THE CLOUD‐BREAK
The acting magistrate turned to his fellow‐quatuorvir, charged with co‐
ordinate judicial authority, on the left, and said: “Your nose is leaden‐
purple in hue.”
“No marvel, in this cold. I ever suffer there with the least frost. My ear
lobes likewise are seats of chilblain.”
“In this climate! Astonishing! If it had been in Britain, or in Germany,
it might have been expected.”
“My brother‐magistrate,” said Vibius Fuscianus, “I believe that here in
the south we are more sensible to frost than are those who live under
hyperborean skies. There they expect cold, and take precautions
accordingly. Here the blasts fall on us unawares. We groan and sigh till
the sun shines out, and then forget our sufferings. Who but fools would be
here to‐day? Look above. The clouds hang low, and are so dark that we may
expect to be pelted with hail.”
“Aye,” laughed Petronius, “as big as the pebbles that strew the Crau
wherewith Hercules routed the Ligurians. Well; it is black as an eclipse.
I will give thee a hint, Vibius mine! I have made my slave line this
marble seat with hot bricks. They are comforting to the spine, the very
column of life. Presently he will be here with another supply. You see we
are not all fools. Some do make provision against the cold.”
“I wish I had thought of this before.”
“That is precisely the wish that crossed the mind of the poor wretch whom
the wolves have finished. He postponed his renunciation of Christ till
just too late.”
Then Lucius Petronius yawned, stretched himself, and signed that the
freedman who had robbed the master who had manumitted him, should be
delivered to a panther.
The wolves were with difficulty chased out of the arena, and then all was
prepared for this next exhibition. It was brief. The beast was hungry, and
the criminal exposed made little effort to resist. Next came the turn of
Baudillas.
Without raising himself in his seat, the Quatuorvir said languidly: “You
broke out of prison, you were charged with aiding and abetting sacrilege.
You refused to sacrifice to the genius of the Emperor. Well, if you will
cast a few grains of incense in the fire, I will let you depart.”
“I cannot forswear Christ,” said Baudillas with a firmness that surprised
none so much as himself. But, indeed, the fall of Marcianus, so far from
drawing him along into the same apostasy, had caused a recoil in his soul.
To hear his fellow‐ministrant deny Christ, to see him extend his hands for
the incense—that inspired him with an indignation which gave immense force
to his resolution. The Church had been dishonored, the ministry disgraced
in Marcianus. Oh, that they might not be thus humbled in himself!
“Baudillas Macer,” said the magistrate, “take advice, and be speedy in
making your election; your fellow, who has just furnished a breakfast to
the wolves, hesitated a moment too long, and so lost his life. By the time
he had resolved to act as a wise man and a good citizen, not the gods
themselves could deliver him. _Flamen_, hand the shell with the grains to
this sensible fellow.”
“I cannot offer sacrifice.”
“You are guilty of treason against Cæsar if you refuse to sacrifice to his
genius. Never mind about Nemausus, whose image is there. Say—the genius of
Cæsar, and you are quit.”
“I am his most obedient subject.”
“Then offer a libation or some frankincense.”
“I cannot. I pray daily to God for him.”
“A wilful man is like a stubborn ass. There is naught for him but the
stick. I can do no more. I shall sentence you.”
“I am ready to die for Christ.”
“Then lead him away. The sword!”
The deacon bowed. “I am unworthy of shedding my blood for Christ,” he
said, and his voice, though low, was firm.
Then he looked around and saw the Bishop Castor in the zone allotted to
the citizens and knights. Baudillas crossed his arms on his breast and
knelt on the sand, and the bishop, rising from his seat, extended his hand
in benediction.
He, Castor, had not been called to sacrifice. He had not courted death,
but he had not shrunk from it. He had not concealed himself, nevertheless
he had been passed over.
Then the deacon, with firm step, walked into the center of the arena and
knelt down.
In another moment his head was severed from the body.
The attendants immediately removed every trace of the execution, and now
arrived the moment for which all had looked with impatience.
The magistrate said: “Bring forward Perpetua, daughter of Aulus Harpinius
Læto, that has lived.”
