THE UTRICULARES
The singular transformation that had taken place in the presiding deity of
the fountain, from being a nymph into a male god, had not been
sufficiently complete to alter the worship of the deity. As in the days of
Druidism, the sacred source was under the charge of priestesses, and
although, with the change of sex of the deity, priests had been appointed
to the temple, yet they were few, and occupied a position of subordination
to the chief priestess. She was a woman of sagacity and knowledge of human
nature. She perceived immediately how critical was the situation. If
Æmilius Lentulus were allowed to proceed with his speech he would draw to
him the excitable Southern minds, and it was quite possible might provoke
a tumult in which the temple would be wrecked. At the least, his words
would serve to chill popular devotion.
The period when Christianity began to radiate through the Roman world was
one when the traditional paganism with its associated rights, that had
contented a simpler age, had lost its hold on the thoughtful and cultured.
Those who were esteemed the leaders of society mocked at religion, and
although they conformed to its ceremonial, did so with ill‐disguised
contempt. At their tables, before their slaves, they laughed at the sacred
myths related of the gods, as absurd and indecent, and the slaves thought
it became them to affect the same incredulity as their masters. Sober
thinkers endeavored to save some form of religion by explaining away the
monstrous legends, and attributing them to the wayward imagination of
poets. The existence of the gods they admitted, but argued that the gods
were the unintelligent and blind forces of nature; or that, if rational,
they stood apart in cold exclusiveness and cared naught for mankind. Many
threw themselves into a position of agnosticism. They professed to believe
in nothing but what their senses assured them did exist, and asserted that
as there was no evidence to warrant them in declaring that there were
gods, they could not believe in them; that moreover, as there was no
revelation of a moral law, there existed no distinction between right and
wrong. Therefore, the only workable maxim on which to rule life was: “Let
us eat and drink, for to‐morrow we may die.”
Over all men hung the threatening cloud of death. All must undergo the
waning of the vital powers, the failure of health, the withering of
beauty, the loss of appetite for the pleasure of life, or if not the loss
of appetite, at least the faculty for enjoyment.
There was no shaking off the oppressive burden, no escape from the
gathering shadow. Yet, just as those on the edge of a precipice throw
themselves over, through giddiness, so did men rush on self‐destruction in
startling numbers and with levity, because weary of life, and these were
precisely such as had enjoyed wealth to the full and had run through the
whole gamut of pleasures.
What happened after death? Was there any continuance of existence?
Men craved to know. They felt that life was too brief altogether for the
satisfaction of the aspirations of their souls. They ran from one pleasure
to another without filling the void within.
Consequently, having lost faith in the traditional religion—it was not a
creed—itself a composite out of some Latin, some Etruscan, and some Greek
myth and cult, they looked elsewhere for what they required. Consciences,
agonized by remorse, sought expiation in secret mysteries, only to find
that they afforded no relief at all. Minds craving after faith plunged
into philosophic speculations that led to nothing but unsolved eternal
query. Souls hungering, thirsting after God the Ideal of all that is Holy
and pure and lovable, adopted the strange religions imported from the East
and South; some became votaries of the Egyptian Isis and Serapis, others
of the Persian Mithras—all to find that they had pursued bubbles.
In the midst of this general disturbance of old ideas, in the midst of a
widespread despair, Christianity flashed forth and offered what was
desired by the earnest, the thoughtful, the down‐trodden and the
conscience‐stricken—a revelation made by the Father of Spirits as to what
is the destiny of man, what is the law of right and wrong, what is in
store for those who obey the law; how also pardon might be obtained for
transgression, and grace to restore fallen humanity.
Christianity meeting a wide‐felt want spread rapidly, not only among the
poor and oppressed, but extensively among the cultured and the noble. All
connected by interest, or prejudiced by association with the dominant and
established paganism, were uneasy and alarmed. The traditional religion
was honeycombed and tottering to its fall, and how it was to be revived
they knew not. That it would be supplanted by the new faith in Christ was
what they feared.
The chief priestess of Nemausus knew that in the then condition of minds
an act of overt defiance might lead to a very general apostasy. It was to
her of sovereign importance to arrest the movement at once, to silence
Æmilius, to have him punished for his act of sacrilege, and to recover
possession of Perpetua.
She snatched the golden apple from the hand of the image, and, giving it
to an attendant, said: “Run everywhere; touch and summon the Cultores
Nemausi.”
The girl did as commanded. She sped among the crowd, and, with the pippin,
touched one, then another, calling: “Worshippers of Nemausus, to the aid
of the god!”
The result was manifest at once. It was as though an electrical shock had
passed through the multitude. Those touched and those who had heard the
summons at once disengaged themselves from the crush, drew together, and
ceased to express their individual opinions. Indeed, such as had
previously applauded the sentiments of Æmilius, now assumed an attitude of
disapprobation.
Rapidly men rallied about the white‐robed priestesses, who surrounded the
silver image.
To understand what was taking place it is necessary that a few words
should be given in explanation.
The Roman population of the towns—not in Italy only, but in all the
Romanized provinces, banded itself in colleges or societies very much like
our benefit clubs. Those guilds were very generally under the invocation
of some god or goddess, and those who belonged to them were entitled
“Cultores” or worshippers of such or such a deity. These clubs had their
secretaries and treasurers, their places of meeting, their common chests,
their feasts, and their several constitutions. Each society made provision
for its members in time of sickness, and furnished a dignified funeral in
the club Columbarium, after which all sat down to a funeral banquet in the
supper room attached to the cemetery. These colleges or guilds enjoyed
great privileges, and were protected by the law.
