THE VOICE OF A GOD
Of all the civilisations whose records lie open to the student, that of
Rome is surely one of the most wonderful. Nowhere, not even in old
Mexico, was high culture so completely wedded to the lowest barbarism.
Intellect Rome had in plenty; the noblest efforts of her genius are
scarcely to be surpassed; her law is the foundation of the best of our
codes of jurisprudence; art she borrowed but appreciated; her military
system is still the wonder of the world; her great men remain great
among a multitude of subsequent competitors. And yet how pitiless she
was! What a tigress! Amid all the ruins of her cities we find none of a
hospital, none, I believe, of an orphan school in an age that made many
orphans. The pious aspirations and efforts of individuals seem never to
have touched the conscience of the people. Rome incarnate had no
conscience; she was a lustful, devouring beast, made more bestial by
her intelligence and splendour.
King Agrippa in practice was a Roman. Rome was his model, her ideals
were his ideals. Therefore he built amphitheatres in which men were
butchered, to the exquisite delight of vast audiences. Therefore, also,
without the excuse of any conscientious motive, however insufficient or
unsatisfactory, he persecuted the weak because they were weak and their
sufferings would give pleasure to the strong or to those who chanced to
be the majority of the moment.
The season being hot it was arranged that the great games in honour of
the safety of Cæsar, should open each day at dawn and come to an end an
hour before noon. Therefore from midnight onwards crowds of spectators
poured into the amphitheatre, which, although it would seat over twenty
thousand, was not large enough to contain them all. An hour before the
dawn the place was full, and already late comers were turned back from
its gates. The only empty spaces were those reserved for the king, his
royal guests, the rulers of the city, with other distinguished
personages, and for the Christian company of old men, women and
children destined to the lions, who, it was arranged, were to sit in
full view of the audience until the time came for them to take their
share in the spectacle.
When Rachel joined the other captives she found that a long rough table
had been set beneath the arcades, and on it at intervals, pieces of
bread and cups and vases containing wine of the country that had been
purchased at a great price from the guards. Round this table the elders
or the infirm among the company were seated on a bench, while the rest
of the number, for whom there was not room, stood behind them. At its
head was an old man, a bishop among the Christians, one of the five
hundred who had seen the risen Lord and received baptism from the hands
of the Beloved Disciple. For some years he had been spared by the
persecutors of the infant Church on account of his age, dignity, and
good repute, but now at last fate seemed to have overtaken him.
The service was held; the bread and wine, mixed with water, were
consecrated with the same texts by which they are blessed to-day, only
the prayers were extempore. When all had eaten from the platters and
drunk from the rude cups, the bishop gave his blessing to the
community. Then he addressed them. This, he told them, was an occasion
of peculiar joy, a love-feast indeed, since all they who partook of it
were about to lay down the burden of the flesh and, their labours and
sorrows ended, to depart into bliss eternal. He called to their memory
the supper of the Passover which had taken place within the lifetime of
many of them, when the Author and Finisher of their faith had declared
to the disciples that He would drink no more wine till He drank it new
with them in His kingdom. Such a feast it was that lay spread before
them this night. Let them be thankful for it. Let them not quail in the
hour of trial. The fangs of the savage beasts, the shouts of the still
more savage spectators, the agony of the quivering flesh, the last
terror of their departing, what were these? Soon, very soon, they would
be done; the spears of the soldiers would despatch the injured, and
those among them whom it was ordained should escape, would be set free
by the command of the representative of Cæsar, that they might
prosecute the work till the hour came for them to pass on the torch of
redemption to other hands. Let them rejoice, therefore, and be very
thankful, and walk to the sacrifice as to a wedding feast. “Do you not
rejoice, my brethren?” he asked. With one voice they answered, “We
rejoice!” Yes, even the children answered thus.
Then they prayed again, and again with uplifted hands the old man
blessed them in the holy Triune Name.