At once Æmilius sprang into the arena and advanced before Petronius.
“Suffer me to act as her advocate,” said he in an agitated voice. “You
know me, I am Lentulus Varo.”
“I know you very well by repute, Æmilius,” answered the Quatuorvir; “but I
think there is no occasion now for your services. This is not a court of
justice in which your forensic eloquence can be heard, neither is this a
case to be adjudicated upon, and calling for defence. The virgin was
chosen by lot to be given to the god Nemausus, and was again demanded by
him speaking at midnight, after she had been rescued from his fountain, if
I mistake not, by you. Your power of interference ceased there. Now, she
is accused of nothing. She is reconsigned to the god, whose she is.”
“I appeal to Cæsar.”
“If I were to allow the appeal, would that avail thy client? But it is no
case in which an appeal is justifiable. The god is merciful. He does not
exact the life of the damsel, he asks only that she enter into his service
and be a priestess at his shrine, that she pour libations before his
altar, and strew rose leaves on his fountain. Think you that the Cæsar
will interfere in such a matter? Think you that, were it to come before
him, he would forbid this? But ask thy client if the appeal be according
to her desire.”
Perpetua shook her head.
“No, she is aware that it would be profitless. If thou desirest to serve
her, then use thy persuasion and induce her to do sacrifice.”
“Sir,” said Æmilius in great agitation, “how can she become the votary of
a god in whom she does not believe?”
“Oh, as to that,” answered the Quatuorvir, “it is a formality, nothing
more; a matter of incense and rose leaves. As to _belief_,” he turned to
his fellow‐magistrate, and said, laughing, “listen to this man. He talks
of belief, as though that were a necessary ingredient in worship! Thou,
with thy plum‐colored nose, hast thou full faith in Æsculapius to cure
thee even of a chilblain?”
Fuscianus shrugged his shoulders. “I hate all meddlers with usages that
are customary. I hate them as I do a bit of grit in my salad. I put them
away.”
The populace became impatient, shouted and stamped. Some, provided with
empty gourds, in which were pebbles, rattled them, and made a strange
sound as of a hailstorm. Others clacked together pieces of pottery. The
magistrate turned to the pontiff on his right and said: “We believe with
all our hearts in the gods when we do sacrifice! Oh, mightily, I trow.”
Then he laughed again. The priest looked grave for a moment, and then he
laughed also.
“Come now,” said Lucius Petronius to the young lawyer, “to this I limit
thy interference. Stand by the girl and induce her to yield. By the Bow‐
bearer! young men do not often fail in winning the consent of girls when
they use their best blandishments. It will be a scene for the stage. You
have plenty of spectators.”
“Suffer me also to stand beside her,” said the slave‐woman Blanda, who had
not left Perpetua.
“By all means. And if you two succeed, none will be better content than
myself. I am not one who would wish a fair virgin a worse fate than to
live and be merry and grow old. Ah me! old age!”
Again the multitude shouted and rattled pumpkins.
“We are detaining the people in the cold,” said the presiding magistrate;
“the sports move sluggishly as does our blood.” Then, aside to Fuscianus,
“My bricks are becoming sensibly chilled. I require a fresh supply.” Then
to the maiden: “Hear me, Perpetua, daughter of Harpinius Læto that was—we
and the gods, or the gods and we, are indisposed to deal harshly. Throw a
few crumbs of incense on the altar, and you shall pass at once up those
steps to the row of seats where sit the white‐robed priestesses with their
crowns. I shall be well content.”
“That is a thing I cannot do,” said Perpetua firmly.
“Then we shall have to make you,” said the magistrate in hard tones. He
was angry, vexed. “You will prove more compliant when you have been
extended on the rack. Let her be disrobed and tortured.”
Then descended into the arena two young men, who bowed to the magistrate,
solicited leave, and drew forth styles or iron pens and tablets covered
with wax. These were the scribes of the Church employed everywhere to take
down a record of the last interrogatory of a martyr. Such records were
called the “Acts.” Of them great numbers have been preserved, but
unhappily rarely unfalsified. The simplicity of the acts, the stiffness of
style, the absence of all miraculous incident, did not suit the taste of
mediæval compilers, and they systematically interpolated the earlier acts
with harrowing details and records of marvels. Nevertheless, a certain
number of these acts remain uncorrupted, and with regard to the rest it is
not difficult to separate in them that which is fictitious from that which
is genuine. Such notaries were admitted to the trials and executions with
as much indifference as would be newspaper reporters nowadays.
