It was past midnight. The Christians of the Subura had once more
assembled in the quarry between the Appian and the Labicanian Ways.
Among them stood Quintus, who had joined the congregation to-day for
the first time.
The subterranean hall--not the small square vault where Eurymachus had
taken refuge, but a large oval space, whose natural roof was here and
there supported by pillars of artificial construction--was lighted by
a lamp with five arms, which hung from the smoke-blackened vault. On
each side, close to the wall, a natural ledge of tufa served for seats.
These were given up to women and girls, mostly very humbly dressed,
while the men occupied the farther end of the hall, some standing, some
sitting on wooden stools, and some squatting on the ground.
Quintus was leaning, with eager, glistening eyes, against a pillar that
was so built into a wall as to form a semicircular niche at one end of
the hall, and opposite to him, against the corresponding pillar, stood
Thrax Barbatus, his sinewy arms crossed over his breast.
The attention of the congregation had at first been centered on
Quintus--who was welcomed with astonishment as a member of the
little band--but it had gradually been diverted to another object.
Behind an arm-chair stood the tall and commanding figure of an
old man, who looked ninety at least. His still upright bearing and
his weather-tanned face showed him to be a soldier; and yet an
expression of touching gentleness and benevolence marked his features,
a melancholy and tender gleam, as it were, that played round his
expressive lips and half-closed eyes. Those eyes were blind, darkened
by the unwholesome gloom of the Sardinian mines,[67] where, for three
years, the old man had been buried alive. They were used to light, and
to the free airs of heaven, those bright, bold warrior’s eyes; and
when Tigellinus,[68] Nero’s favorite, had thrust him into blackness,
because he had refused to tender false evidence, they grew fevered
and dim in the twilight depths, and at last had darkened into endless
night. The fall of Nero restored him to liberty. He had been taken on
board ship by some kind-hearted mariners, carried first to Athens and
then to Corinth, where his brethren in the faith received him gladly,
and took charge of his maintenance. For some years he lived thus, a
zealous member of the infant congregation, and a faithful guardian and
preacher of the gospel. But at last he could contain himself there no
longer. His homesickness for Rome, his native city, which he loved in
spite of all her sins and crimes with the passion of a true-born Roman,
grew more irresistible every day. An Egyptian merchant, who esteemed
him highly, after taking him a long sea-voyage, brought him at last to
the harbor of Ostia. For many weeks the venerable stranger had wandered
in vain through all the fourteen regions of the city, hoping to find
some friend of his early years; they were all without exception dead
and gone. One day he sat down, sadly leaning on his staff, on the step
of a fountain not far from the temple on the Quirinal. Here he was
found by Euterpe, who, filled with pity, addressed the blind old man.
They soon made the discovery that they were of the same faith, and now
for five or six days he had been sharing the home of Diphilus; and
though, at first, this had been somewhat of a burden to the carpenter,
the liberality of Quintus Claudius had relieved him of all anxiety.
Calenus was now telling the assembled Christians some of the adventures
of his youth, when he was fighting in Palestine. Eager devoutness was
stamped on every face that watched him.
“Yes, my beloved,” he said, and his voice sank to deeper solemnity, "I
can remember every detail as if it were yesterday. But I knew not what
I was doing. My heart was holden, and my soul was darkened. It was not
till long, long after, that the grace of God enlightened me.... It was
at the time when the Jews keep their Passover. Our division had been
sent to guard the state-prison, but I and a few of my comrades had been
warned to keep ourselves ready to march at any moment, and within
an hour the word was given to set out. We joined a noisy procession,
headed by the Roman eagles, which flowed on up the hill where criminals
are executed, outside Jerusalem. We could scarcely see or hear what was
taking place, the people shrieked and howled so incessantly, evidently
inflamed to the highest pitch by their priests and the scribes.
However, we were ordered to let them have their way. At last, when I
asked a woman what all the tumult was about, she replied: 'They are
going to crucify Jesus, the King of the Jews.'"
He ceased and bowed his head, as one self-convicted, and a death-like
silence reigned in the room.
“Ah, my brethren!” he went on presently, in a tone of deep sorrow.
