The amateurs of horse-racing who assembled in the Hippodrome could afford
no clue to Dada's hiding-place, because she had not, in fact, run away
with any gay young gallant. Within a few minutes of her sending
Sachepris to fetch her a pair of shoes, Medius had hailed her from the
shore; he wanted to speak with Karnis, and having come on an ass it was
not in vain that the incensed damsel entreated him to take her with him.
He had in fact only come to try to persuade Karnis and his wife to spare
Dada for a few performances, such as he had described, in the house of
Posidonius. His hopes of success had been but slender; and now the whole
thing had settled itself, and Dada's wish that her people should not, for
a while, know where to find her was most opportune for his plans.
In the days when Karnis was the manager of the theatre at Tauromenium
Medius had led the chorus, and had received much kindness at the hands of
the girl's uncle. All this, he thought, he could now repay, for
certainly his old patron was poor enough, and he intended honestly to
share with his former benefactor the profits he expected to realize with
so fair a prodigy as Dada. No harm could come to the girl, and gold--
said he to himself--glitters as brightly and is just as serviceable, even
when it has been earned for us against our will.
Medius, being a cautious man, made the girl bring her new dress away with
her, and the girdle and jewels belonging to it, and his neat hands packed
everything into the smallest compass. He filled up the basket which he
took for the purpose with sweetmeats, oranges and pomegranates "for the
children at home," and easily consoled Dada for the loss of her shoes.
He would lead the ass and she should ride. She covered her face with a
veil, and her little feet could be hidden under her dress. When they
reached his house he would at once have "a sweet little pair of sandals"
made for her by the shoemaker who worked for the wife of the Comes and
the daughters of the Alabarch--[The chief of the Jewish colony in
Alexandria.]--These preparations and the start only took a few minutes;
and their rapid search and broken conversation caused so much absurd
confusion that Dada had quite recovered her spirits and laughed merrily
as she tripped bare-foot across the strand. She sprang gaily on to the
little donkey and as they made their way along the road, the basket
containing her small wardrobe placed in front of her on the ass's
shoulders, she remarked that she should be mistaken for the young wife of
a shabby old husband, returning from market with a load of provisions.
She was delighted to think of what Herse's face would be when, on her
return home, she should discover that the prisoner could make her escape
even without shoes.
"Let her have a good hunt for me!" she cried quite enchanted. "Why
should I always be supposed to be ready for folly and wickedness! But
one thing I warn you: If I am not comfortable and happy with you, and if
I do not like the parts you want me to fill, we part as quickly as we
have come together.--Why are you taking me through all these dirty
alleys? I want to ride through the main streets and see what is going
on." But Medius would not agree to this, for in the great arteries of
the town there were excitement and tumult, and they might think
themselves fortunate if they reached his house unmolested.
He lived in a little square, between the Greek quarter and Rhacotis where
the Egyptians lived, and his house, which was exactly opposite the church
of St. Marcus, accommodated Medius himself, his wife, his widowed
daughter and her five children, besides being crammed from top to bottom
with all sorts of strange properties, standing or hanging in every
available space. Dada's curiosity had no rest, and by the time she had
spent a few hours in the house her host's pretty little grandchildren
were clinging to her with devoted affection.
Agne had not been so fortunate as to find a refuge so easily. With no
escort, unveiled, and left entirely to her own guidance, leading the
little boy, she hurried forward, not knowing whither. All she thought
was to get away--far away from these men who were trying to imperil her
immortal soul.
She knew that Karnis had actually bought her, and that she was,
therefore, his property and chattel. Even Christian doctrine taught her
that the slave must obey his master; but she could not feel like a slave,
and if indeed she were one her owner might destroy and kill her body, but
not her soul. The law, however, was on the side of Karnis, and it
allowed him to pursue her and cast her into prison. This idea haunted
her, and for fear of being caught she avoided all the chief thoroughfares
and kept close to the houses as she stole through the side streets and
alleys. Once, in Antioch, she had seen a runaway slave, who, having
succeeded in reaching a statue of the Emperor and laying his hand on it,
was by that act safe from his pursuers. There must surely be such a
statue somewhere in Alexandria--but where? A woman, of whom she
enquired, directed her down a wider street that would take her into the
Canopic Way. If she crossed that and went down the first turning to the
left she would reach a large open square in the Bruchium, and there, in
front of the Prefect's residence and by the side of the Bishop's house,
stood the new statue of Theodosius.
