Magus, of course, was the hero of the hour. He was loaded with thanks and praises, his master embraced him warmly, and gifts were showered upon him; but the honest fellow seemed hardly to understand why so much was made of his achievement. What was the difference, whether he hung over a precipice on some northern shore to gather a rare plant from the rock, or cut his way through the Rugian forests to cast a net over the horns of the aurochs, or climbed to the top-most branches of a primeval oak, or—as he had just done—swam a few paces to thwart a foe? It was all instinctive prompting, nothing meritorious or remarkable.
The rowers set to work with a will, notwithstanding that the imperial trireme was now disabled. The coast was still too close for them to feel sure whence or by whom the pursuit might not be taken up.
After a short council, they decided on taking a course between the little islands of Planasia and Ilva,[77]north of Corsica, to the coast of Gallia Narbonensis, and then to cast anchor in the most unfrequented bay they could find; Athenopolis[78]perhaps, or Olbia.[79]From thence, either separately or together, they could make their way into the interior, and reach Gallia Lugdunensis, where a large number of troops were stationed, some in scattered fortresses, and some in thechief town of the province, Lugdunum on the Rhodanus.[80]Rodumna, on the Liger, the native town of Afranius, was still to be the central point of meeting on a particular day, to be fixed later, unless the conspiracy should through some unforeseen occurrence be broken up.
It had now long been day. The fugitives, quite tired out, retired to their couches; Aurelius only still found something to do. First he went to Herodianus’ cabin; he had taken himself to bed as soon as he had come on board, and all the bustle of the last hour or two had not waked him. He now lifted up a bruised and swollen face, and complained of severe pain. His fall on the way had shaken him considerably. Aurelius helped him to move, and then applied a bandage and a herb poultice to his arm and shoulder, and in five minutes the patient was asleep again.
Aurelius, however, still could not rest. He went next to the fugitive entrusted to his protection by Quintus Claudius: Eurymachus. He found him excited, pale, and breathless. He was in a high fever, and sitting up in bed. Through the half-opened port-hole of his cabin he had listened in alarm to the mysterious confusion and noise; he imagined that the pursuit had been on his account, and it had distressed him beyond measure to think that the magnanimous Aurelius should be involved in his hapless fate. When the Batavian had reassured him on this point, he fell back on his pillows with a few words of gratitude. A sort of ague fit shook his frame, and his teeth chattered as if with cold.
“How strange,” said Aurelius to himself. “Thisman, who is so indifferent to danger for himself, is ready to die with anxiety for the safety of his preserver!”
He went back to his own room, and threw himself, wrapped in his cloak as he was, on the outside of his bed. He tried to recall all the events of the last twenty-four hours, but his thoughts became confused. He seemed to see a sweet maiden form stooping over him—to see her smile and feel her kiss his forehead. “Claudia!” he sighed and shivered; then he fell quite asleep—and he was at Baiae, in the quiet, peaceful garden, far from the world of hatred, tyranny, and persecutions. A lovely dream! as distinct from the realities of the present, as a bright star in the dark vault of night.
All this time the wily Barbillus had not been idle. He knew too well the whole meaning of awishof Domitian’s, particularly when the wish was expressed in such a manner, as his desire to conquer Cornelia had been. Besides, the priest had only too much reason to fear the Emperor, in relation to his high pretensions to prophetic powers. More than once had Domitian shown his aversion to Chaldaeans, mathematicians, and seers generally, and had banished them from Rome by special edicts. These edicts might at any moment be turned against Barbillus, even though he also officiated as the priest of a tolerated faith, and hitherto had had no cause to dread his imperial patron, whom he had found means to amuse and manage. Again, and above all, his vanity was at stake; he felt the failure of theelaborately-contrived mummery as personally humiliating, and longed to purge himself of the charge of clumsiness in the Emperor’s eyes.
On the following day, therefore, he set to work again, and began to reconnoitre the ground. His spies, under a variety of excuses, made their way into Cornelius’ house, eavesdropping and bribing the slaves. Now as a Syrian yarn-seller, now as a shipwrecked sailor humbly praying the ostiarius to admit him to shelter, or as a dealer in Egyptian charms—one or another of the indefatigable Oriental’s tools contrived to see and hear something, without their presence being thought strange in a house where so many came and went. Thus Barbillus learned many details as to Cornelia’s habits and mode of life, which might possibly prove of use, though he did not as yet see the connection they would have with his schemes.
However, the results of this system of espionage seemed more tangibly satisfactory when, on the second day after beginning operations, there was put into his hands the note which Caius Aurelius had written and left on the occasion of his nocturnal visit.
The slave-girl, who had not parted with it for anything less than gold, declared that she had plainly seen and heard Cornelia, when she took it from the Batavian and promised to deliver it to her uncle. Since it could hardly be doubted that it was a precautionary warning from a fellow-conspirator, it would not be difficult to make it appear that Cornelia must be a party to the plot. To an unprejudiced judge, it was indeed self-evident that Cornelia had no suspicion of the importance of this bit of writing; otherwise she would have taken better care of it, and would not have been so foolish asto leave it lying by the lamp when she went to bed. But all that Barbillus wanted was some valid excuse for a hold over the young girl.
When the note was put into his hands, the day was already waning. It was that same eventful day when, in the morning, the Batavian had so happily escaped, and at night the Christians were doomed to surprise and seizure. Barbillus decided not to waste an instant; he hurried off to the chamberlain’s house, where, after some ceremony on the part of the servants, he succeeded in gaining admission.
The courtier was entertaining a highly select circle. They had just risen from a magnificent supper, and he had conducted his guests into a handsomely-decorated room, where a variety of entertainments were provided for them. Some, heated with their potations of fine wines, went out into the cooler air of the peristyle; among these were Parthenius himself and Clodianus, who stood eagerly talking to the master of the feast.
“Come—let us talk no more of business;” said Parthenius, half in earnest and half in jest, when Clodianus paused for a moment. “I assure you, my noble friend, I am almost overwhelmed when I think of the work before us. I am half afraid, that with all these arrests we have loaded ourselves with a burden that we can hardly carry.”
“Why?” asked the adjutant coolly.
“Only think! the flower of the Senate and the Knights! It will hardly be wise to punish so many and such illustrious captives with death. Merely to banish them would be to endanger the Caesar’s power....”
“Then keep them in prison till further notice.”
“That will not do either. Do you suppose then,that their relations and friends would sit with their hands before them? It would be putting a dangerous weapon into the enemy’s hands.”