“Would that some angel of God had been near in that awful hour to open
my heart! In the ear of a heathen soldier, that name sounded like any
other. Darkened and in ignorance, I kept guard on the spot where my
Saviour was to die.”
Again he bowed his penitent head. But soon looking up again with
renewed and joyful eagerness, he told them he had been mercifully
permitted to see from afar the sublime face of the man, whom he had
learned, years after, to recognize as the Redeemer of mankind. The
pale features which had looked down on him, as in a vision, had been
indelibly graven on his soul, and later, when the tidings of salvation
had come home to him, the image had risen to new life, and shone
radiantly upon him, like a star of promise, through the darkness of his
sufferings and sorrows.
When Calenus ceased speaking, no one for some time ventured to break
the silence. Glauce, who was shedding quiet tears and recalling her
dear Eurymachus, mixing up in her fancy the vision of the Nazarene
with the picture of her lover, looked up at the speaker like a
worshipper at his divinity. To the rest, indeed, the hoary old man, on
whom a ray from that Sun had once fallen, appeared as a superior being,
and presently, when the spell of silence was broken, they all crowded
round him to kiss his hands with fervent devotion, or even the hem of
his garment.
The wonderful tale had made an almost weird impression upon Quintus.
His fancy was haunted by the face of the pale sufferer, who, at that
first meeting in Domitian’s park, had stirred him to such new and
unwonted feelings. A shudder, such as he had never felt before, shook
him from head to foot, and his whole nature seemed to float away into
the rarer air of incomprehensible mysticism.
While the band of Christians sat listening in absorbed silence to the
words of Calenus, a troop of armed men were setting forth from the
Esquiline--twenty stout fellows armed with spears and short swords.
They were led by a stalwart veteran, who had won the rank of centurion
on the battle-fields of Germany; on his left walked a torch-bearer,
on his right a handsome, active stripling--Antinous, the steward's
slave. They marched to the south-east along the Via Labicana, and
their regular tramp marked time on the pavement. Now and again a sword
rattled or a piece of mail; now and again the leader muttered a short,
sharp question, which the slave hastily answered. The ruddy light,
that fell on his pretty girlish face, lent a witch-like effect to his
features. It was thus that the Greek myth represented the beguiling
Sirens: beautiful but fateful. The centurion himself was not quite at
ease in the company of the supple youth, and he betrayed it not merely
by the roughness of his address, but, even more, by his lowering brow,
and the expression of aversion and contempt that curled his lips.
At the spot where, on a former occasion, Quintus had come upon the
road with Eurymachus in his litter, the party halted. The centurion
glanced keenly across the fields in the direction pointed out to him
by Antinous, and he knew the country better than the Greek, whose only
idea was to go in the same line as he had then come by, like a wild
animal. After closely cross-questioning the slave, he made his men go
forward by the road about five hundred paces farther, and thus reached
a fairly-beaten bridle-path, nearly parallel to the line which Quintus
had taken across hedge and ditch. They passed under the arches of the
Aqua Marcia, again, soon after, under those of the Aqua Claudia, and
then they were in view of the pine wood, which looked like a black,
fantastically-shaped cloud against the sky.
When the file of men were within a few paces of it, the torch was
extinguished, as the uncovered light could not be carried through the
brushwood, and a small horn lantern was lighted instead. The centurion
doubted whether he had not better leave some of his men outside.
However, as the wood extended for a considerable distance to the
south-east, there were objections to this plan. It would have taken
half a legion to guard every possible exit as far as the spurs of the
Alban Hills, and besides, Antinous asserted positively that they could
reach the entrance to the quarry without any fear of discovery, as it
was so effectually screened by the thicket, that the Nazarenes believed
themselves to be in perfect security. In fact, they never even set a
watch; so that he had lately ventured fifteen paces or more into the
wide cross-gallery, without being detected.
One after the other, the armed men entered the wood. Antinous had taken
the lantern; in three minutes they were at the laurel bushes which
screened the opening of the quarry; Antinous triumphantly parted the
boughs.
“Here!” he said proudly, “with a twist of your thumb you have them all
as safe as hares in a trap.”