This information, and the mention of the Bishop, gave a new course to her
proceedings. It was wrong to defy and desert her master, but to obey him
would be deadly sin. Which must she choose and which avoid? Only one
person could advise in such a case--only one could relieve her mind of
its difficulties and terrors: The Shepherd of souls in the city--the
Bishop himself. She too was a lamb of his flock; to him and to no one
else could she turn.
This thought fell on her heart like a ray of light dispersing the clouds
of uncertainty and alarm. With a deep breath of relief she took the
child in her arms and told him--for he was whimpering to know where she
was taking him, and why he might not go back to Dada--that they were
going to see a good, kind man who would tell them the way home to their
father and mother. Papias, however, still wailed to go to Dada and not
to the man.
Half insisting and half coaxing him with promises, she dragged him along
as far as the main street. This was full of an excited throng; soldiers
on foot and on horseback were doing what they could to keep the peace,
and the bustle amused the little boy's curiosity so that he soon forgot
his homesickness. When, at length, Ague found the street that led to the
Prefect's house she was fairly carried along by the surging, rushing mob.
To turn was quite impossible; the utmost she could do was to keep her
wits about her, and concentrate her strength so as not to be parted from
the child. Pushed, pulled, squeezed, scolded, and abused by other women
for her folly in bringing a child out into such a crowd, she at last
found herself in the great square. A hideous hubbub of coarse, loud
voices pierced her unaccustomed ears; she could have sunk on the earth
and cried; but she kept up her courage and collected all her energies,
for she saw in the distance a large gilt cross over a lofty doorway. It
was like a greeting and welcome home. Under its protection she would
certainly, find rest, consolation and safety.
But how was she to reach it? The space before her was packed with men as
a quiver is packed with arrows; there was not room for a pin between.
The only chance of getting forward was by forcing her way, and nine-
tenths of the crowd were men--angry and storming men, whose wild and
strange demeanor filled her with terror and disgust. Most of them were
monks who had flocked in at the Bishop's appeal from the monasteries of
the desert, or from the Lauras and hermitages of Kolzum by the Red Sea,
or even from Tabenna in Upper Egypt, and whose hoarse voices rent the air
with vehement cries of: "Down with the idols! Down with Serapis! Death
to the heathen!"
This army of the Saviour whose very essence was gentleness and whose
spirit was love, seemed indeed to have deserted from his standard of
light and grace to the blood-stained banner of murderous hatred. Their
matted locks and beards fringed savage faces with glowing eyes; their
haggard or paunchy nakedness was scarcely covered by undressed hides of
sheep and goats; their parched skins were scarred and striped by the use
of the scourges that hung at their girdles. One--a "crown bearer"--had
a face streaming with blood, from the crown of thorns which he had vowed
to wear day and night in memory and imitation of the Redeemer's
sufferings, and which on this great occasion he pressed hard into the
flesh with ostentatious martyrdom. One, who, in his monastery, had
earned the name of the "oil-jar," supported himself on his neighbors'
arms, for his emaciated legs could hardly carry his dropsical carcass
which, for the last ten years, he had fed exclusively on gourds, snails,
locusts and Nile water. Another was chained inseparably to a comrade,
and the couple dwelt together in a cave in the limestone hills near
Lycopolis. These two had vowed never to let each other sleep, that so
their time for repentance might be doubled, and their bliss in the next
world enhanced in proportion to their mortifications in this.
One and all, they were allies in a great fight, and the same hopes,
ideas, and wishes fired them all. The Abominable Thing--which imperilled
hundreds of thousands of souls, which invited Satan to assert his
dominion in this world--should fall this day and be annihilated forever!
To them the whole heathen world was the "great whore;" and though the
gems she wore were beautiful to see and rejoiced the mind and heart of
fools, they must be snatched from her painted brow; they would scourge
her from off the face of the redeemed earth and destroy the seducer of
souls forever. "Down with the idols! Down with Serapis! Down with the
heathen!" Their shouts thundered and bellowed all about Agne; but, just
as the uproar and crush were at the worst, a tall and majestic figure
appeared on a balcony above the cross and extended his hand in calm and
dignified benediction towards the seething mass of humanity. As he
raised it all present, including Ague, bowed and bent the knee.