At a time when a political career was closed to all but such as belonged
to the governing class, the affairs of these clubs engrossed the attention
of the members and evoked great rivalry and controversies. One admirable
effect of the clubs was the development of a spirit of fellowship among
the members, and another was that it tended in a measure to break down
class exclusiveness. Men of rank and wealth, aware of the power exercised
by these guilds, eagerly accepted the offices of patron to them, though
the clubs might be those of cord‐wainers, armorers or sailmakers. And
those who were ordinary members of a guild regarded their patrons with
affection and loyalty. Now that the signal had been sent round to rally
the Cultores Nemausi, every member forgot his private feeling, sank his
individual opinion, and fell into rank with his fellows, united in one
common object—the maintenance by every available man, and at every
sacrifice, of the respect due to the god.
These Cultores Nemausi at once formed into organized bodies under their
several officers, in face of a confused crowd that drifted hither and
thither without purpose and without cohesion.
Æmilius found himself no longer hearkened to. To him this was a matter of
no concern. He had sought to engage attention only so as to withdraw it
from Perpetua and leave opportunity for her friends to remove her.
Now that this object was attained, he laughingly leaped from the
balustrade and made as though he was about to return home.
But at once the chief priestess saw his object, and cried: “Seize him! He
blasphemes the god, founder of the city. He would destroy the college. Let
him be conveyed into the temple, that the Holy One may there deal with him
as he wills.”
The Prefect of Police, whose duty it was to keep order, now advanced with
the few men he had deemed necessary to bring with him, and he said in
peremptory tone:
“We can suffer no violence. If he has transgressed the law, let him be
impeached.”
“Sir,” answered the priestess, “we will use no violence. He has insulted
the majesty of the god. He has snatched from him his destined and devoted
victim. Yet we meditate no severe reprisals. All I seek is that he may be
brought into the presence of the god in the adytum, where is a table
spread with cakes. Let him there sprinkle incense on the fire and eat of
the cakes. Then he shall go free. If the god be wroth, he will manifest
his indignation. But if, as I doubt not, he be placable, then shall this
man depart unmolested.”
“Against this I have naught to advance,” said the prefect.
But one standing by whispered him: “Those cakes are not to be trusted. I
have heard of one who ate and fell down in convulsions after eating.”
“That is a matter between the god and Æmilius Varo. I have done my duty.”
Then the confraternity of the Cultores Nemausi spread itself so as to
encircle the place and include Æmilius, barring every passage. He might,
doubtless, have escaped had he taken to his heels at the first summons of
the club to congregate, but he had desired to occupy the attention of the
people as long as possible, and it did not comport with his self‐respect
to run from danger.
Throwing over him the toga which he had cast aside when he leaped into the
pond, he thrust one hand into his bosom and leisurely strode through the
crowd, waving them aside with the other hand, till he stopped by the
living barrier of the worshippers of Nemausus.
“You cannot pass, sir,” said the captain of that party which intercepted
his exit. “The chief priestess hath ordered that thou appear before the
god in his cella and then do worship and submit thyself to his will.”
“And how is that will to be declared?” asked the young man, jestingly.
“Sir! thou must eat one of the dedicated placenta.”
“I have heard of these same cakes and have no stomach for them.”
“Nevertheless eat thou must.”
“What if I will not?”
“Then constraint will be used. The prefect has given his consent. Who is
to deliver thee?”
“Who! Here come my deliverers!”
A tramp of feet was audible.
Instantly Æmilius ran back to the balustrade, leaped upon it, and, waving
his arm, shouted:
“To my aid, Utriculares! But use no violence.”
Instantly with a shout a dense body of men that had rolled into the
gardens dashed itself against the ring of Cultores Nemausi. They
brandished marlin spikes and oars to which were attached inflated goat‐
skins and bladders. These they whirled around their heads and with them
they smote to the left and to the right. The distended skins clashed
against such as stood in opposition, and sent them reeling backward;
whereat the lusty men wielding the wind‐bags thrust their way as a wedge
through their ranks. The worshippers of Nemausus swore, screamed,
remonstrated, but were unable to withstand the onslaught. They were beaten
back and dispersed by the whirling bladders.
The general mob roared with laughter and cheered the boatmen who formed
the attacking party. Cries of “Well done, Utriculares! That is a fine
delivery, Wind‐bag‐men! Ha, ha! A hundred to five on the Utriculares! You
are come in the nick of time, afore your patron was made to nibble the
poisoned cakes.”
The men armed with air‐distended skins did harm to none. Their weapons
were calculated to alarm and not to injure. To be banged in the face with
a bladder was almost as disconcerting as to be smitten with a cudgel, but
it left no bruise, it broke no bone, and the man sent staggering by a
wind‐bag was received in the arms of those in rear with jibe or laugh and
elicited no compassion.
The Utriculares speedily reached Æmilius, gave vent to a cheer; they
lifted him on their shoulders, and, swinging the inflated skins and
shouting, marched off, out of the gardens, through the Forum, down the
main street of the lower town unmolested, under the conduct of
Callipodius.