“Really, Parthenius, you talk as if the throne were already tottering. What can the anger of the accused, or the disaffection of their allies matter to us? Is not the Palatium strong enough? Are not our soldiers faithful? Is not Caesar one with all the true feelings of his people?”
“Again I say, put off all serious discussion till to-morrow,” replied the chamberlain, offering his hand to the adjutant. “The duties of a host now claim my attention....”
At this moment a servant led the way for a priest of Isis.
“My lord,” said Barbillus, bowing, “I have come on the business you know of. Caesar commissioned me....”
“Ah! now I recognize you!” exclaimed Parthenius after looking at him closely for a moment. “You are Barbillus, the stage-manager and prompter at the Temple of Isis. Charmed, by the gods, I am sure!”
Barbillus, who was not particularly pleased at this reception, looked down in embarrassment. He did not know whether to take up a jesting tone in reply, or to try to be dignified and haughty; so as to impress the adjutant, at any rate, even if it were impossible with the chamberlain, who was cognizant of his miserable failure.
“Do you recollect,” continued Parthenius, turning to Clodianus with a meaning glance, “that charming creature, whose coarse-fisted slave had the audacity....”
“To be sure. Caesar told me of that wonderful intrigue. I always used to be his right-hand man in such little affairs.”
“Then you know the lovely joke about the mask of Osiris?”
“Of course. But let this man speak; he is evidently in a hurry.”
“You are right,” said Barbillus with dignified calm. “In spite of the inconvenient hour I have ventured to disturb the illustrious Parthenius, in order to inform him that I have found the ways and means....”
“My friend,” interrupted the chamberlain, “I see there my friend Latinus, the actor, who is looking anxiously for me. Every second of my time is precious. Clodianus, would you have the kindness to hear what this worthy priest has to say, and in case of need to give him your always valuable advice. Then, when my actors have done, you can tell me what he proposes. And at any rate, Barbillus, if your plans should not necessitate immediate action, pray remain as my guest.”
He waved a polite hand and turned away with a light step. Clodianus drew the priest a little on one side.
“Now,” he said: “What is your news?”
“My lord,” said Barbillus, “to begin at the beginning, it would seem that you too know of the commission with which Caesar has honored me. I am to make up for that little mishap the other evening. Well, I have discovered how to solve the problem; this note, if judiciously used, will put the coy damsel entirely in your power—by right of law, without the slightest exercise or appearance of arbitrary dealing.”
“Show me!”
The priest gave him the note. “Caius Aurelius,” he said, “gave her this note a few hours before he fled.”
Clodianus read every word slowly and thoughtfully, and muttering to himself: “The Batavian to the noble Cornelius greeting. There is danger in delay. Remember Rodumna!”
Then a ray of intelligence lighted up his features, and his eyes sparkled with sudden fire. Rodumna! as it happened, he knew the little town, and one of his clients was a native of the place. In the self-same instant it struck him, that Rodumna was not far from Lugdunum, and this was like a flash of revelation; Rodumna, of course, was the head-quarters of the conspirators.—For that a conspiracy existed, none could doubt after all that had occurred, and Cinna’s well-known connection with Gallia Lugdunensis made the choice of that province as a base of operations probable on the face of it.
Clodianus breathed hard. His keen wit took in the whole situation at once. If the contents of this note could be kept secret, if he could succeed in turning the Emperor’s suspicions in another direction, this unhoped-for discovery would be of incalculable value. It was but a point to be sure, but that point might serve as the fulcrum from which to lift the world off its hinges. If his schemes with Stephanus and the Empress should fall through, here was a new lever ready to his hand, and stronger, more reliable, more splendid than the first.
Clodianus made up his mind in an instant. He put on an expression of almost ferocious gravity.
“Barbillus,” he said with excessive sternness: “You are my prisoner!”
“You are joking!” exclaimed the priest in dismay.
“By no means! This note reveals a secret which, if it became known, would nullify all the measures taken by the government. Till this moment, not a soul but Caesar and those in his confidence knew that the conspirators were to meet at Rodumna. Accident has put you, too, in possession of the information. I must have you in safe-keeping.”
“That would be an ill return for the zeal I have shown in the matter.”
“I am very sorry, but consideration for you must yield to my care for the safety of the State. The secret must be kept at any cost. Nothing but your imprisonment will be a sufficient guarantee. Come into the house with me, and I will consider where to send you.”
“You are resolved on my ruin!” cried Barbillus in despair. “A priest of Isis in prison! only consider; my office, my position, my influence will be utterly lost. Do you suppose, that all these years and in such a place as mine I have not learnt to hold my tongue? Silence is the first virtue of a priest.”
The adjutant seemed to waver.
“If I could trust you.—But no. It will not do; I cannot undertake such a responsibility.”
“You can, you may in all confidence. You may throw me to the wild beasts, if a rash word ever passes my lips. Only spare me this irremediable disgrace. I am thought by every matron in Rome to be specially favored by the goddess. You are destroying my very existence.”
“That would no doubt be a misfortune,” said Clodianus relenting. “Well, be it so; once more I will be fool enough to be good-natured. But woe to you, if you abuse my kindness.”
“Thanks, thanks, my lord!” exclaimed Barbillus, raising the crafty courtier’s hand to his lips.
“The letter itself I will destroy at once,” continued Clodianus. “Parthenius himself must know nothing of its contents, or he would undo all my precautions. Swear to be secret by all you hold most sacred.”
“I swear by the precious head of Barbillus,” said the priest, laying his hand on his heart.
“Very good; now come with me. You must tell the chamberlain some fib. That you hope to persuade the fair one to yield willingly, or anything else that comes into your head. I will take care of the rest.”
“Would it not be wise, if we were to discuss the details of the fib? I am anxious not to blunder, for I have already angered Caesar once.”
“Then go, keep out of it, and leave the whole matter to me. I will let you know what I have settled in the course of the evening.”
“That will, I think, be the safest plan. My appearing here at so late an hour might excite suspicion: Farewell, my lord. I will never forget the grace you have shown your humble servant.”
“The best thanks will be in silence.”
Barbillus took his leave. Clodianus took a few more turns up and down the colonnade, rubbing his hands with satisfaction; then he returned to the reception-rooms.
When the extremely witty, but extremely licentious comedy had been acted to the end, amid the wild laughter of the audience, Parthenius found time to speak a few words in private with Clodianus. The adjutant had thought out his scheme and devised a fable,too simple to seem doubtful, to justify the priest’s unexpected visit.
