Chapter 7
In the temple, which people called “the world turned upside down,” a man slunk along the walls in a state of panic, as though he were afraid to display his back. He had the face of a youth without any hair round it. His upper lip was drawn upwards on the left side, and showed a long canine tooth, while at the same time his right eye shot a sharp glance like a poisonous arrow.
He glided along the wall to the apse, where an image was erected. It was a likeness of the timid man himself, representing him exactly even to his clothes.
“Is the priest there?” the mad Emperor whispered, for it was he.
No answer followed.
“Priest, dear priest, I am so frightened. Are you not coming?”
A sacrificial priest came forward, fell on his knee before the Emperor, and worshipped him.
“Jupiter, Optimus, Maximus, Latiaris, frighten away thy foes.”
“Have I foes, then? Yes, and that is what frightens me. Do you believe that I am God?”
“Thou art.”
“Let us then have thunder, to frighten my foes.”
The priest beat upon a kettledrum, and the echoes rolled through the temple.
The Emperor laughed, so that all his teeth were visible.
“Priest!” he cried as he seated himself on his throne, “now you shall sacrifice to me.”
The priest kindled a fire on the little altar before the madman.
The Emperor said, “The scent is good. Now I am the mightiest in heaven and on earth. I rule over living and dead; I cast into Tartarus and lift into Elysium. How mighty I am! I tame the waves of the sea, and command the storm to cease: I hold sway over the planets in their courses; I myself have created chaos, and the human race lie at my feet, from the primeval forests of Britain to the sources of the Nile, which I alone have discovered. I have made my favourite horse consul, and the people have acknowledged his consulship. Priest! Worship me! Or do you forget who I am? No, I am I, and I shall always worship myself in my own image. Caius Caesar Caligula, I honour thee, Lord of the world, how I honour myself! Jupiter Latiaris Caligula!”
He fell before the image on his knee.
“Some one is coming,” said the priest warningly.
“Kill him.”
“It is the tribune, Cassius Chaeraea!”
“Frighten him away.”
“Chaeraea does not let himself be frightened.”
The tribune came in fearlessly and without ceremony.
“Caius Caesar, your wife is dead.”
“All the better,” answered the Emperor.
“They have dashed your only child against a wall.”
“Ah, how pleasant!” laughed the madman.
“And now you are to die.”
“No, I cannot. I am immortal.”
“I wait for you outside. It shall not take place here.”
“Creep away, ant! My foot is too great to reach thy littleness.”
Then a sound of singing rose from the basement of the temple, or from the earth; they were children’s voices.
The Emperor was again alarmed, and crept under his chair.
Chaeraea, who had waited at the door, lost patience.
“Dog! are you coming? Or shall I strike you dead here?”
“Chaeraea,” whimpered the Emperor, “do not kill me! I will kiss your foot.”
“Then kiss it now when I trample you to death.”
The gigantic tribune threw the chair to one side, leapt on the madman and crushed his windpipe beneath his heel; the tongue, protruded from his jaws, seemed to be spitting abuse even in death.
* * * * *
The Wild Beast had three heads; the name of the second was Claudius. He played dice with his friend Caius Silius, who was famous for his wealth and his beauty.
“Follow the game,” hissed Caesar.
“I am following it,” answered his friend.
“No, you are absent-minded. Where were you last night?”
“I was in the Suburra.”
“You should not go to the Suburra; you should stay with me.”
“Follow the game.”
“I am following it; but what are the stakes we are playing for?”
“You are playing for your life.”
“And you, Caesar?”
“I am also playing for your life.”
“And if you lose?” asked Silius.
“Then you will lose your life.”
The Emperor knocked with the dice-box on the table. His secretary Narcissus came in.
“Give me writing materials, Narcissus. The antidote for snake-bites is yew-tree resin....”
“And the antidote to hemlock?”
“Against that there is no antidote.”
“Follow the game, or I shall be angry.”
“No, you cannot be angry!” answered Silius.
“Yes, that is true,--I cannot! I only said so!”
Messalina, the Emperor’s wife, had entered.
“Why is Silius sitting here and playing,” she asked, “when he should accompany me to the theatre?”
“He is compelled,” answered the Emperor.
“Wretch! what rights have you over him?”