Agne felt, knew, that this stately man was the Bishop whom she sought,
but she did not point him out to her little brother, for his aspect was
that of some proud sovereign rather than of "the good, kind man" of whom
she had dreamed. She could never dare to force her way into the presence
of this great lord! How should the ruler over a million souls find time
or patience for her and her trivial griefs?
However, there must be within his dwelling sundry presbyters and deacons,
and she would address herself to one of them, as soon as the crowd had
dispersed enough for her to make her way to the door beneath the cross.
Twenty times at least did she renew her efforts, but she made very small
progress; most of the monks, as she tried to squeeze past them, roughly
pushed her back; one, on whose arm she ventured to lay her hand, begging
him to make way for her, broke out into shrieks as though a serpent had
stung him, and when the crush brought her into contact with the crown-
bearer he thrust her away exclaiming:
"Away woman! Do not touch me, spawn of Satan tool of the evil one! or I
will tread you under foot!"
Retreat had been as impossible as progress, and long hours went by which
to her seemed like days; still she felt no fatigue, only alarm and
disgust, and, more than anything else, an ardent desire to reach the
Bishop's palace and take counsel of a priest. It was long past noon when
a diversion took place which served at any rate to interest and amuse the
crying child.
On the platform above the doorway Cynegius came forth--Cynegius, the
Emperor's delegate; a stout man of middle height, with a shrewd round
head and a lawyer's face. State dignitaries, Consuls and Prefects had,
at this date, ceased to wear the costume that had marked the patricians
of old Rome--a woollen toga that fell in broad and dignified folds from
the shoulders; a long, close-fitting robe had taken its place, of purple
silk brocade with gold flowers. On the envoy's shoulder blazed the badge
of the highest officials, a cruciform ornament of a peculiarly thick and
costly tissue. He greeted the crowd with a condescending bow, a herald
blew three blasts on the tuba, and then Cynegius, with a wave of his hand
introduced his private secretary who stood by his side, and who at once
opened a roll he held and shouted at the top of a ringing voice:
"Silence in Caesar's name!"
The trumpet then sounded for the fourth time, and silence so complete
fell on the crowded square that the horses of the mounted guard in front
of the Prefect's house could be heard snorting and champing.
"In Caesar's name," repeated the official, who had been selected for the
duty of reading the Imperial message. Cynegius himself bent his head,
again waved his hand towards his secretary, and then towards the statues
of the Emperor and Empress which, mounted on gilt standards, were
displayed to the populace on each side of the balcony; then the reading
began:
"Theodosius Caesar greets the inhabitants of the great and noble city of
Alexandria, by Cynegius, his faithful ambassador and servant. He knows
that its true and honest citizens confess the Holy Faith in all piety and
steadfastness, as delivered to believers in the beginning by Peter, the
prince of the Apostles; he knows that they hold the true Christian faith,
and abide by the doctrine delivered by the Holy Ghost to the Fathers of
the Church in council at Nicaea.
"Theodosius Caesar who, in all humility and pride, claims to be the sword
and shield, the champion and the rampart of the one true faith,
congratulates his subjects of the great and noble city of Alexandria
inasmuch as that most of them have turned from the devilish heresy of
Arius, and have confessed the true Nicaean creed; and he announces to
them, by his faithful and noble servant Cynegius, that this faith and no
other shall be recognized in Alexandria, as throughout his dominions.
"In Egypt, as in all his lands and provinces, every doctrine opposed to
this precious creed shall be persecuted, and all who confess, preach or
diffuse any other doctrine shall be considered heretics and treated as
such."
