"Be thou faithful unto death."--REVELATIONS II. 10.
Up in the gorgeously draped tribune, beneath the striped awning, the
Emperor Caligula watched the arrival of his pet panther with a grin of
delight upon his face. He rubbed his hands together in obvious glee, and
anon pointed out the beauty of the ferocious creature to the Augusta Dea
Flavia, who coldly nodded in response.
She had sat beside the Cæsar all through the long, weary morning, giving
but few signs of life. Many there were who thought that, overcome with
drowsiness owing to the heat, she had fallen asleep with her head buried
in the fragrant depths of the lilies which she held.
Certain it is that throughout the spectacle she had kept her eyes
closed, and when death-cries filled the air with their terrible echo,
she had once or twice put her small hands to her ears.
Whenever she had done that the Cæsar had laughed, and apparently made
jest of her with the other Augustas who, in their turn, appeared greatly
amused.
The spectacle indeed had been somewhat tame, and but for the human chase
of a while ago, would have been intolerably dull. There was surely
nothing in the death of a few miserable slaves to upset the nerves of a
Roman princess. As for the gladiators! well! they were trained and well
paid to die.
Not far from the Cæsar's person, and leaning against the wall of the
tribune in his wonted attitude, the praefect of Rome had also stood
silently by. The Emperor had ordered his presence, nor could the
praefect of the city be absent when the sacred person of the Cæsar was
abroad amongst his people.
But no one could say whether the Anglicanus had seen or heard anything
of what went on around him. His eyes of a truth were wide open, but they
did not gaze down upon the arena; they were hidden by that dark frown
upon his brow, and no one could guess whereon was his ardent gaze so
resolutely fixed, no one could guess that from where he stood Taurus
Antinor could perceive the outline of a delicate profile, with the
softly rounded cheek, and a tiny shell-like ear half hidden by the filmy
veil of curls.
He could see the lids with their fringe of golden lashes fall wearily
over the eyes, he could trace the shudder of horror which shook the
slender figure from time to time.
Once the lilies dropped from Dea Flavia's hand, and the soft swishing
sound which they made in falling caused her to wake as from a reverie.
She looked all round her with wide-open eyes, and her glance suddenly
encountered those of the praefect of Rome. It seemed to him that her
very soul was in her eyes then, a soul which at that moment appeared
full of horror at all that she had seen.
But as quickly as she had thus involuntarily revealed her soul, so did
she conceal it again beneath her favoured veil of unbendable pride. She
frowned on him as if angered that he should have surprised a secret, and
almost it seemed then that she flashed on him a look of hatred and
contempt.
After that she turned away, and with her foot kicked away the fallen
lilies. She sat now leaning forward, motionless and still, with her
elbows buried in an embroidered cushion before her and her chin resting
on her hands.
Oh! if he only could, how gladly would he have seized her even now and
carried her away from this nauseating scene of bloodshed and cruelty. He
crossed his arms over his powerful chest till every muscle seemed to
crack with the effort of self-control. His very soul longed to take her
away, his sinews ached with the desire to seize her and to bear her in
his arms away, away beyond the cruel encircling walls of Rome, away from
her marble palaces and temple-crowned hills, away over the marshes of
the Campania and the belt of the blue sea beyond to that far-off land of
Galilee where he himself had found happiness and peace.
The Cæsar had commanded his presence here to-day, and he had come
because the Cæsar had commanded. To the last he would render unto Cæsar
that which was Cæsar's. But he had stood by with eyes that only saw a
golden head crowned with diamonds, a delicate oval cheek coloured like a
peach and tiny fleecy curls that fluttered softly in the breeze.
There was no longer any sorrow in his heart, no longer any remorse or
thought of treachery. The man in the little hut on the Aventine had
shown him the way how to lay down his burden of weakness and of sin.
He knew that he loved Dea Flavia with all the ardour of an untamed heart
that has never before tasted the sweetness of love. He knew that he
loved her with all the passion of a soul that at last hath found a mate.
But now he knew also that in this love there was no thought of treachery
to Him in Whose service he was prepared to lay down his life. He knew
that never again would the exquisite vision of this fair young pagan
stand between him and the Cross, but rather that she would point to
him--ignorantly and unconsciously--the way up to Golgotha.
For renunciation awaited him--that also did he know. A few more days in
the service of the Cæsar, and his promise to remain in Rome would no
longer bind him, since Caligula had returned from abroad.
The rest of his life was at the bidding of Him Who mutely from the Cross
had demanded his allegiance: a lonely hut somewhere on the Campania, or
further if God demanded it, a life of strenuous effort to win souls for
Christ, and the renunciation of all that had made life easy and pleasant
hitherto. God alone knew how easy that would have been to him
forty-eight hours ago. Taurus Antinor hated and despised the life of
Rome, the tyranny of a demented Cæsar, the indolence of the daily
routine, the ever-recurrent spectacles of hideous, inhuman cruelty.
Until that midday hour in the Forum four days ago, he had viewed his new
prospective life with a sense of infinite relief.
But now renunciation meant something more. Detachment from Rome and all
its pomps, its glories, and its cruelties meant also detachment from the
presence of Dea Flavia. It meant the tearing out of his very
heartstrings which had found root at a woman's feet. It meant the
drawing of an impenetrable veil between life itself and all that
henceforth could alone make life dear.
He had dreamed a dream, the exquisite beauty of which had wrought havoc
in his innermost soul, but the awakening had come before the glorious
dream had found its complete birth. Jesus of Nazareth had called to him
from the Cross, but even as He called, the pierced, sacred hand had
pointed to the broad path strewn with gold and roses, filled with the
fragrance of lilies and thrilled with the song of mating birds: and the
dying voice had gently murmured: "Choose!"
The soldier had chosen and was ready to go. But renunciation was not to
be the easy turning away from a road that was none too dear--it was to
be a sacrifice!--the taking up of the cross and the slow, weary mounting
up, up to Calvary, with aching back and sweating brow and the dreary
tragedy of utter loneliness.
It meant the giving up of every delight of manhood, of happiness in a
woman's smile, of rapture in a woman's kiss. It meant the giving up of
every joy in seeing her pass before him, of hearing the swish of her
skirts on the pavement of the city; it meant the giving up of all hope
ever to win her, of all thought of a future home, the patter of
children's feet, the rocking of a tiny cradle. It meant the sacrifice of
every thought of happiness and of every desire of body and of soul.
It meant the nailing of a heart to the foot of a cross.