“He is my slave; all are slaves of the Lord of the world. Therefore Rome is the most democratic of all States, for all its citizens are equal--equal before Men and God.”
“He is your slave, but he is my husband,” said Messalina.
“Your husband! Why, you are married to me.”
“What does that matter?”
“Do you go and marry without asking my permission?”
“Yes, why not?”
“You are certainly droll, Messalina! And I pardon you. Go, my children, and amuse yourselves. Narcissus will play with me.”
When the Emperor was left alone with Narcissus, his expression changed.
“Follow them, Narcissus!” he hissed. “Take Locusta with you, and give them the poison. Then I shall marry Agrippina.”
But when Silius and the Empress had gone without, Silius asked innocently: “Have you yourself prepared the mushrooms which he will eat this evening?”
“I have not done it myself, but Locusta has, and she understands her business.”
* * * * *
The name of the third head of the Wild Beast was Nero. He was Agrippina’s worthy son, had poisoned his half-brother Britannicus, murdered his mother, kicked his wife to death, and committed unnatural crime. He falsified the coinage and plundered the temples. He made an artistic tour to Greece, where he first appeared as a public singer and brought eight hundred wreaths home, then as a charioteer, in which capacity he upset everything, but received the prize because nobody dared to refuse it to him.
To such a depth had Rome and Greece sunk. Claudius was an angel compared to this monster; but he also received apotheosis.
To-day the Emperor had returned home from his artistic tour, and found his capital in flames. Since, in his fits of intoxication, he had so often raged against his old-fashioned Rome, with its narrow streets, and had on various occasions expressed the wish that fire might break out at all its corners, he came under the suspicion of having set it in flames.
He sat in his palace on the Esquiline in a great columned hall, and feasted his eyes on the magnificent conflagration. It was a marble hall with only a few articles of furniture, because the Emperor feared they might afford lurking-places for murderers. But in the background of the hall was a strong gilded iron grating, behind which could be caught a glimpse of two yellow-brown lions from Libya. These the Emperor called his “cats.”
At the door of the grating stood two slaves, Pallas and Alexander, and watched every change in the Emperor’s face.
“He smiles,” whispered Pallas; “then it is all over with us. Brother, we shall meet again. Pray for me and give me the kiss of peace.”
“The Lord shall deliver thee from all evil, and preserve thee for His heavenly kingdom. This mortal must put on immortality, and this corruptible, incorruption.”
The red face of the Emperor, red with wine and the light of the conflagration, began to assume a look of attention, and it could be seen from his eyes and ears that he was listening. Did he hear perhaps how the masses of people whispered their suspicions of the “incendiary”?
“Pallas!” he roared, “Rome is burning!”
The slave remained speechless from fright.
“Pallas! Are you deaf?”
No answer.
“Pallas! Are you dumb? They say down there that I have fired the town, but I have not. Run out in the streets and spread about the report that the Christians have done it.”
“No, I will not!” answered the slave.
Nero believed that his ears had deceived him.
“Do you not know,” he said, “that the Christians are magicians, and live like rats in the catacombs, and that all Rome is undermined by them? I have thought of making the Tiber flow in to drown them, or of opening the walls of the cloacas and submerging the catacombs in filth. Their Sibylline books have prophesied the fall of Rome, though they use the name ‘Babylon.’ See, now the Capitol takes fire. Pallas, run out, and say the Christians have done it.”
“That I will not do,” answered Pallas loud and clearly, “because it is not true.”
“This time my ears have not deceived me,” roared the Emperor rising. “You will not go into the town; then go in through the grating-door and play with my lions.”
He opened the door, and pushed Pallas into the fore-court of the lions.
“Alexander!” said Pallas, “I have prayed you to be firm and courageous!”
“I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the latter day He shall raise me from the earth.”
“What is that you are saying?” said the Emperor, and pulled a cord, which opened the second door to the lions.
“Alexander, go out into the town, and spread the report that the Christians have set Rome on fire.”
“No,” answered Alexander, “for I am a Christian.”
“What is a Christian?”
“God so loved the world that He gave His only-begotten Son that whosoever believeth on Him should not perish but have everlasting life.”
“Will you not perish? Have I not the power to destroy you?”
“You have no power over me, except it be given from above.”