The secretary paused, for loud and repeated shouts of joy broke from the
multitude. Not a dissentient word was heard-indeed, the man who should
have dared to utter one would certainly not have escaped unpunished. It
was not till the herald had several times blown a warning blast that the
reader could proceed, as follows:
"It has come to the ears of your Caesar, to the deep grieving of his
Christian soul, that the ancient idolatry, which so long smote mankind
with blindness and kept them wandering far from the gates of Paradise,
still, through the power of the devil, has some temples and altars in
your great and noble city. But because it is grievous to the Christian
and clement heart of the Emperor to avenge the persecutions and death
which so many holy martyrs have endured at the hands of the bloodthirsty
and cruel heathen on their posterity, or on the miscreant and--
misbelieving enemies of our holy faith--and because the Lord hath said
'vengeance is mine'--Theodosius Caesar only decrees that the temples of
the heathen idols in this great and noble city of Alexandria shall be
closed, their images destroyed and their altars overthrown. Whosoever
shall defile himself with blood, or slay an innocent beast for sacrifice,
or enter a heathen temple, or perform any religious ceremony therein, or
worship any image of a god made by hands-nay, or pray in any temple in
the country or in the city, shall be at once required to pay a fine of
fifteen pounds of gold; and whosoever shall know of such a crime being
committed without giving information of it, shall be fined to the same
amount."--[Codex Theodosianus XVI, 10, 10.]
The last words were spoken to the winds, for a shout of triumph, louder
and wilder than had ever before been heard even on this favorite meeting-
place of the populace, rent the very skies. Nor did it cease, nor yield
to any trumpet-blast, but rolled on in spreading waves down every street
and alley; it reached the ships in the port, and rang through the halls
of the rich and the hovels of the poor; it even found a dull echo in the
light-house at the point of Pharos, where the watchman was trimming the
lamp for the night; and in an incredibly short time all Alexandria knew
that Caesar had dealt a death-blow to the worship of the heathen gods.
The great and fateful rumor was heard, too, in the Museum and the
Serapeum; once more the youth who had grown up in the high schools of the
city, studying the wisdom of the heathen, gathered together; men who had
refined and purified their intellect at the spring of Greek philosophy
and fired their spirit with enthusiasm for all that was good and lovely
in the teaching of ancient Greece--these obeyed the summons of their
master, Olympius, or flew to arms under the leadership of Orestes, the
Governor, for the High-Priest himself had to see to the defences of the
Serapeum.--Olympius had weapons ready in abundance, and the youths
rapidly collected round the standards he had prepared, and rushed into
the square before the Prefect's house to drive away the monks and to
insist that Cynegius should return forthwith to Rome with the Emperor's
edict.
Young and noble lads were they who marched forth to the struggle,
equipped like the Helleman soldiers of the palmy days of Athens; and as
they went they sang a battle-song of Callinus which some one--who, no one
could tell--had slightly altered for the occasion:
"Come, rouse ye Greeks; what, sleeping still!
Is courage dead, is shame unknown?
Start up, rush forth with zealous will,
And smite the mocking Christians down!"
Everything that opposed their progress was overthrown. Two maniples
of foot-soldiers who held the high-road across the Bruchium attempted
to turn them, but the advance of the inflamed young warriors was
irresistible and they reached the street of the Caesareum and the square
in front of the Prefect's residence. Here they paused to sing the last
lines of their battlesong:
"Fate seeks the coward out at home,
He dies unwept, unknown to fame,
While by the hero's honored tomb
Our grandsons' grandsons sliall proclaim:
'In the great conflict's fiercest hour
He stood unmoved, our shield and tower.'"
It was here, at the wide opening into the square, that the collision took
place: on one side the handsome youths, crowned with garlands, with their
noble Greek type of heads, thoughtful brows, perfumed curls, and anointed
limbs exercised in the gymnasium--on the other the sinister fanatics in
sheep-skin, ascetic visionaries grown grey in fasting, scourging, and
self-denial.
The monks now prepared to meet the onset of the young enthusiasts who
were fighting for freedom of thought and enquiry, for Art and Beauty.
Each side was defending what it felt to be the highest Good, each was
equally in earnest as to its convictions, both fought for something
dearer and more precious than this earthly span of existence. But the
philosophers' party had swords; the monks' sole weapon was the scourge,
and they were accustomed to ply that, not on each other but on their own
rebellious flesh. A wild and disorderly struggle began with swingeing
blows on both sides; prayers and psalms mingling with the battle-song of
the heathen. Here a monk fell wounded, there one lay dead, there again
lay a fine and delicate-looking youth, felled by the heavy fist of a
recluse. A hermit wrestled hand to hand with a young philosopher who,
only yesterday had delivered his first lecture on the Neo-Platonism of
Plotinus to an interested audience.