Scarcely had this service, as solemn as it was simple, been brought to
an end when the head jailer, whose blasphemous jocosity since his
reproof by Anna was replaced by a mien of sullen venom, came forward
and commanded the whole band to march to the amphitheatre. Accordingly,
two by two, the bishop leading the way with the sainted woman Anna,
they walked to the gates. Here a guard of soldiers was waiting to
receive them, and under their escort they threaded the narrow, darkling
streets till they came to that door of the amphitheatre which was used
by those who were to take part in the games. Now, at a word from the
bishop, they began to chant a solemn hymn, and singing thus, were
thrust along the passages to the place prepared for them. This was not,
as they expected, a prison at the back of the amphitheatre, but, as has
been said, a spot between the enclosing wall and the podium, raised a
little above the level of the arena. Here, on the eastern side of the
building, they were to sit till their turn came to be driven by the
guards through a little wicket-gate into the arena, where the starving
beasts of prey would be loosed upon them.
It was now the hour before sunrise, and the moon having set, the vast
theatre was plunged in gloom, relieved only here and there by stray
torches and cressets of fire burning upon either side of the gorgeous,
but as yet unoccupied, throne of Agrippa. This gloom seemed to oppress
the audience with which the place was crowded; at any rate none of them
shouted or sang, or even spoke loudly. They addressed each other in
muffled tones, with the result that the air seemed to be full of
mysterious whisperings. Had this poor band of condemned Christians
entered the theatre in daylight, they would have been greeted with
ironical cries and tauntings of “Dogs’ meat!” and with requests that
they should work a miracle and let the people see them rise again from
the bellies of the lions. But now, as their solemn song broke upon the
silence, it was answered only by one great murmur, which seemed to
shape itself to the words, “the Christians! The doomed Christians!”
By the light of a single torch the band took their places. Then once
more they sang, and in that chastening hour the audience listened with
attention, almost with respect. Their chant finished, the bishop stood
up, and, moved thereto by some inspiration, began to address the mighty
throng, whom he could not see, and who could not see him. Strangely
enough they hearkened to him, perhaps because his speech served to
while away the weary time of waiting.
“Men and brethren,” he began, in his thin, piercing notes, “princes,
lords, peoples, Romans, Jews, Syrians, Greeks, citizens of Idumæa, of
Egypt, and of all nations here gathered, hearken to the words of an old
man destined and glad to die. Listen, if it be your pleasure, to the
story of One whom some of you saw crucified under Pontius Pilate, since
to know the truth of that matter can at least do you no hurt.”
“Be silent!” cried a voice, that of the renegade jailer, “and cease
preaching your accursed faith!”
“Let him alone,” answered other voices. “We will hear this story of
his. We say—let him alone.”
Thus encouraged the old man spoke on with an eloquence so simple and
yet so touching, with a wisdom so deep, that for full fifteen minutes
none cared even to interrupt him. Then a far-away listener cried:
“Why must these people die who are better than we?”
“Friend,” answered the bishop, in ringing tones, which in that heavy
silence seemed to search out even the recesses of the great and crowded
place, “we must die because it is the will of King Agrippa, to whom God
has given power to destroy us. Mourn not for us because we perish
cruelly, since this is the day of our true birth, but mourn for King
Agrippa, at whose hands our blood will be required, and mourn, mourn
for yourselves, O people. The death that is near to us perchance is
nearer still to some of you; and how will you awaken who perish in your
sins? What if the sword of God should empty yonder throne? What if the
voice of God should call on him who fills it to make answer of his
deeds? Soon or late, O people, it will call on him and you to pass
hence, some naturally in your age, others by the sharp and dreadful
roads of sword, pestilence or famine. Already those woes which He whom
you crucified foretold, knock at your door, and within a few short
years not one of you who crowd this place in thousands will draw the
breath of life. Nothing will remain of you on earth save the fruit of
those deeds which you have done—these and your bones, no more. Repent
you, therefore, repent while there is time; for I, whom you have
doomed, I am bidden to declare that judgment is at hand. Yes, even now,
although you see him not, the Angel of the Lord hangs over you and
writes your names within his book. Now while there is time I would pray
for you and for your king. Farewell.”
As he spoke those words “the Angel of the Lord hangs over you,” so
great was the preacher’s power, and in that weary darkness so sharply
had he touched the imagination of his strange audience, that with a
sound like to the stir of rustling trees, thousands of faces were
turned upwards, as though in search of that dread messenger.