“He does not fear death. Lentulus! bring fire here; I will set fire to your clothes, that we may see if you can burn, I will set your hair, your beard, your nails on fire; but we will first soak you in oil and naphtha, in pitch and sulphur. Then we will see whether you have an everlasting life. Lentulus!”
Lentulus rushed in: “Emperor! The city is in an uproar! Fly!”
“Must I fly? First bring fire!”
“Spain has revolted, and chosen Galba as Emperor.”
“Galba! Eheu! fugaces, Postume ... Galba! Well, then, let us fly, but whither?”
“Through the catacombs, sire.”
“No! the Christians live there, and they will kill me.”
“They kill no one,” said Alexander.
“Not even their enemies?”
“They pray for their enemies.”
“Then they are mad! All the better!”
* * * * *
The Christians were assembled in one of the crypts of the catacombs. “The Capitol is burning; that is the heathen’s Zion,” said Alexander.
“The Lord of Hosts avenges his destroyed Jerusalem.”
“Say not ‘avenges,’ say ‘punishes.’”
“Someone is coming down the passage.”
“Is it a brother?”
“No, he makes no obeisance before the cross.”
“Then it is an executioner.”
The Emperor appeared in rags, dirty, with a handkerchief tied round his forehead. As he approached the Christians, whom in their white cloaks he took for Greeks, he became quiet and resolved to bargain with them.
“Are you Greeks?”
“Here is neither Jew nor Greek, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free, but all are brothers in Christ! Welcome, brother!”
“It is the Wild Beast,” said Alexander.
The Emperor now recognised his escaped slave, and in his terror fell on his knees.
“Kill me not! I am a poor stone-cutter, who has lost his way. Show me the way out, whether right or left.”
“Do you know me?” asked Alexander.
“Alexander!” answered the Emperor.
“He whom you wished to burn. It is I!”
“Mercy! Kill me not!”
“Stand up, Caesar! Thy life is in God’s hand.”
“Do I find mercy?”
“You shall have a guide.”
“Say whether right or left; then I can help myself.”
“Keep to the left.”
“And if you lie.”
“I cannot lie! Do you see, that is the difference.”
“Why do you not lie? I should have done so.”
“Keep to the left.”
The Emperor believed him, and went. But after going some steps, he stood still and turned round.
“Out upon you, slaves! Now I shall help myself.”
It was a terribly stormy night, when Nero, accompanied by the boy Sporus, and a few slaves, reached the estate of his freedman Phaon. Phaon did not dare to receive him, but advised him to hide in a clay-pit. But the Emperor did not wish to creep into the earth, but sprang into a pond, when he heard the pursuers approaching, and remained standing in the water. From this place he heard those who were going by seeking him, say that he was condemned to be flogged to death. Then, after some hesitation, he thrust a dagger into his breast.
His nurse Acte, who had also been his paramour, buried him in a garden on Monte Pincio. The Romans loved him after his death, and brought flowers to his grave. But the Christians saw in him the Wild Beast and the Antichrist of the Apocalypse.
THE APOSTATE
At a date rather more than three hundred years after the Birth of Christ, the stage of the world’s history had shifted from the Mediterranean to the East. Greece was sunk in everlasting sleep, Rome lay in ruins and had become a tributary state. Jerusalem was destroyed, Alexandria at the mouth of the Nile in a state of decay. The world’s metropolis lay on the Black Sea, and was a half-oriental colony called Byzantium, or, after Constantine the Great, Constantinople. The heathen world was a waste, and Christianity had become the State religion. But the spirit of Christianity had not penetrated the empire. Doctrine indeed there was--plenty of doctrine--but those at court lived worse lives than the heathen, and the way to the throne in Byzantium was generally through a murder.
But while the centre of gravity in Europe had shifted to the East, new conquests had been made in the West and in the North. The Romans had founded fifty cities on the Rhine, and, since Julius Caesar’s time, all Gaul lay under Roman ploughs and worshipped Roman gods in Roman temples.
But now that Christianity was to be introduced into Gaul, it encountered great difficulties. The original religion of the country, Druidism, had been proscribed by the Emperor Claudius, and the Roman cult of the gods substituted. And now that a second alteration of their religion was proposed, the Gauls strongly resented it. Accordingly Gaul was in a state of disorganisation, which was likely to result in some new growth.