The lovely Lycoris—who looked more bewitchingly than ever from under her long lashes—was just coming towards them, with the intention of thanking their amiable host for the delightful treat he had given them, and the amusement she had derived from it, and Parthenius was turning to meet her, when his attention was once more claimed in an opposite direction. A note from the city-prefect informed him of the escape of the Batavia and the disaster of the Charybdis. The letter also reported the most positive information, that the Batavia was bound for Liguria. This was inferred from the fact, that after that luckless encounter she took her course northwards rather than to the west. The city-prefect had sent express messengers to Ostia, that the chase might, if possible, be renewed immediately.
Clodianus, to whom the chamberlain handed the note with a shrug of vexation, understood the position at once and took advantage of it. The city-prefect’s mistake as to the direction the fugitives had taken, must be confirmed by spurious evidence and by an affectation of entire conviction, and Parthenius, who was just now very open to persuasion, must be talked over as soon as possible.
“Of course, it is obvious!” said he, as though to himself. “Savo[81]or Albium Ingaunum[82]are the only possible spots.—Well planned, on my word! Their route lies straight there, no islands in the way, and the vast curve of the coast makes it impossible to head them byland. From Liguria they will easily reach the Germanic Highlands, where the Batavian has powerful friends.—I see the whole plot. They will inveigle Germania and march across northern Italy with their flaxen-haired mercenaries and down upon the capital.”
“Your keenness is wonderful,” said Parthenius. “To be sure, the whole thing is as clear as day. But what then, what can I do? The order for the pursuit has been issued, and I can but approve, though I am perfectly convinced that it is too late.—Here in Rome one never has a minute to oneself? Go, slave, tell your master I am obliged to him.—And now, enchanting Massilian, by Cypria! but if the ship those conspirators have sailed in had a heart, it would sail straight to Gaul to meet your sisters in beauty.[83]—Tell me now, what you found to criticise in our comedy.—I see a curl of Attic irony playing round your rose-bud lips.”
Lycoris did in fact make a few sarcastic remarks on the piece and the performers; but from that she went off into harmless chat of such delightful gaiety and sweetness, that Parthenius could not weary of listening to her melodious voice or of gazing at her round and snow-white shoulders. Never before had she seemed to him so perfectly enchanting; her lips smiled promise and her eyes flashed passion. Parthenius—a finished connoisseur in all the tricks and graces of the stage of the time—never suspected that this lavish display of her charms and fascinating wiles was a branch of the art; that Lycoris was acting a comedy, and that Stephanuswas the manager of the drama. Stephanus himself, no doubt, was but a puppet in the hands of this witch, whose ambition aimed at the highest mark that ever dazzled the fancy of a Roman—at the sceptre of the world.
Stephanus himself was one of the guests, and with him all wascouleur de rose. While Lycoris was devoting herself to entangling the chamberlain, Stephanus was exchanging a few polite phrases with the adjutant.
“Listen,” said Clodianus in a low voice, as Stephanus turned to leave him; “I wish to warn you—Cneius Afranius is on the list of the proscribed, but this in no way prevents Caesar from taking the opportunity you know of....”
“What!”
“Gently—we are watched. Will you come to see me in the course of the week? I will let you know the day and hour.—Good; now enjoy yourself, and of all things trouble yourself last about me—take no notice of me.”
New, and still new surprises, had been provided to entertain the company. A whole troupe of very slightly-attired dancing-girls from Gades, with butterfly-wings and floating hair, crowded into the lower end of the hall, and began their mazy dance. When this was ended, a shower of rose-scented spray,[84]that fell from above like a fine mist, cooled the revellers deliciously; and finally soft music invited the company out into the pleasure-grounds, where a brilliant display of fireworks turned night into day.
Through all these entertainments, theblaséadjutant made a great show of enthusiastic enjoyment. He laughed immoderately, he shouted, he even sang, and praised their liberal and amiable host in a stirring speech—their host, who, in the midst of his pressing cares and unresting exertions, could still find time to make a study of amusing and delighting his friends. He devoted himself to winning the good graces of a young Greek girl, who had lately come to Rome from the island of Cypris. He affected a fervent accent, as he called her Cypria in person; swore by the sanctuary of Paphos[85]that a smile from the lovely Myrrhina would outweigh for him all the treasures of India, and quoted the famous line of Catullus:[86]“Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love.”
“On my word, that Clodianus is a true son of Epicurus, as he represents himself in his book!” exclaimed a client of the house, who had modestly held aloof.
“And no wonder,” retorted another. “Wealth and good fortune are poured into his lap! His whole life is sunshine. Even the affairs of state hardly trouble him at all; he has no ambitions—no fears—no anxieties. He plucks the present[87]—carpe diem, as Horace sings, and never for an instant troubles himself about the future. Who would not change with him!”
It was during the night following on the evening, which the guests of Parthenius spent in dissipation, that the fearful catastrophe took place of which the reader is already informed. Quintus Claudius and the whole congregation of Nazarenes were discovered and seized in the catacomb between the Via Appia and the Via Labicana.
We left our hero at the moment, when the procession of prisoners was setting out Rome-wards. It was a long and melancholy march through the solitude and gloom. No one spoke a word; only a suppressed sob or a groan of anguish now and then broke the oppressive silence. With what emotion did Quintus cross the bridge over the Almo, which he had walked over once before, that night when he had rescued Eurymachus. He did his best to banish all memories, all fears—nay, all hopes—and to fix his mind unswervingly on one thought alone: that his life and fate were in the hands of God.
But it was hard, very hard, to school his struggling soul to composure. Again and again an image rose before him, which threatened to undermine his self-control—an agonized face—the features of his beloved, oh! so-devotedly loved father. And then again the voices, the shouts of a vast multitude rang in his ears—he was in the arena—face to face with ravening beasts—defenseless, alone, forsaken, delivered over to a fearful death.
It was impossible!... He, a son of the ancientand noble house of Claudia! No, never! That father could never give up his only son to be torn limb from limb. Perhaps this would end in salvation for all, perhaps his arrest meant liberty for all his companions. If he, Quintus Claudius, could swear fidelity to the creed of the Nazarene, was it not at once and forever purged of all suspicion of hostility to the State? Could any one think of him—the richest and most envied youth of the imperial city—as a foe to social order? Certainly his father could see and understand how greatly the government had erred; the faith that had been so blindly condemned, would be granted a hearing, and the law which had but just been passed for its suppression, would be trampled under foot.
