"The peace of God, which passeth all understanding."--PHILIPPIANS
IV. 7.
Three months had gone by since then. Rome had acclaimed the Cæsar and
rejoiced over his homecoming. There were holidays and spectacles,
chariot races and gladiatorial combats, and the people of Rome forgot
that it had ever shouted: "Hail Taurus Antinor Cæsar! Hail!"
Now the calls were for Caius Julius Cæsar Caligula, and those who had
most loudly shouted for his death, cringed most obsequiously at his
feet. The very name of the ex-praefect of Rome was already forgotten.
His testament, made, it appears, just before his death, had been
copiously commented on at first. All his slaves had received their
freedom together with a sufficient sum to enable one and all to live in
comfort in the new state of freedom. The rest of the vast property owned
by the late praefect was being somewhat mysteriously administered, and
up to this hour no one had been able to gain any definite information
with regard to its ultimate destination. There were those who averred
that a great deal of ready money--including the proceeds of the sale of
the late praefect's house in Rome and of his villa at Ostia--had found
its way to a section of very poor freedmen who lived on the Aventine and
who formed a somewhat isolated little colony not viewed altogether
kindly by the official magistracy of the city.
But all that was mere gossip and did not withstand the test of time.
After three months people had plenty of other matters to think of and to
talk about.
There were the festivals and games which had accompanied the re-entry of
the Cæsar into Rome. The city had been beflagged and adorned with
banners and with garlands. For thirty days did the rejoicings last, and
brilliant sunshine shone over the golden glories of autumn and kissed
the foliage of oleanders until they blushed a brilliant crimson, and
tinged the marble of palaces and temples every morning with rose.
The games in the great Circus went on without intermission for thirty
days; there were military and naval pageants, combats between the lions
from Numidia and the new hyenas and crocodiles; there were gladiatorial
contests and chariot races. Much human blood was shed for the
delectation of the masters of the world, much skill displayed, much
prowess vanquished by prowess greater, much valour laid to dust.
But the Cæsar's pet black panther did not appear again in the Circus.
The mighty fist of the dead praefect had mayhap laid the creature low;
in any case it were not safe to re-awaken dormant memories.
And Caius Julius Cæsar Caligula, the father of his armies, the best and
greatest of Cæsars, showed himself at all these pageants more crazed
than ever; he hardly ever spoke now to the people. 'Twas averred that
Cæsonia, his wife, had given him a potion to cure him of his infatuation
for Dea Flavia, his kinswoman, whom he had exalted above all the other
Augustas, and whose absence from Rome and from all festivities had
rendered him half distracted with wrath.
He would have liked to vent that wrath on Dea, but he could not lay
hands on her. She had left her palace even before his re-entry into
Rome, taking none but two of her most trusted slaves with her; the
others did not know whither she had gone. Some thought that she had gone
on a journey to a villa which she possessed in Sicilia, others thought
that she was living a life of retirement in a lonely dwelling on the
Sabine Hills, preparatory to devoting her virginity to the glory of
Vesta.
Caius Julius Cæsar Caligula prepared to have her sought for throughout
the length and breadth of his Empire, and would no doubt have succeeded
in time in this search had not a few months later Chaerea, the
praetorian tribune, done the work with his hands which the dagger of
young Escanes had failed to do.
The winter had been slow in coming, but it had come at last. An icy wind
blew from across the sea. Overhead the sky was the colour of lead and
great banks of clouds chased one another wantonly above the hills that
tower over Jerusalem.
There was hardly a path up the rugged incline, the rains and winds and
snows of the past seven years had obliterated the marks which a surging
crowd had once made in the wake of the sacred feet.
It was close on the ninth hour and the shadows of evening were already
drawing in very fast. A tall figure dressed in sombre garments walked
slowly up the hill which is called Calvary.
His head was uncovered and he had no wand wherewith to ease his
footsteps; the blustering gusts of wind blew the tawny hair over his
brow.
He held his head erect and his eyes did not watch the places where trod
his feet. They were fixed on ahead, up toward the summit of the hill,
there where a Cross stood broken and lonely with wooden arms
outstretched and the birds of heaven circling all round it.
Every day for seven days now had the pilgrim wandered up the steep
desolate hill. Every day for seven days he had reached the summit ere
the ninth hour was called from the city walls. He lived at a small inn
just inside the third wall, and every day at noon he set out upon his
pilgrimage and only came home when the darkness of the night lay dense
upon the valley.
To-day he was more weary than he had ever been before. His feet felt
like leaden weights that seemed to be dragging him down and ever
downwards, and the loneliness of the place had its image within his
heart.
On the summit he fell on his knees and knelt at the foot of the Cross,
leaning his aching forehead against the cold, dank wood.