But under the rule of Constantius, new danger from another side threatened the newly-formed provinces of Gaul. The German races, the Franks and the Alemanni, were attracted by the charm of the fertile land, where the mountains seemed to drop with wine, and the plains were covered with yellow corn. In order to protect the best of his provinces, and perhaps for other reasons, the Emperor sent his cousin and brother-in-law, Julian, to subdue the Germans. Although Julian had been educated in a convent and at a university, he seems to have understood the art of war, for he defeated the invaders and then retired to Lutetia Parisiorum.
The legions had marched up the Mons Martis or Martyrorum, as it was called by turns. At their head went the insignificant-looking man with his beard trimmed like a philosopher’s--Julian, surnamed Caesar, but not therefore Emperor. High on the summit of the hill stood a temple of Mars, but it was closed. When the army had encamped, Julian went alone to the edge of the hill, in order to view the town Lutetia, which he had never seen.
On the island between the two arms of the Seine lay the main part of the town with the temple of Jupiter; but the Imperial Palace and the Amphitheatre stood on the slope of Mount Parnassus, on the left bank of the river. For three hundred years from the time of Julius Caesar, the Emperors had stayed here at intervals. The two last occupants had been Constantine the Great and Constantius.
After thoughtfully contemplating for a while the valley with the river flowing through it, Julian exclaimed, “Urbs! Why, it is Rome! A river, a valley, and hills, seven or more, just as at Rome. Don’t you see, we stand on the Capitoline? On the opposite side we have Janiculum represented by Mount Parnassus, and in the north Mons Valerian forms our Vatican. And the city on the island! The island resembles a ship, just like the island in the Tiber, on which they have erected an obelisk as a mast, so striking was the similarity. Caesar indeed was too original to have wished to copy. They call Byzantium New Rome, but Rome is like a worm; when cut in two, a living creature is formed from each piece. What do you say, Maximus?”
“Rome was the city of the seven hills and the seven kings; how many there will be here, none can say.”
“It had never occurred to me,” answered Julian, “that Rome had had just as many kings as hills--a curious coincidence!”
Maximus the Mystic, who, together with the Sophist Priscus, always accompanied the Emperor, in order to give him opportunities for philosophising, immediately objected: “There are no ‘coincidences,’ Caesar, everything is reckoned and numbered; everything is created with a conscious purpose, and in harmonious correspondence--the firmament of heaven and the circle of the earth.”
“You have learnt that in Egypt,” Priscus interrupted, “for the Egyptians see the river Nile in the constellation Eridanus. I should like to know under which constellation this Lutetia lies!”
“It lies under Andromeda, like Rome,” answered Maximus, “but Perseus hangs over the Holy Land, so that Algol stands over Jerusalem.”
“Why do you call that cursed land ‘holy’?” broke in Julian, who could not control his generally quiet temper as soon as any subject was mentioned connected with Christianity, which he hated.
“I call the land ‘holy’ because the Redeemer of the world was born there. And you know that He was born without a father, like Perseus; you know also that Perseus delivered Andromeda, as Jesus Christ will deliver Rome and Lutetia.”
Julian was silent, for, as a Neo-platonist, he liked analogies between the heavenly and the temporal, and a poetic figure was more for him than a rhetorical ornament.
Educated in a convent by Christian priests, he had early gained an insight into the new teaching of Christianity; but he believed that his philosophic culture had shown him that the seed of Christianity had already germinated in Socrates and Plato. After he had made the acquaintance of the Neo-Platonists, he found nothing to object to in the recently-promulgated dogmas of Christianity. But he felt a boundless hate against these Galilaeans who wished to appropriate all the wisdom of the past ages and give it their own name. He regarded them as thieves. The doctrine of Christ’s Divine Sonship seemed to him quite natural, for as a Pantheist he believed that the souls of all men are born of God and have part in Him. He himself acknowledged the dogma recently promulgated at Nicaea, that the Son is of the same essence as the Father, although he interpreted, it in his own way. As to miracles, they happened every day, and could be imitated by magicians. He acknowledged the truth of the Fall of Man, for Plato also had declared that the soul is imprisoned in matter--in sinful matter, with which we must do battle. And this had been confirmed by St. Paul’s saying in the Epistle to the Romans, “The good which I would, that I do not, but the evil, which I would not, that I do,” and again, “I delight in the law of God after the inward man. But I see another law in my members, which warreth against the law of my mind.... O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?” That was the lament of the thinking sensitive man regarding the soul’s imprisonment in matter; the disgust of human nature at itself.
