PERPETUA
A TALE OF NIMES IN A.D. 213
BY THE
REV. S. BARING‐GOULD, M.A.
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
31 WEST TWENTY‐THIRD STREET
1897
COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. EST 1
II. ÆMILIUS 14
III. BAUDILLAS, THE DEACON 22
IV. THE UTRICULARES 33
V. THE LAGOONS 45
VI. THE PASSAGE INTO LIFE 57
VII. OBLATIONS 68
VIII. THE VOICE AT MIDNIGHT 81
IX. STARS IN WATER 93
X. LOCUTUS EST! 105
XI. PALANQUINS 117
XII. REUS 128
XIII. AD FINES 140
XIV. TO THE LOWEST DEPTH 152
XV. “REVEALED UNTO BABES” 165
XVI. DOUBTS AND DIFFICULTIES 177
XVII. PEDO 189
XVIII. IN THE CITRON‐HOUSE 204
XIX. MARCIANUS 218
XX. IN THE BASILICA 230
XXI. A MANUMISSION 242
XXII. THE ARENA 256
XXIII. THE CLOUD‐BREAK 270
XXIV. CREDO 287
PERPETUA
A TALE OF NÎMES IN A.D. 213
CHAPTER I
EST
The Kalends (first) of March.
A brilliant day in the town of Nemausus—the modern Nîmes—in the Province
of Gallia Narbonensis, that arrogated to itself the title of being _the_
province, a title that has continued in use to the present day, as
distinguishing the olive‐growing, rose‐producing, ruin‐strewn portion of
Southern France, whose fringe is kissed by the blue Mediterranean.
Not a cloud in the nemophyla‐blue sky. The sun streamed down, with a heat
that was unabsorbed, and with rays unshorn by any intervenient vapor, as
in our northern clime. Yet a cool air from the distant snowy Alps touched,
as with the kiss of a vestal, every heated brow, and refreshed it.
The Alps, though invisible from Nemausus, make themselves felt, now in
refreshing breezes, then as raging icy blasts.
The anemones were in bloom, and the roses were budding. Tulips spangled
the vineyards, and under the olives and in the most arid soil, there
appeared the grape hyacinth and the star of Bethlehem.
At the back of the white city stands a rock, the extreme limit of a spur
of the Cebennæ, forming an amphitheatre, the stones scrambled over by blue
and white periwinkle, and the crags heavy with syringa and flowering
thorns.
In the midst of this circus of rock welled up a river of transparent
bottle‐green water, that filled a reservoir, in which circled white swans.
On account of the incessant agitation of the water, that rose in bells,
and broke in rhythmic waves against the containing breastwork, neither
were the swans mirrored in the surface, nor did the white temple of
Nemausus reflect its peristyle of channeled pillars in the green flood.
This temple occupied one side of the basin; on the other, a little
removed, were the baths, named after Augustus, to which some of the water
was conducted, after it had passed beyond the precinct within which it was
regarded as sacred.
It would be hard to find a more beautiful scene, or see such a gay
gathering as that assembled near the Holy Fountain on this first day of
March.
Hardly less white than the swans that dreamily swam in spirals, was the
balustrade of limestone that surrounded the sheet of heaving water. At
intervals on this breasting stood pedestals, each supporting a statue in
Carrara marble. Here was Diana in buskins, holding a bow in her hand, in
the attitude of running, her right hand turned to draw an arrow from the
quiver at her back. There was the Gallic god Camulus, in harness, holding
up a six‐rayed wheel, all gilt, to signify the sun. There was a nymph
pouring water from her urn; again appeared Diana contemplating her
favorite flower, the white poppy.
But in the place of honor, in the midst of the public walk before the
fountain, surrounded by acacias and pink‐blossomed Judas trees, stood the
god Nemausus, who was at once the presiding deity over the fountain, and
the reputed founder of the city. He was represented as a youth, of
graceful form, almost feminine, and though he bore some military insignia,
yet seemed too girl‐like and timid to appear in war.
The fountain had, in very truth, created the city. This marvelous upheaval
of a limpid river out of the heart of the earth had early attracted
settlers to it, who had built their rude cabins beside the stream and who
paid to the fountain divine honors. Around it they set up a circle of rude
stones, and called the place _Nemet_—that is to say, the Sacred Place.