And in spite of his will, these pictures chased each other through his excited brain, terrors and hopes in rapid alternation, till, at last, their destination was reached: the Mamertine prison[88]at the foot of the Capitoline Hill. Then he had no thoughts but for the horrors of the present.
Here, in the very heart of the splendid capital, in sight of gorgeous temples and pillared halls—which, lighted at this hour by torches, looked even more imposing than by day—in view of the imperial palace he had so often entered as Caesar’s guest and friend—here he must be swallowed up, as it were, as a malefactor in the horrible gulf of the Tullianum![89]The thought was unendurable; he was on the point of making a desperate resistance to the centurion’s word of command. But his eye fell on the calm and happy face of the blind man—and in that instant the picture, which the old disciple had set before his hearers with such startling reality, rose before the young man’s soul.
“It must be endured to the end,” said he to himself. “To be sure, at eighty a man’s heart does not throb with such keen pain as at twenty.”
The Christians wept and embraced each other; they were led away to separate rooms in the prison. Quintus’ turn came last, and to him the governor had assigned a separate cell. He crossed its threshold with calm deliberation; the gaoler set down some food and drink—not a better sort of food, such as was usually granted to prisoners of rank, but the ordinary criminal’s fare. Then he shut the heavy, iron-plated door, and pushed the three outside bolts.
Quintus sank on the stone bench[90]that served as a bed-place, utterly annihilated; the last drop of his self-command seemed to evaporate, as the echoing steps of the gaoler died into silence. He covered his face with his hands, and a wild groan broke from him; then for nearly an hour he sat stunned and motionless.
Exhaustion and cold recalled him to his senses; a raw, damp atmosphere pervaded the underground vault. He shuddered and drew his cloak, which had fallen off, over his shoulders; then he looked round him.
The cell was rather longer than it was wide, rectangular, and just high enough to allow of his standing upright. By day a niggardly ray of light might be admitted through a round hole in the roof; at present a smoky little oil-lamp was burning on one side of the room, opposite the bed-place. Besides this couch the cell contained a rough wooden bench and a short iron rivet, furnished with rings and chains, to which the temporary resident in the cell could be secured, and he perceived a second rivet of the same kind on the opposite side near the bed.
With a tremulous hand he lightly touched the rattling irons; it made him shiver. He started to his feet, and began to pace the cell in feverish excitement. He involuntarily remembered that Gaetulian mountain lion which, at Ostia, had rushed so fiercely at the bars of its cage.... He, a proud and noble Roman, was caged now, no better off than a wild beast.—No better! His scornful laughter echoed uncannily through the vaults. He compared the lion’s airy and open cage with the hideous dungeon that held a man but just now free and happy—and he envied the brute. That clumsy, dull, black door confronted him as though it could never open again; he went close up to it, struck it with his fists, and tried to shake it. It neither moved nor rattled. It was as immovable in the masonry as the lid of some huge primeval sarcophagus. He suddenly felt helplessly inconsolable, and pressing his forehead against the cold iron plate, he cried like a child.
What was that written in Greek characters—carefully, elaborately scratched by hands that had all-too-much time? He read through his tears a message of promise.
“Jesus, my Saviour and Redeemer.—To Thee I live and die.”
Then some other follower of the Christian faith,some fellow-sufferer in the cause, had here awaited his fate. Laboriously, and to comfort his stricken heart, he had left a record in the dungeon, where he lingered and pined, to greet and console a successor. And it was no cowardly lament, no cry of despair, but a brave confession, a word of heavenly confidence and beatific submission to the Master. Quintus felt, what so many thousands have felt since: the overpowering attractiveness of example; the bliss, the charm of martyrdom. This creed, which made the most agonizing death so easy, and filled the most wretched with peace, calmness, joy—must indeed be the creed of redemption, high above all that the wisdom of men had yet devised—and it would surely pour balm even into his aching wounds, and bear him up on the wings of enthusiasm to triumph over the terrors of death.
Strangely comforted, he carefully examined the walls all round, and he found numbers of inscriptions, some hardly legible in the rough stone, but all telling the same tale of suffering and of supreme faith, of death for the truth’s sake and the beatitude of a godly frame of mind.
In one place, in Latin, he read as follows: “I, Sericus, forty-three years old, and I, Psyche, the daughter of Sericus, seventeen years old, write this; imprisoned here by the city-prefect under Nero. We are Christians; we die for the faith. We forgive our enemies and hope for God’s mercy.” Close by, in Greek, was written:
“Blessed are they that are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.” And below this, another hand had added in continuation: “Yea verily, that is my hope and comfort, which shall strengthen me in the hour of death.”
The longer Quintus lingered over these tokens of past spiritual victories, the more he felt as a wanderer might who, in the horrors of the wilderness, traced the footprints of men and so learnt that others had crossed the desert before him. He fancied himself surrounded and overshadowed by the death-defying army of martyrs, and he swore to himself that he would quail no more than Sericus and his maiden Psyche; than Archilaos, a lad of twenty, spoken of in another inscription, or than Chabrias, who left a lovely and adored bride in Rhodes, to be burnt alive or crucified in Nero’s gardens.
And here the thought of Cornelia, which he had, so far, resolutely held at bay, took possession of his soul. He shuddered and turned cold at the recollection; but his resolution was not to be shaken. Even the reflection that not one of the witnesses that had sojourned here, not even Chabrias, had had this horror added to his sufferings; that he was a victim to his own, dearly-loved father—even this worst stroke of all could not make him flinch. Something within him had frozen—petrified—something which had hitherto been alive to all the impulses of hope, fear and despair. If he could bear something more than all had suffered, who had gone before him, then it must be that God, who had laid it on him, deemed him to be of more heroic mould. The torment was greater? then the greater must the glory be! Fate had set him in the high places of life, visible from afar, one of the leaders of the people.—Then he must endure greater bitterness, suffer greater torments, so that his death should be heard of among the nations like a herald’s call from a mountain-top.
The solemn conviction that a special call fromHeaven had ruled his fate, became clearer and firmer in his mind as the hours went by. With a curious mixture of pride and humility he regarded himself as an instrument in the hand of Providence, and in proportion as this belief grew and struck root another idea died out, which, during the last few hours, had recurred as mysteriously seductive, that of killing himself if all other hope failed. This, from an educated Roman’s point of view, was in no respect sinful or wrong.