Again, with the sweat of anguish breaking out on his brow, Æmilius
interposed.
“I pray your mercy,” he said; “let the sentence be still further modified.
Suffer the damsel to be relieved of becoming a priestess. Let her become
my wife, and I swear that I will make over my estate of Ad Fines to the
temple of the god Nemausus, with the villa upon it, and statues and works
of art.”
“That is an offer to be entertained by the priesthood and not by me.
Boy—hot bricks! and be quick about removing those which have become almost
cold.”
A pause ensued whilst the proposal of Æmilius was discussed between the
chief priestess of the fountain and the Augustal _flamen_ and the other
pontiffs.
The populace became restless, impatient, noisy. They shouted, hooted;
called out that they were tired of seeing nothing.
“Come,” said Petronius, “I cannot further delay proceedings.”
“We consent,” said the chief pontiff.
“That is well.”
Then Æmilius approached Perpetua, and entreated her to give way. To cast a
few grains on the charcoal meant nothing; it was a mere movement of the
hand, a hardly conscious muscular act, altogether out of comparison with
the results. Such compliance would give her life, happiness, and would
place her in a position to do vast good, and he assured her that his whole
life would be devoted to her service.
“I cannot,” she said, looking Æmilius full in the face. “Do not think me
ungrateful; my heart overflows for what you have done for me, but I cannot
deny my Christ.”
Again he urged her. Let her consent and he—even he would become a
Christian.
“No,” said she, “not at that price. You would be in heart for ever
estranged from the faith.”
“To the rack! Lift her on to the little horse. Domitius Afer left his
bequest to the city in order that we should be amused, not befooled,”
howled the spectators.
“Executioners, do your duty,” said the magistrate. “But if she cry out,
let her off. She will sacrifice. Only to the first hole—mind you. If that
does not succeed, well, then, we shall try sharper means.”
And now the little horse was set up in the midst of the arena, and
braziers of glowing charcoal were planted beside it; in the fire rested
crooks and pincers to get red hot.
The “little horse” was a structure of timber. Two planks were set edgeways
with a wheel between them at each end. The structure stood on four legs,
two at each extremity, spreading at the base. Halfway down, between these
legs, at the ends, was a roller, furnished with levers that passed through
them. A rope was attached to the ankles, another to the wrists of the
person extended on the back of the “horse,” and this rope was strained
over the pulleys by means of the windlasses. The levers could be turned to
any extent, so as, if required, to wrench arms and legs from their
sockets.
And now ensued a scene that refuses description. “We are made a spectacle
unto men and angels,” said the apostle, and none could realize how true
were the words better than those who lived in times of persecution. Before
that vast concourse the modest Christian maiden was despoiled of her
raiment and was stretched upon the rack—swung between the planks.
Æmilius felt his head swim and his heart contract. What could he do? Again
he entreated, but she shook her head, yet turned at his voice and smiled.
Then the executioners threw themselves on the levers, and a hush as of
death fell on the multitude. Twenty thousand spectators looked on, twice
that number of eyes were riveted on the frail girl undergoing this agony.
Bets had been made on her constancy, bandied about, taken, and booked.
Castor stood up, with face turned to heaven, and extended arms, praying.
The creaking of the windlass was audible; then rang out a sharp cry of
pain.
Immediately the cords were relaxed and the victim lowered to the ground.
Blanda threw a mantle over her.
“She will sacrifice,” said Æmilius; “take off the cords.”
The executioners looked to the magistrate. He nodded, and they obeyed. The
bonds were rapidly removed from her hands and feet.
“Blanda, sustain her!” commanded Æmilius, and he on one side, with his arm
round the sinking, quivering form, and the slave‐woman on the other,
supported Perpetua. Her feet dragged and traced a furrow in the sand; they
were numbed and powerless through the tension of the cords that had been
knotted about the ankles. Æmilius and Blanda drew her towards the altar.
