LOCUTUS EST!
Every house in Nemausus thrilled with life. Sleep was driven from the
drowsiest heads. The tipsy were sobered at once. Those banqueting desisted
from conversation. Music was hushed. Men rushed into the street. The
beasts in the amphitheater, startled by the strange note, roared and
howled. Slowly the chief magistrate rose, sent to summon an edile, and
came forth. He was not quick of movement; it took him some time to resolve
whether he or his brother magistrate was responsible for order; when he
did issue forth, then he found the streets full, and that all men in them
were talking excitedly.
The god Nemausus, the _archegos_, the divine founder and ancestor had
spoken. His voice was rarely heard. It was told that before the Cimbri and
Teutones had swept over the province, he had shouted. That had been in
ages past; of late he had been sparing in the exercise of his voice. He
was said to have cried out at the great invasion of the Helvetii, that had
been arrested by Julius Cæsar; again to have trumpeted at the outbreak of
Civilis and Julius Sabinus, which, however, had never menaced Narbonese
Gaul, though at the time the god had called the worst was anticipated. The
last time he had been heard was at the revolt of Vindex that preceded the
fall of Nero.
Some young skeptics whispered: “By Hercules, the god has a brazen throat.”
“It is his hunting horn that peals to call attention. What he will say
will be revealed to the priestess.”
“Or what the priestess wishes to have believed is his message.”
But this incredulous mood was exhibited by very few. None ventured openly
to scoff.
“The god hath spoken!” this was the cry through the streets and the forum.
Every man asked his fellow what it signified. Some cried out that the
prince—the divine Aurelius Antoninus (Caracalla)—had been assassinated,
just as he was about to start from Rome for Gaul. Others that the
privileges of the city and colony were going to be abrogated. But one said
to his fellow, “I augured ill when we heard that the god had been cheated
of his due. No marvel he is out of humor, for Perpetua is esteemed the
prettiest virgin in Nemausus.”
“I wonder that the rescue passed off without notice being taken of the
affair by the magistrates.”
“Bah! it is the turn of the Petronius Alacinus now, and he will not bestir
himself unnecessarily. So long as the public peace be not broken——”
“But it was—there was a riot, a conflict.”
“A farcical fight with wind‐bags. Not a man was hurt, not a drop of blood
flowed. The god will not endure to be balked and his sacrifice made into a
jest.”
“He is hoarse with rage.”
“What does it all mean?”
Then said a stout man: “My good friend, it means that which always happens
when the priesthood is alarmed and considers that its power is menaced—its
credit is shaken. It will ask for blood.”
“There has been a great falling off of late in the worshipers of the gods
and in attendance at the games.”
“This comes of the spread of the pestilent sect of the Christians. They
are the enemies of the human race. They eat little children. The potter
Fusius lost his son last week, aged six, and they say it was sacrificed by
these sectaries, who stuck needles into it.”
“Bah! the body was found in the channel of the stream the child had fallen
in.”
“I heard it was found half eaten,” said a third.
“Rats, rats,” explained another standing by.
“Well, these Christians refuse to venerate the images of the Augustus, and
therefore are foes to the commonwealth. They should be rooted out.”
“You are right there. As to their religious notions—who cares about them?
Let them adore what they will—onions like the Egyptians, stars like the
Chaldeans, a sword like the Scythians—that is nothing to us; but when they
refuse to swear by the Emperor and to offer sacrifice for the welfare of
the empire then, I say, they are bad citizens, and should be sent to the
lions.”
“The lions,” laughed the stout man, “seem to respond to the voice, which
sounded in their ears, ‘Dinner for you, good beasts!’ Well, may we have
good sport at the games founded by Domitius Afer. I love to lie in bed
when the _circius_ (mistral) howls and the snowflakes fly. Then one feels
snug and enjoys the contrast. So in the amphitheater one realizes the
blessedness of life when one looks on at wretches in the hug of the bear,
or being mumbled by lions, or played with by panthers.”
Perhaps the only man whom the blast did not startle was Tarsius, the
inebriated slave, who had been expelled the house of Baudillas, and who
was engrossed only with his own wrongs, and who departed swearing that he
excommunicated the Church, not the Church him. He muttered threats; he
stood haranguing on his own virtues, his piety, his generosity of spirit;
he recorded many acts of charity he had done. “And I—I to be turned out!
They are a scurvy lot. Not worthy of me. I will start a sect of my own,
see if I do not.”
Whilst reeling along, growling, boasting, confiding his wrongs to the
walls on each side, he ran against Callipodius just as the words were in
his mouth: “I am a better Christian than all of them. I don’t affect
sanctimoniousness in aspect, but I am sound, sound in my life—a plain,
straight‐walking man.”
“Are you so?” asked Callipodius. “Then I wish you would not festoon in
such a manner as to lurch against me. You are a Christian. Hard times are
coming for such as you.”
“Aye, aye! I am a Christian. I don’t care who knows it. I’m not the man to
lapse or buy a _libellus_,(5) though they have turned me out.”
Callipodius caught the fellow by the shoulder and shook him.
“Man,” said he. “Ah, a slave! I recognize you. You are of the family of
Julius Largus Litomarus, the wool merchant. Come with me. The games are in
a few days, and the director of the sports has been complaining that he
wanted more prisoners to cast to the beasts. I have you in the nick of
time. I heard you with these ears confess yourself to be a Christian, and
the sole worthy one in the town. You are the man for us—plump and juicy,
flushed with wine. By the heavenly twins, what a morsel you will make for
the panthers! Come with me. If you resist I will summon the crowd, then
perhaps they will elect to have you crucified. Come quietly, and it shall
be panthers, not the cross. I will conduct you direct to the magistrate
and denounce you.”