It was considered permissible, nay highly praiseworthy, to cut the thread of existence, when every hope of an endurable future was lost. Nor had Quintus been long enough familiar with the principles and views of Christianity, to reject this desperate remedy at the first thought of it. But now, as he began to believe that he saw in his fate the designs of a higher power, he felt steeled against its seductions.
The lamp had burned lower and lower and at last went out; Quintus sat staring into the darkness for some little time. Then he felt his way round the wall to the bed, lay down on the mildewed worsted blanket and covered himself with his lacerna. After once more dedicating himself to God and his conscience, even unto death, he repeated the short prayer that the congregation had used on the occasion of his reception under the covenant. He had heard the words but once, but they were graven on his soul—those simple child-like words: “Our Father”—and then he fell asleep, as soundly and quietly as if he were lying on the soft cushions of his own cubiculum.
When he awoke, some hours later, a dull foggy twilight pervaded the room. The rattle of the bolts had roused him. It was his gaoler, who came in and set afreshly-filled amphora[91]down by his side; then he tilted the bowl of porridge, which Quintus had not touched, to see if the mess were yet too stiff to be eaten. After a moment’s hesitation he put it down and was leaving the room, when Quintus spoke to him.
“What time is it?” he asked, sitting up.
“Two hours past sunrise.”
“I am very hungry; give me something to eat.”
The gaoler pointed to the clay bowl without speaking.
“You do not indulge in luxuries here!” said Quintus bitterly. “That is too vile food for the meanest of my slaves, nay for my dogs.”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“You must get used to it. We are under the strictest orders to treat every one alike by the rules of the place, with no distinction of birth.”
“Indeed—and what is the rule of the place?”
“Porridge and water, with rye-bread for supper. I cannot help it, if you fine gentlemen do not relish it. We often have folks here, who are only too thankful for such food, poor wretches who have not had a morsel for days if the gifts of corn have been stopped.”
“Do you know who I am?” Quintus interrupted his voluble informant.
“No, I rarely get out into the world. It is a year last Feast of Saturn, since I was in the Field of Mars. But I can see by your manner that you are of some noble family.”
“I am Quintus Claudius, the son of the Flamen.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said the gaoler. “Why, you were caught in a quarry with the Nazarenes.”
“Quite true.”
“Then you cannot be Quintus, the son of the Flamen Dialis.”
“You doubt it? Did not the centurion, who took us, tell you?”
“Not me—he spoke to the governor.”
“To be sure. Well, you will know it too before the day is out. Now listen to what I ask. The news of my arrest can hardly yet have got to my father’s ears. And if the report reaches him, if a stranger tells him the worst, point-blank, it will kill him. No one but myself knows how to mitigate the blow to him. Will you carry him a note, only two short lines—on these wax-tablets?”
“Impossible!” said the man, drawing back.
“Look here—I will give you this stylus—it is of pure gold....”
“If you offered, me ten times its value, I dare not. It is as much as my life is worth.”
“Then take me to your superior officer.”
“I cannot without leave.”
“Try to get leave.” The gaoler looked doubtful; the young man’s calm, urgent manner, and his evident high breeding, impressed him greatly.
“I will see what can be done,” he said, hesitatingly. “Take patience till this evening.”
“Till this evening!” cried Quintus, in despair. “Miserable man, do you not understand that you are killing him. Every instant is precious, and you say: till this evening.”
He had hardly ceased speaking, when they heard steps outside the dungeon door. The gaoler rushed out, and Quintus heard the murmur of voices coming nearer and nearer. Suddenly his heart stood still.
“Many thanks,” he heard just outside. “Leave me alone now, worthy Haemon; you know me well enough to feel sure that you run no risk, in admitting me without a witness.”
Quintus gazed anxiously at the door. It was his father’s voice. In an instant the door opened, and Titus Claudius stood before him.
For a long time neither could utter a word; they stood looking at each other as pale and silent as the dead. Their lips quivered, but this was the only outward sign of their cruel suffering. But they understood each other; each was struggling for such composure as might enable him to speak. It was the father, who first succeeded; but it was in a hollow, forced voice that he said, as he clenched his hands convulsively: “It is here—here—that we meet!”
The words conveyed such deep and unspeakable anguish, that Quintus shuddered from head to foot.
“Father ...” he began, and then he broke into sobs. He turned his face to the wall in despair, and pressed his cheek against the cold stone as though entreating its pity.
“Quintus,” the priest went on—and his voice was as gentle and mild as a child’s, “is it true, that you spent the night in the catacomb with the Nazarenes?”
The young man looked round.
“Yes, Father,” he said.
“Did you not know the law?”
“I knew it, Father.”
“And what were you doing among the rebels?”
“Who calls them rebels?” retorted Quintus, recovering his self-possession.
“All who respect the government, for the law has branded them so. Answer me, Quintus; What were you seeking in the society of these reprobates?”
“What I never found in the society of their persecutors, what all my life-long I have vainly longed and hoped for: peace and salvation for my soul.”
“Then it is true—it is true...?”
“What, Father?”
“That you are not merely their protector, but, in fact, one of them.”
“As you say.”
Titus Claudius turned paler and more ghastly than before.
“Wretched boy!” he said; “then you are a lost man! The crime of being a Nazarene is punished with death.”
“I know it.”
“You know it? And you tread the law under foot?”
“In my soul I carry a higher law.”
“There is no higher law than that of duty. You are a Roman. You are my son. Madman! As a Roman, you are breaking the laws of the country—as a son, you are breaking your father’s heart! What demon possesses you? What disease is this that has turned your brain? Does it charm your hopes more to bleed to death under the fangs of Libyan beasts, than to be clasped in the arms of your Cornelia? Does the air of the Tullianum please you better, than the perfumed atmosphere of your own rooms? You haveeverything, every single thing your heart can desire, and you must plunge into dark gulfs of crime, soil your soul with the foul mire of superstition—nay, call yourself the brother of vile slaves, of panders and corpse-carriers!”
“I follow the light of truth,” replied Quintus. “You are wrong, father, in regarding the Nazarenes as mere vile rabble. It is not rank that makes the man, but character. Before the God of the Nazarenes there is no respect of persons, and it is just that which makes the doctrine of Christ so noble.”