"How long, oh my God, how long?" he murmured. "The misery is more than I
can bear. I am ready to do Thy work, oh God, to speak Thy Word where
Thou dost bid me go, but take her image, dear Lord, from before mine
eyes, it stands for ever 'twixt Thy Cross and me. Break my heart, oh
God, since her image fills it and its every beat is not in Thy name.
Take the cup from me, dear Lord! It is too bitter and I cannot drink!"
The night drew in around him; the lights in the city below were
extinguished one by one. The croaking birds on the lonely Cross had
found a home far away in the gloom.
The pilgrim knelt against the Cross, he could hardly see the objects
nearest to him, the small prickly shrubs, the rough grass, the loose
stones that looked so white and spectral in the waning light. He could
hardly see, for his eyes ached with the dull misery of tears that would
not fall; but suddenly a sound softer than that made by a night-bird in
its flight struck upon his ear.
It was like the drawing of a garment upon the rugged ground. One or two
small stones detached themselves from their bed of wet earth and rolled
away from under the tread of feet that walked upwards toward the summit.
The pilgrim did not move, and yet he heard the sound. It came nearer to
him, and nearer, and suddenly he was not alone; something living and
warm knelt on the stony ground beside him, and gentle fingers that had
the softness and the coolness of snow were laid upon his burning hands.
"I came as quickly as I could," said a tender voice close to his ear.
"But it has taken me some time to find thee. Had it not been for Folces
and his devotion I might mayhap never have found thee. We came to
Jerusalem yesterday. To-day at noon I saw thee starting forth from out
the city. I followed thee, but the way was rough.... I feared I should
never reach the summit ... and yet 'twas here I wished to speak to
thee."
All this while he had remained numb and silent. He knew even when first
her hand touched his that God had ended his sorrow and taken his aching
soul into His keeping at last. But for the moment he thought that sweet
death had kissed his eyelids and that this was the first taste of
paradise. Darkness was closing in around them both; he could scarcely
distinguish her features, but it seemed to him as if glory shone out of
her eyes, glory so radiant that it illumined the darkness and pierced
the walls of the night.
"Is it thou?" he murmured. "Oh God! have pity on me! Her image, her
sweet image, allow it to fade from my mind ere my brain becomes a
traitor to Thee!"
"'Tis not a vision, dear heart," she whispered softly, "'tis not a
dream. It is I, Dea Flavia, whom thou didst call the beloved of thy
heart. I came because I loved thee and because here on this spot I would
learn from thee the mysteries of thy God."
"Is it thou? And hast thou come to me from heaven?"
"No, dear heart, only from far-off Rome. And I have come to thee, to be
with thee and to follow thee wherever thou wilt lead me."
"Yet will my wanderings lead me far," he said, "my Lord has called and I
must go."
"Then will I go with thee," she said.
"To far-off lands, dear heart, to speak the Word of God to those who
heard it not."
"I will go with thee," she reiterated simply.
"To far-off lands whence I came, a sea-girt land which once was mine
own. My fathers lived there. I would go back and tell my people of all
that I saw here on Calvary seven years ago."
"Then thither will I go with thee," she replied, "thy home will be my
home, thy people my people and thy God shall be my God, for thine am I
now and always. I am ignorant yet but this I do know, that thy God must
be the great, the true and only God. None other God but He could have
put in thy heart the strength of sacrifice which hath brought thee--who
had Rome at thy feet--a lonely wanderer to the foot of this Cross."
She knelt beside him and he no longer cowered, limitless joy was in his
heart and immeasurable gratitude.
"For the Son of Man shall come in the glory of the Father with His
angels, and then He shall reward every man according to his works."
The wings of the wind brought the sacred words to his ears. He kissed
the rough wooden Cross there where the Divine feet had rested, and Dea
Flavia pressed her lips on it too, and the peace that passeth all
understanding descended upon them both.
Overhead the clouds had parted, their silver lining showed clearly
against the dull blue sky, and in the midst of that rent in the
firmament, far away in the limitless beyond, a star shone out bright and
clear.
Then they both rose, and hand in hand they walked slowly down the hill.
THE END
[Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors in the original
edition have been corrected.
In Chapter VIII, a missing comma was added to "'Silence' admonished
Marcus Ancyrus"; and "unnatural brighteness" was changed to "unnatural
brightness".
Chapter XXIV was misnumbered as Chapter XXVI.
In Chapter XXIV, "weary little sight" was changed to "weary little
sigh".
In Chapter XXX, "plit from end to end" was changed to "split from end to
end"; and "bow my hear down with shame" was changed to "bow my head down
with shame".
Also, the table of contents has been created for this electronic
edition. It was not present in the original work.]