“I pray you! I beseech you! I was talking nonsense. I was enacting a part
for the theater. I am no Christian; I was, but I have been turned out,
excommunicated. My master and mistress believe, and just to please them
and to escape stripes, and get a few favors such as are not granted to the
others, I have—you understand.” The slave winked.
Beside Callipodius was a lad bearing a torch. He held it up and the flare
fell over the face of the now sobered Tarsius.
“Come with me, fellow,” said Callipodius. “Nothing will save you but
perfect obedience and compliance with what I direct. Hark! was not that
the howl of the beasts. Mehercule! they snuff you already. My good friend
Æmilius Lentulus Varo, the lawyer, will be your patron; a strong man. But
you must answer my questions. Do you know the Lady Quincta and her
daughter? Quincta is the widow of Harpinius Læto.”
“Aye, aye! the wench was fished out of the pond to‐day.”
“That is right. Where are they, do you know their house?”
“Yes, but they are not at home now.”
“Where are they then?”
“Will you denounce them?” asked the slave nervously.
“On the contrary. They are menaced. I seek to save them.”
“Oh! if that be all, I am your man. They are in the mansion of Baudillas,
yonder—that is—but mum, I say! I must not speak. They kicked me out, but I
am not ungenerous. I will denounce nobody. But if you want to save the
ladies, I will help you with alacrity. They charged me with being
drunk—not the ladies—the bishop did that—more shame to him. I but rinsed
out my mouth with the Ambrussian. Every drop clear as amber. Ah, sir! in
your cellar have you——”
A rush of people up the street shouting, “The will of the god! the will of
the god! It is being proclaimed in the forum.”
They swept round Callipodius and the slave, spinning them, as leaves are
spun in a corner by an eddy of wind, then swept forward in the direction
of the great square.
“Come aside with me, fellow,” said Callipodius, darting after the slave
who was endeavoring to slink away. “What is your name? I know only your
face marked by a scar.”
“Tarsius, at your service, sir!”
“Good Tarsius, here is money, and I undertake to furnish you with a bottle
of my best old Ambrussian for your private tipple, or to make merry
therewith with your friends. Be assured, no harm is meant. The priests of
Nemausus seek to recover possession of the lady Perpetua, and it is my aim
to smuggle her away to a place of security. Do thou watch the door, and I
will run and provide litters and porters. Do thou assure the ladies that
the litters are sent to convey them in safety to where they will not be
looked for; say thy master’s house. I will answer for the rest. Hast thou
access to them?”
“Aye! I know the pass‐word. And though I have been expelled, yet in the
confusion and alarm I may be suffered again to enter.”
“Very excellent. Thou shalt have thy flask and an ample reward. Say that
the litters are sent by thy master, Largus Litomarus.”
“Right, sir! I will do thy bidding.”
Then Callipodius hastened in the direction of the habitation of Æmilius.
Meanwhile the forum filled with people, crowding on one another, all
quivering with excitement. Above were the stars. Here and there below,
torches. Presently the chief magistrate arrived with his lictors, and a
maniple of soldiers to keep order and make a passage through the mob
between the Temple of Nemausus and the forum.
Few women were present. Such as were, belonged to the lowest of the
people. But there were boys and men, old and young, slaves, artisans,
freedmen, and citizens.
Among the ignorant and the native population the old Paganism had a strong
hold, and their interests attached a certain number of all classes to it.
But the popular Paganism was not a religion affecting the lives by the
exercise of moral control. It was devoid of any ethic code. It consisted
in a system of sacrifice to obtain a good journey, to ward off fevers, to
recover bad debts, to banish blight and mildew. The superstitious lived in
terror lest by some ill‐considered act, by some neglect, they should incur
the wrath of the jealous gods and bring catastrophe on themselves or their
town. They were easily excited by alarm, and were unreasonable in their
selfish fervor.
Ever in anticipation of some disaster, an earthquake, a murrain, fire or
pestilence, they were ready to do whatever they were commanded, so as to
avert danger from themselves. The words of the Apostle to the Hebrews
describing the Gentiles as being through fear of death all their lifetime
subject to bondage, were very true. The ignorant and superstitious may be
said to have existed on the verge of a panic, always in terror lest their
gods should hurt them, and cringing to them in abject deprecation of evil.
It was this fear for themselves and their substance that rendered them
cruel.
The procession came from the temple. Torches were borne aloft, a long
wavering line of lurid fire, and vessels were carried in which danced
lambent flames that threw out odoriferous fumes.
First came the priests; they walked with their heads bowed and their arms
folded across their breasts, and with fillets of wool around their heads.
Then followed the priestesses shrouded in sable mantles over their white
tunics. All moved in silence. A hush fell on the multitude. Nothing was
heard in the stillness save the tramp of feet in rhythm. When the
procession had reached the forum, the chief priestess ascended the
rostrum, and the flambeau‐bearers ranged themselves in a half‐circle
below. She was a tall, splendidly formed woman, with profuse dark hair, an
ivory complexion, flashing black eyes under heavy brows.
Suddenly she raised her arms and extended them, letting the black pall
drop from her shoulders, and reveal her in a woven silver robe, like a web
of moonlight, and with white bare arms. In her right she bore an ivory
silver‐bound wand with mistletoe bound about it, every berry of
translucent stone.
Then amidst dead silence she cried: “The god hath spoken, he who founded
this city, from whom are sprung its ancient patrician families, who
supplieth you with crystal water from his urn. The holy one demands that
she who hath been taken from him be surrendered to him again, and that
punishment be inflicted on the Christians who have desecrated his statue.
If this, his command, be not fulfilled, then will he withhold the waters,
and deliver over the elect city to be a desolation, the haunt of the
lizard and the owl and bat. To the lions with the Christians! _Locutus est
Divus Archegos!_”