“Noble! Quintus—by all the gods, return to your right mind! A man of senatorial rank, a son of the house of Claudia, thinks the doctrine noble, which grants him equal rights with street-porters and executioners.[92]Such madness puts me beside myself. And what has all this to do with the salvation of your soul? Have you gone through the senseless farces, of which I have heard so much? Kissed the gallows,[93]and offered sacrifice before the miserable image of a crucified man? Have you lent ear to the fables, which superstition has woven round that execution on Golgotha? Alas! your silence is only too eloquent. These tricksters have entangled you with their wiles, till you have lost the power to free yourself from the net. Oh! I can quite understand, that it was well worth their while to entrap a Claudius. Your name outweighs a thousand lesser ones,and held aloft on their banner at the right moment, it might bring victory to the traitors! And do you not perceive all this? Does your keen eye fail to see through their treacherous game?”
“Father, we can never understand each other. By all that is sacred....”
“I will not hear you!” interrupted the priest. “What can you say? Who it is that has entrapped you, and how far the ramifications of the plot extend, we shall learn in the course of enquiry. I came not as your judge, nor commissioned by the Senate. I came to save you. Confess you were led astray, abjure this superstition, which can never really have taken possession of your soul, offer a sacrifice of atonement to Jupiter Capitolinus—and all will be well. A year of exile—to Hellas perhaps, where I have crowds of friends—would be the worst that could befall you, and even this short banishment Caesar would no doubt remit at my entreaty. All is ready, and to-morrow morning early the ceremony can take place. Till then you will be a prisoner, but in my house,[94]and treated with the honor due to your name. Norbanus himself will escort you thither; he is waiting at the door of the prison. His highest officers will keep guard over you. Forwards then; let us leave this scene of disgrace—and may your bitter experience have taught you wisdom.”
But Quintus did not stir. His eyes were spellbound to the wall which, in the gloomy watches of the night, had revealed such strange histories. Each inscription,each name seemed to raise the image of some pale and suffering face. He felt at the bottom of his soul that now, here, the moment had come for giving expression in deeds to the reflection and resolve of those dark hours. Side by side, too, with the ecstatic enthusiasm of the convert, there surged up in his soul the unbending pride and iron will of his race. Should he be more cowardly, baser, weaker than the lowborn and wretched? His heart beat high at the thought, and the blood mounted to his brow.
“I cannot, Father,” he said, turning away.
“What? You cannot walk in the path, in which your father is ready to lead you? Or do you think it mean to confess the error of your ways? Give place to reason, Quintus! It is to no mortal, but to the gods alone that you have to confess your crime. Humility before the gods is no dishonor....”
“Your gods are not mine,” cried Quintus vehemently. “A confessor of the true God can never sacrifice to Jupiter Capitolinus.”
“Who is the true God, but he whose care and rule we see, wherever we turn our eyes, and feel in our souls? Are you so utterly degenerate, that you have learnt to confound the great universal spirit—whom our fathers worshipped as Jupiter, the Father of Light—with a mortal—with a Jewish revolutionary, whom the imperial governor silenced by death?”
“Nay Father, you misunderstand. We do not revere the crucified Saviour as God himself, only as our Master, who revealed the true God to us. Between the God of Christ and your idols there is a great gulf fixed. Your own noble nature associates with those idols of a false faith, aspirations and feelings, which have always beenforeign to the spirit of that faith. If only you knew how the faith in the light I walk in glows through my whole being, you would expect the skies to fall, sooner than that I should pronounce the base denial you ask of me.”
“Mad fool!” cried the priest in great wrath. “You hold a tissue of lies as more precious than life and happiness, as higher than the honor of your family? Have done with this reckless mockery! Follow me, I command you!”
“Father!” groaned Quintus with growing anguish, “God is my witness, that I would shed every drop of blood in my body for you and for your happiness: only this one thing—I cannot—I cannot....”
“You must. By all the gods, but you must! What? My son a traitor—to be the sport and gazing-stock of a cackling crowd, scorned and mocked at as a fool, and condemned to an ignominious death—? You are raving, boy! Come, away from this fetid cell. I command you!”
Titus Claudius gazed with agonized enquiry at his son’s pale face, which looked more and more petrified to marble.
“I cannot, Father!” That was all the bloodless lips could utter.
Then the despairing father fell on his knees and raised his hands in entreaty, like a criminal suing for mercy. Tears streamed down his distorted face, which looked ten years older for that hour’s anguish. He rent his robe, he tore his hair, he struck his forehead against the pavement. In heart-rending accents he implored his son—his only, beloved son, the star and joy of his life, not to make him so miserable—more miserable thanever man had been before in all this grief-stricken and strife-plagued world. He reminded him of the days of his infancy, when he had nursed him in his arms, lived, cared, and toiled only for his boy. And would this child, his Quintus, his all in all, doom him to this hideous fate?
The miserable man presented a pitiable sight.
“Oh Father,” cried Quintus, gasping for breath. “What have you done? Woe is me, I am a monster! That sacred head in the dust—compose yourself—you are driving me mad! O God, not yet! Father, I will obey you, I am yours henceforth. My soul’s salvation?—I give it up. You shall not suffer for my sake.”
Titus Claudius rose. The strong man was trembling like a child. With one passionate cry the father and son were clasped in each other’s arms.
The commander of the imperial guard, with a few officers and soldiers, received Quintus as he slowly went out through the heavy stone gate-way into the street, but his silent greeting was not altogether free from embarrassment. During the last few days events had occurred, which had thrown the worthy soldier off his balance. The intrigues of a court, with their underhand and mysterious details, were foreign to his nature. Out in the field, with the Dacian foe in front of him, he could avail himself of the ruses of war and the arts of strategy; but in peace, in the capital of the empire, this mode of action revolted and puzzled him. Such ameasure as the wholesale arrest of senators and knights had never been adopted before, even under Domitian. And now this mysterious discovery of Quintus Claudius in the catacomb with the Nazarenes! Norbanus was wholly at a loss how to account for it. The high-priest had given him a very superficial and hasty explanation, and the whole thing might be either the device of some mortal enemy, or the result of some outrageous whim. Norbanus had long known the young man’s spirit and daring, though under different circumstances. A man, who could address a love-song to a vestal virgin, would be quite capable of playing the part of an adherent of the Nazarenes, particularly if among them there bloomed some rose of Palestine, whose beauty would suffer no drawback from the superstition of her people. To be sure—as they came out, the father and son together—their faces were too pale and grave for so light a matter. The worthy warrior had a grave feeling that, whatever had happened, he had not the key of the riddle and would be sure to say the wrong thing, so he wrapped himself in a dignified and significant silence, which each might interpret just as he pleased or as the case required. Quintus understood it to mean kindly sympathy and due considerateness, the Flamen took it for horror and disapproval, the tribunes and centurions attributed it to military severity and discipline.