After a while came Greek settlers, and they introduced a new civilization
and new ideas. They at once erected an image of the deity of the fountain,
and called this deity Nemausios. The spring had been female to the Gaulish
occupants of the settlement; it now became male, but in its aspect the
deity still bore indications of feminine origin. Lastly the place became a
Roman town. Now beautiful statuary had taken the place of the monoliths of
unhewn stone that had at one time bounded the sacred spring.
On this first day of March the inhabitants of Nemausus were congregated
near the fountain, all in holiday costume.
Among them ran and laughed numerous young girls, all with wreaths of white
hyacinths or of narcissus on their heads, and their clear musical voices
rang as bells in the fresh air.
Yet, jocund as the scene was, to such as looked closer there was
observable an under‐current of alarm that found expression in the faces of
the elder men and women of the throng, at least in those of such persons
as had their daughters flower‐crowned.
Many a parent held the child with convulsive clasp, and the eyes of
fathers and mothers alike followed their darlings with a greed, as though
desirous of not losing one glimpse, not missing one word, of the little
creature on whom so many kisses were bestowed, and in whom so much love
was centered.
For this day was specially dedicated to the founder and patron of the
town, who supplied it with water from his unfailing urn, and once in every
seven years on this day a human victim was offered in sacrifice to the god
Nemausus, to ensure the continuance of his favor, by a constant efflux of
water, pure, cool and salubrious.
The victim was chosen from among the daughters of the old Gaulish families
of the town, and the victim was selected from among girls between the ages
of seven and seventeen. Seven times seven were bound to appear on this day
before the sacred spring, clothed in white and crowned with spring
flowers. None knew which would be chosen and which rejected. The selection
was not made by either the priests or the priestesses attached to the
temple. Nor was it made by the magistrates of Nemausus. No parent might
redeem his child. Chance or destiny alone determined who was to be chosen
out of the forty‐nine who appeared before the god.
Suddenly from the temple sounded a blast of horns, and immediately the
peristyle (colonnade) filled with priests and priestesses in white, the
former with wreaths of silvered olive leaves around their heads, the
latter crowned with oak leaves of gold foil.
The trumpeters descended the steps. The crowd fell back, and a procession
advanced. First came players on the double flute, or syrinx, with red
bands round their hair. Then followed dancing girls performing graceful
movements about the silver image of the god that was borne on the
shoulders of four maidens covered with spangled veils of the finest
oriental texture. On both sides paced priests with brazen trumpets.
Before and behind the image were boys bearing censers that diffused
aromatic smoke, which rose and spread in all directions, wafted by the
soft air that spun above the cold waters of the fountain.
Behind the image and the dancing girls marched the priests and
priestesses, singing alternately a hymn to the god.
“Hail, holy fountain, limpid and eternal,
Green as the sapphire, infinite, abundant,
Sweet, unpolluted, cold and clear as crystal,
Father Nemausus.
Hail, thou Archegos, founder of the city,
Crowned with oak leaves, cherishing the olive,
Grapes with thy water annually flushing,
Father Nemausus.
Thou to the thirsty givest cool refreshment,
Thou to the herdsman yieldeth yearly increase,
Thou from the harvest wardest off diseases,
Father Nemausus.
Seven are the hills on which old Rome is founded,
Seven are the hills engirdling thy fountain,
Seven are the planets set in heaven ruling,
Father Nemausus.
Thou, the perennial, lovest tender virgins,
Do thou accept the sacrifice we offer;
May thy selection be the best and fittest,
Father Nemausus.”
Then the priests and priestesses drew up in lines between the people and
the fountain, and the ædile of the city, standing forth, read out from a
roll the names of seven times seven maidens; and as each name was called,
a white‐robed, flower‐crowned child fluttered from among the crowd and was
received by the priestly band.
When all forty‐nine were gathered together, then they were formed into a
ring, holding hands, and round this ring passed the bearers of the silver
image.
Now again rose the hymn:
“Hail, holy fountain, limpid and eternal,
Green as the sapphire, infinite, abundant,
Sweet, unpolluted, cold and clear as crystal,
Father Nemausus.”
And as the bearers carried the image round the circle, suddenly a golden
apple held by the god, fell and touched a graceful girl who stood in the
ring.
“Come forth, Lucilla,” said the chief priestess. “It is the will of the
god that thou speak the words. Begin.”
Then the damsel loosed her hands from those she held, stepped into the
midst of the circle and raised the golden pippin. At once the entire ring
of children began to revolve, like a dance of white butterflies in early
spring; and as they swung from right to left, the girl began to recite at
a rapid pace a jingle of words in a Gallic dialect, that ran thus:
“One and two
Drops of dew,
Three and four
Shut the door.”