“Look, look!” screamed a hundred voices, while dim arms pointed to some
noiseless thing that floated high above them against the background of
the sky, which grew grey with the coming dawn. It appeared and
disappeared, appeared again, then seemed to pass downward in the
direction of Agrippa’s throne, and vanished.
“It is that magician’s angel,” cried one, and the multitudes groaned.
“Fool,” said another, “it was but a bird.”
“Then for Agrippa’s sake,” shrilled a new voice, “the gods send that it
was not an owl.”
Thereat some laughed, but the most were silent. They knew the story of
King Agrippa and the owl, and how it had been foretold that this spirit
in the form of a bird would appear to him again in the hour of his
death, as it had appeared to him in the hour of his triumph.[*]
[*] See Josephus, “Antiquities of the Jews,” Book XVII., Chap. VI.,
Sec. 7; and Book XIX., Chap. VIII., Sec. 2.
Just then from the palace to the north arose a sound of the blare of
trumpets. Now a herald, speaking on the summit of the great eastern
tower, called out that it was dawn above the mountains, and that King
Agrippa came with all his company, whereon the preaching of the old
Christian and his tale of a watching Vengeance were instantly
forgotten. Presently the glad, fierce notes of the trumpets drew
nearer, and in the grey of the daybreak, through the great bronze gates
of the Triumphal Way that were thrown open to greet him, advanced
Agrippa, wonderfully attired and preceded by his legionaries. At his
right walked Vibius Marsus, the Roman President of Syria, and on his
left Antiochus, King of Commagena, while after him followed other
kings, princes, and great men of his own and foreign lands.
Agrippa mounted his golden throne while the multitude roared a welcome,
and his company were seated around and behind him according to their
degree.
Once more the trumpets sounded, and the gladiators of different arms,
headed by the equites who fought on horseback, numbering in all more
than five hundred men, were formed up in the arena for the preliminary
march past—the salutation of those about to die to their emperor and
lord. Now, that they also might take their part in the spectacle, the
band of Christian martyrs were thrust through the door in the podium,
and to make them seem as many as possible in number, marshalled two by
two.
Then the march past began. Troop by troop, arrayed in their shining
armour and armed, each of them, with his own familiar weapon, the
gladiators halted in front of Agrippa’s throne, giving to him the
accustomed salutation of “Hail, King, we who are about to die, salute
thee,” to be rewarded with a royal smile and the shouts of the
approving audience. Last of all came the Christians, a motley,
wretched-looking group, made up of old men, terrified children clinging
to their mothers, and ill-clad, dishevelled women. At the pitiful
sight, that very mob which a few short minutes before had hung upon the
words of the bishop, their leader, now, as they watched them hobbling
round the arena in the clear, low light of the dawning, burst into
peals of laughter and called out that each of them should be made to
lead his lion. Quite heedless of these scoffs and taunts, they trudged
on through the white sand that soon would be so red, until they came
opposite to the throne.
“Salute!” roared the audience.
The bishop held up his hand and all were silent. Then, in the thin
voice with which they had become familiar, he said:
“King, we who are about to die—forgive thee. May God do likewise.”
Now the multitude ceased laughing, and with an impatient gesture,
Agrippa motioned to the martyrs to pass on. This they did humbly; but
Anna, being old, lame and weary, could not walk so fast as her
companions. Alone she reached the saluting-place after all had left it,
and halted there.
“Forward!” cried the officers. But she did not move nor did she speak.
Only leaning on her staff she looked steadily up at the face of the
king Agrippa. Some impulse seemed to draw his eyes to hers. They met,
and it was noted that he turned pale. Then straightening herself with
difficulty upon her tottering feet, Anna raised her staff and pointed
with it to the golden canopy above the head of Herod. All stared
upward, but saw nothing, for the canopy was still in the shadow of the
velarium which covered all the outer edge of the cavea, leaving the
centre open to the sky. It would appear, however, that Agrippa did see
something, for he who had risen to declare the games open, suddenly
sank back upon his throne, and remained thus lost in thought. Then Anna
limped forward to join her company, who once more were driven through
the little gate in the wall of the arena.
For a second time, with an effort, Agrippa lifted himself from his
throne. As he rose the first level rays of sunrise struck full upon
him. He was a tall and noble-looking man, and his dress was glorious.