They took the shortest way to the high-priest’s residence—along the foot of the Capitoline and across the Forum. The people crowded round them from all sides, for the rumor of Quintus’ arrest had long since spread into the remotest quarters of the city. Now, every one wanted to see the illustrious father, who had been to fetch his son out of the depths of the Tullianum. Thelittle procession could hardly get along. Even the lictor, who marched before the high-priest and the soldiers of the guard were powerless. A hundred voices at once shouted their comments on the unwonted sight.
“He plotted against the Caesar’s life,” said a rough voice in the background.
“Nonsense—he is one of Caesar’s friends.”
“He was in the quarry with the Nazarenes.”
“He kissed the cross.”
“He is condemned to death.”
“It was his own father that made the law.”
“But see; it is his father, who is setting him at liberty.”
“That is just the way of the world.”
“True enough. Laws are only made for slaves and beggars! They take things easier at home.”
The last words were spoken under the very nose of the high-priest, so that he could not help hearing them. An angry glow flushed his face, and with a scornful curl of his lip he looked round. He seemed as though he would speak, but he checked himself in time. A smile of supreme contempt parted his haughty lips; then he said aloud to Norbanus:
“You are too considerate, and the people too bold. Your men should use their arms.”
The general looked at him in astonishment.
“To be sure,” Titus Claudius added more mildly, “we might have foreseen this crowd. Such a sight is ambrosia to the mob.”
They were nearly ten minutes reaching the Flamen’s house. Norbanus and one of the officers went in with them to the rooms adjoining the peristyle; the rest remained till farther orders in a room opening out of the atrium.
When Quintus had washed and put on a clean dress he went, still accompanied by Norbanus and his centurion, into his father’s study, where the family had assembled. Quintus wondered to find his mother so calm, comparatively speaking. He did not know, with what enormous effort of self-command Titus Claudius had represented the catastrophe as a trifling mistake, a mere misunderstanding. Lucilia was a good deal excited; the exceptional and startling character of the event gave her fancy much to busy it. She would have given the world to talk over the occurrences of the last few days with Fabulla, the wise old mother of her friend Cneius Afranius; but now, in all this confusion, an expedition to Ostia was quite out of the question. So she must think it all over to herself alone, particularly as Claudia had shut herself up in unapproachable reserve, and had no answer for any questions but “Yes” and “No.” Even now, when her brother came into the room, Claudia was very chary of her words, in marked contrast to Lucilia. And yet Quintus was obscurely conscious, that she took the situation more gravely and seriously than either Octavia or the excited Lucilia. And, in fact, Claudia knew her brother too well, not to feel sure that something deeper was at work here than a mere foolish adventure. The audacity of wild spirits craves a public; its extravagant flights are displayed to those who are like-minded, and who will applaud and admire. But when a man like Quintus had carried out a plan in secret and among such unfamiliar companions, it could be no jesting matter.
During an hour which he spent with his family,Quintus himself was for the most part silent. Seated in a deep easy-chair, he eat a small breakfast which Lucilia brought to him. The Flamen meanwhile exerted himself to explain to the party, what steps he had taken to win Caesar’s favor and clemency for his son, and what the ceremonial sacrifice, which Quintus was to offer, must consist in.
The more the father talked, the more the son’s heart was wrung. He might be absolutely convinced of all he so vehemently uttered; to Quintus it was all a foul lie, a ridiculous and cowardly subterfuge. It was a lie, to say that mere boyish curiosity had led him to assist at a meeting of the Nazarenes; it was a lie, that intriguing knaves had taken advantage of his curiosity under false pretences. It was a lie, that the Nazarenes had plotted to overthrow the whole fabric of Roman society, that they had fanned his ambition after befooling him, that they had abused his good nature. It was above all a lie, to say that he bitterly repented of ever having had anything to do with the Nazarenes, and only longed to purge himself publicly of the disgrace of that contact. Why was it so impossible to convince the priest—usually so calm, clear-sighted, and just—of the error of his prejudice? Why had he so resolutedly closed his eyes and heart to the truth?
The burden of this question, and all the false aspects of his position, almost crushed the young man to the earth. He returned to the room which had been his till he quitted his father’s house, as dull and indifferent as if he were only half-witted. This room was a pleasing counterpart to Claudia’s pretty room, and, like it, was on the upper floor, and on the same side of the house. The furniture was still as he had left it. Evensome of his first books, his playthings as a boy, and other such memorials of the happy past had found an abiding place here, so that—as Octavia said—the son might always recognize his old home in his parents’ house. Lately, no doubt, the quiet nook had for months together never been visited but by the slaves, who came to dust it and shake up the pillows on the divans.
Quintus thanked the captain of the guard for his considerate treatment, and begged to be allowed to be alone. Norbanus, who regarded his watch over the young man as a mere formality, acceded with pleasure. He posted a centurion at the entrance with three men-at-arms, recommended the utmost courtesy to their prisoner, pressed the young man’s hand with a jesting farewell, and left the house, as urgent business required his presence at the palace.
Now, at last, Quintus realized his position. All that he had gone through and done during the last few hours had gone over his head, as it were, not more than half understood. He had walked on like a somnambulist over heights and hollows, without appreciating the danger, and now, waking suddenly, he shuddered to see precipices and yawning gulfs on every side. Wherever he looked, horror stared him in the face—misery, shame, dishonor, and despair. Either way his fate was hopeless. Either he must shatter the existence of the man he loved more than himself—or he must be that mean and cowardly thing, a traitor and a renegade, trailing all he held most sacred in the dust. Had not the Master of Nazareth taught, that no man could have any part in the infinite mercies of God, who fell away from the faith through fear of men? And was it not thiswhich was driving him into denial—base fear of men? It wore, to be sure, the specious aspect, the garb of light of filial love. But ought not the true heir of the Faith patiently to take upon him even that fearful grief? Did not Jesus die on the cross, although he knew that he was breaking his parents’ hearts? Aye, He had done this thing, the Just one, the Mighty, Omnipotent; but he—Quintus—was but a feeble and worthless disciple of the Great Teacher. He could not do it, though the joys of heaven and the torments of hell were in the balance. He must lose his soul to all eternity—if only he might spare his father.