Julian, as a sensitive and struggling spirit, had felt this pressure, and had honestly and successfully combated the lusts of the flesh. Grown up though he was, among murderers and sybarites, in the extravagant luxury of the Byzantine Court, where, for example, he had at first possessed a thousand barbers and a thousand cooks, he had abandoned luxury, lived like a Christian ascetic, acted justly, and was high-minded. He had a perfect comprehension of the soul’s imprisonment in the flesh or of “sin,” but understood nothing of the Redemption through Christ. Three hundred years had passed since the birth of Christ, and the world had become continually more wretched. The Christians he had seen, especially his uncle Constantine the Great, lived worse than the heathen. As a young man he had tested the new teaching in his own internal struggles; he had prayed to Christ as to God, but had not been heard. When he had lamented his plight to the devout Eusebius, the latter had answered, “Be patient in hope! Continue constant in prayer.”
But the youth answered, “I cannot be patient.”
Then Eusebius said, “The deliverance comes, but not in our time. A thousand years are as a day before the Lord God! Wait five days, then you will see.”
“I will not wait,” exclaimed the youth angrily.
“So say the damned souls also. But look you, impatience is one of the torments of hell, and you make a hell for yourself with your impatience.”
Julian became a hater of Christ, without exactly knowing why. The philosophers did not teach it him, for they adapted Christianity to their philosophy. Celsus’ feeble attack on Christianity had not misled Julian’s ripe and cultured intelligence. Eusebius explained his pupil’s hatred of Christ in the following way: “He has heathen blood in him, for he comes of Illyrian stock; he does not belong to this sheepfold. Or is his pride so boundless, his envy so great, that he cannot tolerate any Autocrat in the realm of the spirit? He lives himself like a Christian, and teaches the same as Christ, but at the same time is a Christ-hater.”
* * * * *
Meanwhile Julian, in order to hide his anger, had approached the little Temple of Mars on the hill. The building was in ruins, the doors had been carried away, and the columns were broken. As he entered it, he saw the statue of Mars, modelled after a good Greek one of Ares, standing in the apse, but the nose was broken off, the fingers were lacking, and the whole statue was streaked with dirt.
“This is the work of the Galilaeans,” said Julian, “but they shall pay for it.”
“They have already paid with their lives,” answered Maximus.
“Dionysius [Footnote: St. Denis] was beheaded on the hill, and his chapel stands there on the slope.”
“Are you also a Galilaean?”
“No; but I love justice.”
“Justice and its guardian-goddess Astrasa left the earth when the Iron Age began; now she is a star in heaven.”
“In the Zodiac,” interrupted Priscus; “I believe also, we all live in Zodiacs, and there justice has no place.”
A sudden murmur of voices was heard from the camp. Julian mounted a heap of stones to see what was the matter. The whole of the north-east side of Mars’ Hill was covered with soldiers, and below in the valley were to be seen tents and camp-fires. These thousands belonged to all the nations of the world. They comprised Romans, Greeks, Egyptians, Negroes, Hebrews, Persians, Afghans, Scythians, Germans, Britons, and Gauls. But now they were in movement and swarming, as gnats do when they dance.
“What is the excitement about?” asked Julian.
A little bell from the chapel of St. Denis sounded the Angelus, and the Christians fell on their knees, while the heathen remained standing or continued their occupations. The Christians considered themselves disturbed, and so did the heathen.
“This religion,” said Julian, “which should unite all, only divides them. If the Church Councils, instead of formulating new creeds, had done away with all forms, and proclaimed free worship with praise and adoration of the Highest, all peoples would have bent the knee before the Nameless, but look at the Christians! Since the law is on their side, they have the upper hand, and therefore compel the heathen to adore their Galilaean! But I will not help them. I can hold nations together, but not professors of creeds. Let us go into the town. I will not mix in the matter.”
Some Christian tribunes approached Julian, with the evident purpose of complaining, but he waved them off.