To the thousands who gazed upon him from the shadow, set in that point
of burning light he seemed to be clothed in a garment of glittering
silver. Silver was his crown, silver his vest, silver the wide robe
that flowed from his shoulders to the ground.
“In the name of Cæsar, to the glory of Cæsar, I declare these games
open!” he cried.
Then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, all the multitude rose
shouting: “The voice of a god! The voice of a god! The voice of the god
Agrippa!”
Nor did Agrippa say them nay; the glory of such worship thundered at
him from twenty thousand throats made him drunken. There for a while he
stood, the new-born sunlight playing upon his splendid form, while the
multitude roared his name, proclaiming it divine. His nostrils spread
to inhale this incense of adoration, his eyes flashed and slowly he
waved his arms, as though in benediction of his worshippers. Perchance
there rose before his mind a vision of the wondrous event whereby he,
the scorned and penniless outcast, had been lifted to this giddy
pinnacle of power. Perchance for a moment he believed that he was
indeed divine, that nothing less than the blood and right of godhead
could thus have exalted him. At least he stood there, denying naught,
while the people adored him as Jehovah is adored of the Jews and Christ
is adored of the Christians.
Then of a sudden smote the Angel of the Lord. Of a sudden intolerable
pain seized upon his vitals, and Herod remembered that he was but
mortal flesh, and knew that death was near.
“Alas!” he cried, “I am no god, but a man, and even now the common fate
of man is on me.”
As he spoke a great white owl slid from the roof of the canopy above
him and vanished through the unroofed centre of the cavea.
“Look! look! my people!” he cried again, “the spirit that brought me
good fortune leaves me now, and I die, my people, I die!” Then, sinking
upon his throne, he who a moment gone had received the worship of a
god, writhed there in agony and wept. Yes, Herod wept.
Attendants ran to him and lifted him in their arms.
“Take me hence to die,” he moaned. Now a herald cried:
“The king is smitten with a sore sickness, and the games are closed. To
your homes, O people.”
For a while the multitude sat silent, for they were fear-stricken. Then
a murmur rose among them that spread and swelled till it became a roar.
“The Christians! The Christians! They prophesied the evil. They have
bewitched the king. They are wizards. Kill them, kill them, kill them!”
Instantly, like waves pouring in from every side, hundreds and
thousands of men began to flow towards that place where the martyrs
sat. The walls and palisades were high. Sweeping aside the guards, they
surged against them like water against a rock; but climb they could
not. Those in front began to scream, those behind pressed on. Some fell
and were trodden underfoot, others clambered upon their bodies, in turn
to fall and be trodden underfoot.
“Our death is upon us!” cried one of the Nazarenes.
“Nay, life remains to us,” answered Nehushta. “Follow me, all of you,
for I know the road,” and, seizing Rachel about the middle, she began
to drag her towards a little door. It was unlocked and guarded by one
man only, the apostate jailer Rufus.
“Stand back!” he cried, lifting his spear.
Nehushta made no answer, only drawing a dagger from her robe, she fell
upon the ground, then of a sudden rose again beneath his guard. The
knife flashed and went home to the hilt. Down fell the man screaming
for help and mercy, and there, in the narrow way, his spirit was
stamped out of him. Beyond lay the broad passage of the vomitorium.
They gained it, and in an instant were mixed with the thousands who
sought to escape the panic. Some perished, some were swept onwards,
among them Nehushta and Rachel. Thrice they nearly fell, but the fierce
strength of the Libyan saved her mistress, till at length they found
themselves on the broad terrace facing the seashore.
“Whither now?” gasped Rachel.
“Where shall I lead you?” answered Nehushta. “Do not stay. Be swift.”
“But the others?” said Rachel, glancing back at the fighting,
trampling, yelling mob.
“God guard them! We cannot.”
“Leave me,” moaned her mistress. “Save yourself, Nou; I am spent,” and
she sank down to her knees.
“But I am still strong,” muttered Nehushta, and lifting the swooning
woman in her sinewy arms, she fled on towards the port, crying, “Way,
way for my lady, the noble Roman, who has swooned!”
And the multitude made way.