The little band of Christians, who were thus overtaken by their fate,
were in the act of kneeling for a common prayer, when heavy steps and
the rattle of arms were suddenly heard in the passage. All started
in terror to their feet. A few instantly dropped on their knees
again, wringing their hands. The women and girls clung to each other
in despair. Some of the younger men, and with them Thrax Barbatus,
assumed an air of sullen determination, which threatened desperate
resistance on their part, while others stood motionless and unmoved in
dull resignation. Among them there were a few faces that beamed with
the transport of sacred ecstasy, and Quintus and Calenus were perhaps
the only two, who betrayed no sign in their faces of what was passing
in their minds. Before it was possible even to think of flight, the
old centurion was standing in the door-way, his drawn sword gleaming
ominously: behind him shone the helmets of his men-at-arms.
A loud cry rose from the congregation; Thrax Barbatus flung off his
cloak, and drew the dagger he had concealed under it.
“Whoever tries to escape is a dead man!” shouted the soldier, giving
a sign to his men. In a minute they were ranged round the hall to the
right and left.
Quintus, who was likewise armed, grasped his sword-hilt convulsively.
He glanced round at the little congregation; the fight would be too
unequal, simply ridiculous, but he felt he must attempt it. His sword
flashed from its sheath; but at that instant Antinous sprang upon him
from one side and, with the strength of desperation, clutched his right
arm. Before Quintus could shake him off he was surrounded by soldiers,
his weapon was wrenched from him, and six or eight sinewy hands held
his arms and shoulders with the grip of a vice. The centurion came up
to him with his sword point downwards.
“My lord,” he said, “you see--resistance is hopeless.”
“What do you want of us?” asked Quintus, with a defiant sparkle in his
glance.
“My lord, you know.”
“And do you know me?”
“Who that lives in Rome, can fail to know the son of Titus Claudius?”
“Well--and yet you seize me as if I were a thief?”
“I am doing my duty--I am seeking the Nazarenes.”
“And you have found them!” exclaimed Antinous, still breathless from
his exertions.
“Who is this boy?” asked Quintus, with a feeling of unutterable
loathing.
"I? I am Antinous, Stephanus' boy," he answered audaciously. "I bring
you my master’s greetings, and"--he added in a whisper--“those of your
imperial neighbor, the lady of Baiae....”
“Silence!” said the centurion, sternly. “You have done your part! Take
yourself off--instantly.”
Quintus breathed hard and deep. He understood only too well all that
the impudent young villain’s words conveyed. The captain did not give
him much time to indulge his feelings.
“My lord,” he said, “you are my prisoner. If you will swear to me not
to attempt to escape, nor to lay violent hands upon yourself, I will
take the risk of leaving you unfettered. This one, however, I must put
in chains, and if you have any influence over him, advise him that he
had better submit quietly.”
“Never!” roared Thrax Barbatus, flourishing his short sword. “Let us
fight, my brethren--fight, and die fighting. The martyr’s crown awaits
not those alone who suffer, but those who fight too.”
“Cease!” said old Calenus. “Who dares to speak so blasphemously here?
Will you sin as Peter sinned in the garden of Gethsemane? Will you
shed your brother’s blood like Cain? Woe unto ye blind! Not thus may
ye win Heaven, but eternal punishment!” The blind man’s words, spoken
in a sort of prophetic exaltation, made a deep impression. Those who a
moment since had stood forth in defiance, now bent their heads. Thrax
Barbatus alone stood his ground.
“Do you think,” he shouted in a voice of thunder, “that the Son of
God, who lashed the dealers and money-changers out of the Temple with
a scourge, was a lamb? He was a lion, that only force could overcome!
The Saviour preached to slaves, that their lives and their rights are
as precious as those of their tyrants! He, who breaks the chains of the
prisoner, will have nothing to say to cowards and fools. Glauce, come
close to me--your tender body shall never be meat for the lions of
Gaetulia! Pray, Glauce--pray.--And may the Lord Jesus Christ have mercy
upon us!”
He held the girl tightly clasped in his arms.
“Give yourselves up to the inscrutable counsels of God!” said the
solemn, prophetic voice of the blind man.
“Amen,” rose from the lips of the congregation.
“Put them in chains,” the centurion said. But Quintus, with calm
dignity, requested a hearing.