“I cannot! I will not sacrifice! I am a Christian. I believe in Christ! I
love Christ!”
“Perpetua,” said Æmilius in agitated tones, “your happiness and mine
depend on compliance. For all I have done for you, if you will not for
your own sake—consent to this. Here! I will hold your hand. Nay, it is I
who will strew the incense, and make it appear as though it were done by
you. Priest! The shell with the grains.”
“Spare me! I cannot!” gasped the girl, struggling in his arms. “I cannot
be false to my Christ—for all that He has done for me.”
“You shall. I must constrain you.” He set his teeth, knitted his brow. All
his muscles were set in desperation. He strove to force her hand to the
altar.
“Shame on thee!” sobbed she. “Thou art more cruel than the torturer, more
unjust than the judge.”
It was so. Æmilius felt that she was right. They did but insult and rack a
frail body, and he did violence to the soul within.
The people hooted and roared, and brandished their arms threateningly. “We
will not be balked! We are being treated to child’s play.”
“Take her back to the rack. Apply the fire,” ordered the Quatuorvir.
The executioners reclaimed her. She offered no resistance. Æmilius
staggered to the _podium_ and grasped the marble top with one hand.
She was again suspended on the little horse. Again the windlass creaked.
The crowd listened, held its breath, men looked in each other’s eyes, then
back to the scene of suffering. Not a sound; not a cry; no, not even a
sigh. She bore all.
“Try fire!” ordered the magistrate.
Æmilius had covered his face. He trembled. He would have shut his ears as
he did his eyes, could he have done so. Verily, the agony of his soul was
as great as the torture of her body. But there was naught to be heard—an
ominous stillness, only the groaning of the windlass, and now and then a
word from one executioner to his fellow.
At every creak of the wheel a quiver went through the frame of Æmilius. He
listened with anguish of mind for a cry. The populace held its breath; it
waited. There was none. Into her face he dared not look. But the twenty
thousand spectators stared—and saw naught save lips moving in prayer.
And now a mighty wonder occurred.
The dense cloud that filled the heavens began softly, soundlessly, to
discharge its burden. First came, scarce noticed, sailing down, a few
large white flakes like fleeces of wool. Then they came fast, faster, ever
faster. And now it was as though a white bridal veil had been let down out
of heaven to hide from the eyes of the ravening multitude the spectacle of
the agony of Christ’s martyr. None could see across the arena; soon none
could see obscurely into it. The snowflakes fell thick and dense, they
massed as a white cornice on the parapet, they dropped on every head, they
whitened the bloodstained, trampled sand. And all fled before the snow.
First went a few in twos or threes; then whole rows stood up, and through
the vomitories the multitude poured—freedmen, slaves, knights, ladies,
_flamines_, magistrates; none could stand against the descending snow.
“Cast her down!” This was the last command issued by Petronius as he rose
from his seat. The executioners were glad to escape. They relaxed the
ropes, and threw their victim on the already white ground.
Still thick and fast fell the fleeces. Blanda had cast a mantle of wool
over the prostrate girl, but out of heaven descended a pall, whiter than
fuller on earth can bleach, and buried the woolen cloak and the extended
quivering limbs. Beside her, in the snow, knelt Æmilius. He held her hand
in one of his. She looked him in the face and smiled. Then she said: “Give
to Blanda her liberty.”
He could not speak. He signed that it should be so.
Then she said: “I have prayed for thee—on the rack, in the fire—that the
light may shine into thy heart.”
She closed her eyes.
Still he held her hand, and with the other gently brushed away the
snowflakes as they fell on her pure face. Oh wondrous face! Face above the
dream of the highest Greek artist!
Thus passed an hour—thus a second.
Then suddenly the clouds parted, and the sun poured down a flood of glory
over the dazzling white oval field, in the midst of which lay a heap of
whiteness, and on a face as of alabaster, inanimate, and on a kneeling,
weeping man, still with reverent finger sweeping away the last snowflakes
from eyelash, cheek and hair, and who felt as if he could thus look, and
kneel, and weep for ever.(12)