As she spoke she indicated a child at each numeral,
“Five and six
Pick up sticks,
Seven and eight
Thou must wait.”
Now there passed a thrill through the crowd, and the children whirled
quicker.
“Nine and ten
Pass again.
Golden pippin, lo! I cast,
Thou, Alcmene, touched at last.”
At the word “last” she threw the apple and struck a girl, and at once left
the ring, cast her coronet of narcissus into the fountain and ran into the
crowd. With a gasp of relief she was caught in the arms of her mother, who
held her to her heart, and sobbed with joy that her child was spared. For
her, the risk was past, as she would be over age when the next septennial
sacrifice came round.
Now it was the turn of Alcmene.
She held the ball, paused a moment, looking about her, and then, as the
troop of children revolved, she rattled the rhyme, and threw the pippin at
a damsel named Tertiola. Whereupon she in turn cast her garland, that was
of white violets, into the fountain, and withdrew.
Again the wreath of children circled and Tertiola repeated the jingle till
she came to “Touched at last,” when a girl named Ælia was selected, and
came into the middle. This was a child of seven, who was shy and clung to
her mother. The mother fondled her, and said, “My Ælia! Rejoice that thou
art not the fated victim. The god has surrendered thee to me. Be speedy
with the verse, and I will give thee _crustulæ_ that are in my basket.”
So encouraged, the frightened child rattled out some lines, then halted;
her memory had failed, and she had to be reminded of the rest. At last she
also was free, ran to her mother’s bosom and was comforted with cakes.
A young man with folded arms stood lounging near the great basin. He
occasionally addressed a shorter man, a client apparently, from his
cringing manner and the set smile he wore when addressing or addressed by
the other.
“By Hercules!” said the first. “Or let me rather swear by Venus and her
wayward son, the Bow‐bearer, that is a handsome girl yonder, she who is
the tallest, and methinks the eldest of all. What is her name, my
Callipodius?”
“She that looks so scared, O supremity of excellent youths, Æmilius
Lentulus Varo! I believe that she is the daughter and only child of the
widow Quincta, who lost her husband two years ago, and has refused
marriage since. They whisper strange things concerning her.”
“What things, thou tittle‐tattle bearer?”
“Nay, I bear but what is desired of me. Didst thou not inquire of me who
the maiden was? I have a mind to make no answer. But who can deny anything
to thee?”
“By the genius of Augustus,” exclaimed the patron, “thou makest me turn
away my head at thy unctuous flattery. The peasants do all their cooking
in oil, and when their meals be set on the table the appetite is taken
away, there is too much oil. It is so with thy conversation. Come, thy
news.”
“I speak but what I feel. But see how the circle is shrunk. As to the
scandal thou wouldst hear, it is this. The report goes that the widow and
her daughter are infected with a foreign superstition, and worship an
ass’s head.”
“An ass’s head hast thou to hold and repeat such lies. Look at the virgin.
Didst ever see one more modest, one who more bears the stamp of sound
reason and of virtue on her brow. The next thou wilt say is——”
“That these Christians devour young children.”
“This is slander, not scandal. By Jupiter Camulus! the circle is reduced
to four, and she, that fair maid, is still in it. There is Quinctilla, the
daughter of Largus; look at him, how he eyes her with agony in his face!
There is Vestilia Patercola. I would to the gods that the fair—what is her
name?”
“Perpetua, daughter of Aulus Har——”
“Ah!” interrupted the patron, uneasily. “Quinctilla is out.”
“Her father, Aulus Harpinius——”
“See, see!” again burst in the youth Æmilius, “there are but two left;
that little brown girl, and she whom thou namest——”
“Perpetua.”
Now arrived the supreme moment—that of the final selection. The choosing
girl, in whose hand was the apple, stood before those who alone remained.
She began:
“One, two
Drops of dew.”
Although there was so vast a concourse present, not a sound could be
heard, save the voice of the girl repeating the jingle, and the rush of
the holy water over the weir. Every breath was held.
“Nine and ten,
Pass again.
Golden pippin, now I cast,
Thou, Portumna, touched at last.”
At once the brown girl skipped to the basin, cast in her garland, and the
high priestess, raising her hand, stepped forward, pointed to Perpetua,
and cried, “Est.”