It was a terrible day that he spent, surrounded by all the treasured relics of his unclouded childhood. Titus Claudius came to visit him, to thank him for his filial obedience, and to assure him once more, that his father’s heart had forgiven and forgotten all that had passed. Quintus was incapable of responding to all his loving words, spoken in a voice that trembled with agitation, excepting by sighs and silent signs of consent and submission. In all this Titus Claudius read remorseful distress, and did his utmost to encourage him and raise his spirit; but presently, seeing that his efforts were vain, he left his son to himself again, in the hope that solitude and a night’s rest would restore his agitated soul.
But he was mistaken; Quintus did not close his eyes all night. From time to time he fancied he heard the voice of old Calenus, reproaching him with his base apostasy. Then, tortured with horror, he sprang from his bed. He compared the night he had passed in the Tullianum with this present night under his father’s roof. There—a squalid cell, with death under the clutches of wild beasts an almost absolute certainty. Here—apretty, comfortable room with freedom ere long, happiness for his family, and all the joys of life for himself. And yet his storm-tossed heart had yesterday been at peace, while to-day it was wrung with incessant and unutterable anguish—“Blind fool!”—he seemed to hear the words spoken—“You think you are sacrificing only your own soul. But are you not also betraying and imperilling, so far as in you lies, the whole glorious work of the Master? If all were to act as you have done, where would the sublime idea be, which brought light and joy to the crucified Saviour: the Redemption, to wit, of mankind? Have you any right to sacrifice the salvation of millions, merely to spare your father—however much you may love him—a transient sorrow, which may even lead him too to the light of truth?”
He thought that Calenus was standing by his bedside, and laid his hand on his forehead. “Take courage!” said the blind man solemnly, “by God’s help all—all—all may be overcome.”
Again Quintus sat up terror-stricken. It was but a dream with his eyes open—a vision, but how vivid! He had plainly felt the pressure of a hand on his brow, and seen the prophet-like face, with its calm, holy, celestial gaze.
At last morning broke. The slaves came to help him to dress. He felt as if he were being dragged to execution, but he unresistingly submitted to all his father commanded.
The sun was rising over the Esquiline, when the father and son, in festal dress, went out of the house. Norbanus was on the spot, and a large party of clients and friends. The Forum and the adjoining streets swarmed with spectators, notwithstanding the earlyhour. The recantation was the great event of the day. The supreme council of the Pontifices[95]—at the head of which sat Caesar as Pontifex Maximus—had agreed, in consideration of the distinguished merits of Titus Claudius, that the sacred ceremony should be one with the daily public sacrifice offered by the Flamen Dialis, and that Quintus should be held justified and free from all suspicion of Christian proclivities, if he would, after his father and in unison with the high-priest’s clients and friends, distinctly offer up a prayer to Jupiter, the almighty and all-merciful, calling down vengeance and destruction on all the foes of the State, and especially on the vile and reprobate sect of the Nazarenes. All this Titus Claudius had hastily explained to his son, adding that everything else was a mere matter of course.
The solemn procession made its way up the broad steps to the Capitol. Quintus was suffocating, a weight lay on his breast like a tombstone. Once or twice he stood still, his knees trembled and he could hardly stand. Norbanus, who was walking by his side, had to support him.
At the top Quintus involuntarily looked round him. His eye gazed over the heads of the crowd in the Forum, past the Flavian Amphitheatre, out to the Via Appia. There, to the left, hardly distinguishable in the distance,was the wood, in whose calm retreat salvation had been opened to him—and now?
“Proceed—why do you hesitate?” said his father in his ear; and on they went to the temple. Here again a crowd, half curious and half reverent, had followed them and filled the vast hall. The altar of the patron divinity of the city was decked and wreathed with consecrated plants and costly streamers, ready for the sacred ceremony. A herald now proclaimed silence,[96]and not a murmur was heard. Two of the temple-servants led in the beasts for sacrifice, covered with garlands, while a third made a mixture of wine, spring-water, incense, and cones[97]with which to dedicate them.
The high-priest took his place in front of the altar; he was as pale as death. Raising his hands, he spoke in a deep voice, audible in every corner:
“Jupiter, the merciful and mighty one! Save and defend this city, that thou hast made great!”
“Defend this city, that thou hast made great!” echoed from the chorus; and Quintus too moved his lips in a faint whisper.
“Blast the foes of the Roman name with the lightnings of thy wrath!” Titus Claudius went on, and again the choir repeated the words.
“More especially destroy all reprobates and traitors, who hoist the standard of superstition and plot the ruin of society. Crush the foul brood of rebellious Nazarenes!”
“No—a thousand times no!” shouted a voice ofthunder, that echoed from the stone walls. “Tear me in pieces, but spare me so base a lie!”
Titus Claudius staggered; he had to support himself by clinging to the altar.
“My son, my son, what have you done?” he muttered in a husky voice.
“What I had to do,” cried Quintus vehemently. “Lead me back to my cell, kill me—I die a Nazarene!”
An unexampled tumult arose on this unexpected incident. Titus Claudius, with a faint scream, sank senseless into the arms of a temple-servant. The mob, who took up the young man’s words as a note of defiance, forgot all the respect due to the sanctuary, and pressed forward, shouting for prompt vengeance. Indeed any faith in the doctrines of the State religion survived in very few, it was Roman arrogance, which had taken the place of the old Roman pride, which demanded its rights. The crime, that Quintus had now committed, was contempt of the majesty of the people, an insult to the Roman name—a crime a thousand times more unpardonable than the folly of those poor wretches, who gathered in a catacomb to worship in secret round the cross. Norbanus tried in vain to restore order; even his nearest allies seemed paralyzed and helpless.
Suddenly the voice of the Flamen was heard once more; he had recovered his self-possession, and was standing in an imperious attitude before the altar.
“Stand back!” he exclaimed, clenching his fist over the heads of the mob as though he wielded the bolts of Jove. “What do you want? What do you fear? The law is immutable. Centurions of the guard, do your duty, as I do mine. Away with the Nazarene! Takehim back to prison! And you, noisy simpletons, meditate in devout silence, till the priest shall have ended his sacred office.”
A death-like stillness responded to this address. No one stirred; neither of the centurions ventured to obey the Flamen’s orders.
“Why do you delay?” said Quintus to Norbanus. “The ground here burns under my feet. Take me away!”
Norbanus and his subalterns quitted the temple with a saddened mien; Quintus walked slowly in their midst. Once he turned, and in a tone of anguish said:
“Father—farewell!”
“You no longer have a father,” said the high-priest averting his eyes, and he at once began the interrupted prayer and performed the service and sacrifice to the end.