And in the midst of this mad struggle stood Agne with her little brother,
who clung closely to her skirts and was too terrified to shed a tear or
utter a cry. The girl was resolutely calm, but she was too utterly
terror-stricken even to pray. Fear, absorbing fear had stunned her
thoughts; it overmastered her like some acute physical pain which began
in her heart and penetrated every fibre of her frame.
Even while the Imperial message was being read she had been too
frightened to take it all in; and now she simply shut her eyes tight and
hardly understood what was going on around her, till a new and different
noise sounded close in her ears: the clatter of hoofs, blare of trumpets
and shouts and screams. At last the tumult died away and, when she
ventured to open her eyes and look about her, the place all round her was
as clear as though it had been swept by invisible hands; here and there
lay a dead body and there still was a dense crowd in the street leading
to the Caesareum, but even that was dispersing and retreating before the
advance of a mounted force.
She breathed freely once more, and released the child's head from the
skirt of her dress in which he had wrapped and buried it. The end of her
alarms was not yet come, however, for a troop of the young heathen came
flying across the square in wild retreat before a division of the heavy
cavalry, which had intervened to part the combatants.
The fugitives came straight towards her; again she closed her eyes
tightly, expecting every instant to find herself under the horses' feet.
Then one of the runaways knocked down Papias, and she could bear no more;
her senses deserted her, her knees failed under her, she lost
consciousness, and with a dull groan she fell on the dusty pavement.
Close to her, as she lay, rushed the pursued and the pursuers--and at
last, how long after she knew not, when she recovered her senses she felt
as if she were floating in the air, and presently perceived that a
soldier had her in his arms and was carrying her like a child.
Fresh alarms and fresh shame overwhelmed the poor girl; she tried to free
herself and found him quite ready to set her down. When she was once
more on her feet and felt that she could stand she glanced wildly round
her with sudden recollection, and then uttered a hoarse cry, for her
mouth and tongue were parched:
"Christ Jesus! Where is my brother?" She pushed back her hair with a
desperate gesture, pressing her hands to her temples and peering all
round her with a look of fevered misery.
She was still in the square and close to the door of the Prefect's house;
a man on horseback, in all probability her preserver's servant, was
following them, leading his master's horse. On the pavement lay wounded
men groaning with pain; the street of the Caesareum was lined with a
double row of footsoldiers of Papias no sign!
Again she called him, and with such deep anguish in her voice, which was
harsh and shrill with terror, that the young officer looked at her with
extreme compassion.
"Papias, Papias--my little brother! O God my Saviour!--where, where is
the child?"
"We will have him sought for," said the soldier whose voice was gentle
and kind. "You are too young and pretty--what brought you into this
crowd and amid such an uproar?"
She colored deeply and looking down answered low and hurriedly: "I was
going to see the Bishop."
"You chose an evil hour," replied Constantine, for it was he who had
found her lying on the pavement and who had thought it only an act of
mercy not to trust so young and fair a girl to the protection of his
followers. "You may thank God that you have got off so cheaply. Now, I
must return to my men. You know where the Bishop lives? Yes, here. And
with regard to your little brother.... Stay; do you live in Alexandria?"
"No, my lord."
"But you have some relation or friend whom you lodge with?"
"No, my lord. I am... I have... I told you, I only want to see my lord
the Bishop."
"Very strange! Well, take care of yourself. My time is not my own; but
by-and-bye, in a very short time, I will speak to the city watchmen; how
old is the boy?"
"Nearly six."
"And with black hair like yours?"
"No, my lord--fair hair," and as she spoke the tears started to her eyes.
"He has light curly hair and a sweet, pretty little face."
The prefect smiled and nodded. "And if they find him," he went on,
"Papias, you say, is his name where is he to be taken?"
"I do not know, my lord, for--and yet! Oh! my head aches, I cannot
think--if only I knew... If they find him he must come here--here to my
lord the Bishop."
"To Theophilus?" said Constantine in surprise. "Yes, yes--to him," she
said hastily. "Or--stay--to the gate-keeper at the Bishop's palace."
"Well, that is less aristocratic, but perhaps it is more to the purpose,"
said the officer; and with a sign to his servant, he twisted his hand in
his horse's mane, leaped into the saddle, waved her a farewell, and
rejoined his men without paying any heed to her thanks.