“One word,” he said, turning to the centurion. “That scurvy slave has
misled you. I swear to you on my honor, centurion, this nocturnal
surprise was only intended for me. Here I am, take me with you! I will
follow you; carry me in chains to the city, and you may be perfectly
certain, that you have all the prey you need show. But these poor
wretches, who stand here trembling as to their fate--let them go free;
let them go on their way unhindered. They only came here to see for the
last time the halls where they have, until now, celebrated the rites of
their faith. They have no intention of defying the law.”
“Who is there here that will deny his Saviour?” Again it was the blind
prophet that spoke. “We are faithful to confess Christ crucified. His
name be praised and blessed forever!”
Quintus was silent, and a shade of deep trouble fell on his face.
“Well, then,” he said, turning away, “do your duty.”
The mercenaries pushed forward. The Christians, none of whom were armed
except Thrax and Quintus, submitted at once. Thrax alone withdrew
farther and farther into the niche; his left arm still held up Glauce,
who leaned only half-conscious on his shoulder, and in his right he
still clutched the dagger. The soldiers came up with him.
“Come, old man, make short work of it!” cried the foremost. “You see
there are a score of us.”
Close to Thrax and Glauce Euterpe was kneeling by a pillar. In her wild
anguish she had thrown her arms round the cold stone, and was murmuring
vehement prayers. Now, looking up a moment, a shrill and piercing
shriek broke from her lips, and she fell backwards on the earth, where
she lay senseless. Instead of answering the soldier, Thrax Barbatus had
raised the dagger, and thrust it to the very hilt in Glauce’s side. The
two men, even, stood petrified at the sight of such a deed, while Thrax
gently laid the slender body on the ground. Tears streamed down his
rugged cheeks. Even in death the poor child smiled--shivered.--All was
over.
“Good-night,” muttered the miserable father. “No executioner will ever
harm you now. Come on, accursed crew, and lay me by the side of my
sweet Glauce.”
He rushed headlong on one of the men, who avoided the stroke, and tried
to seize his assailant round the body. But in vain; a mightier blow
fell upon his helmet, and stunned him. He staggered backwards.
“Old fool!” cried the other soldier. “Fling away that dagger, or by
Hercules....”
“Thrax, miserable man! For Christ’s sake!” A score of voices appealed
to him at once. But Thrax had raised the blade again, and charged the
foe like a lion.
“Well, he will have it!” said the soldiers, now falling upon him from
all sides.
The next instant Thrax Barbatus fell, pierced by three swords at once,
on the ground by Glauce’s side. Not a groan of pain parted his set
lips, not a throe, not a sign, betrayed the pain of such a death; only
his hand feebly felt for Glauce's.
Quintus gazed down at the dead.
“Would I might have died so!” he said to himself. “Almighty God, Thy
will be done.”
“Now, men--are you ready?” cried the centurion, sheathing his weapon.
“As you say.”
“Very well, then; away to the city! Give over crying, you women. A
crime was never yet atoned for by howling and wailing. Onwards--march!”
And the long and melancholy procession set out. None remained behind
but the dead--the free and happy dead.
FOOTNOTES:
[67] SARDINIAN MINES. Sardinia played a similar part in the Roman
Empire, to the one performed by Siberia in the kingdom of
the Czar. Criminals, and often innocent persons, languished
through a miserable existence in the mines there. Besides,
the climate of the island was considered extremely unhealthy.
(See Strab. V, 13. Mart. _Ep._, IV, 60.) In cases of less
importance the culprits were simply exiled to Sardinia,
without being condemned to enforced labor, and permitted to
live there at liberty. (See Mart. _Ep._, VIII, 32.)
[68] TIGELLINUS. Sophonius Tigellinus, of Agrigentum, in Sicily,
by his talents as a sportsman and horse-breaker, won Nero's
favor, and finally became commander of the praetorian
guard. (Tac. _Ann._, XIV, 51.) Dissolute, revengeful, and
unprincipled, he was regarded, with reason, as the evil
principle in the life of the Emperor, whose last noble
impulses he strove to stifle. He was most to blame for the
majority of Nero’s crimes; even the horrible conflagration,
that laid half Rome in ashes. (See Tac. _Hist._, I, 72, Dio
Cass. LXII, 13, LXIII, 12.)