theologians

and the blood of the fanatics were spilled in floods on either side, and

gentle followers of Christ were horrified to find that their faith was

responsible for such a state of riot and bloodshed as had never yet

disgraced the religious history of the world. Many of the more earnest

among them, shocked and scandalized, slipped away to the Libyan Desert,

or to the solitude of Pontus, there to await in self-denial and prayer

that second coming which was supposed to be at hand. Even in the deserts

they could not escape the echo of the distant strife, and the hermits

themselves scowled fiercely from their dens at passing travellers who

might be contaminated by the doctrines of Athanasius or of Arius.