CHAPTER X

LOCUTUS EST!

Every house in Nemausus thrilled with life. Sleep was driven from the drowsiest heads. The tipsy were sobered at once. Those banqueting desisted from conversation. Music was hushed. Men rushed into the street. The beasts in the amphitheater, startled by the strange note, roared and howled. Slowly the chief magistrate rose, sent to summon an edile, and came forth. He was not quick of movement; it took him some time to resolve whether he or his brother magistrate was responsible for order; when he did issue forth, then he found the streets full, and that all men in them were talking excitedly.

The god Nemausus, the _archegos_, the divine founder and ancestor had spoken. His voice was rarely heard. It was told that before the Cimbri and Teutones had swept over the province, he had shouted. That had been in ages past; of late he had been sparing in the exercise of his voice. He was said to have cried out at the great invasion of the Helvetii, that had been arrested by Julius Cæsar; again to have trumpeted at the outbreak of Civilis and Julius Sabinus, which, however, had never menaced Narbonese Gaul, though at the time the god had called the worst was anticipated. The last time he had been heard was at the revolt of Vindex that preceded the fall of Nero.

Some young skeptics whispered: “By Hercules, the god has a brazen throat.”

“It is his hunting horn that peals to call attention. What he will say will be revealed to the priestess.”

“Or what the priestess wishes to have believed is his message.”

But this incredulous mood was exhibited by very few. None ventured openly to scoff.

“The god hath spoken!” this was the cry through the streets and the forum. Every man asked his fellow what it signified. Some cried out that the prince—the divine Aurelius Antoninus (Caracalla)—had been assassinated, just as he was about to start from Rome for Gaul. Others that the privileges of the city and colony were going to be abrogated. But one said to his fellow, “I augured ill when we heard that the god had been cheated of his due. No marvel he is out of humor, for Perpetua is esteemed the prettiest virgin in Nemausus.”

“I wonder that the rescue passed off without notice being taken of the affair by the magistrates.”

“Bah! it is the turn of the Petronius Alacinus now, and he will not bestir himself unnecessarily. So long as the public peace be not broken——”

“But it was—there was a riot, a conflict.”

“A farcical fight with wind‐bags. Not a man was hurt, not a drop of blood flowed. The god will not endure to be balked and his sacrifice made into a jest.”

“He is hoarse with rage.”

“What does it all mean?”

Then said a stout man: “My good friend, it means that which always happens when the priesthood is alarmed and considers that its power is menaced—its credit is shaken. It will ask for blood.”

“There has been a great falling off of late in the worshipers of the gods and in attendance at the games.”

“This comes of the spread of the pestilent sect of the Christians. They are the enemies of the human race. They eat little children. The potter Fusius lost his son last week, aged six, and they say it was sacrificed by these sectaries, who stuck needles into it.”

“Bah! the body was found in the channel of the stream the child had fallen in.”

“I heard it was found half eaten,” said a third.

“Rats, rats,” explained another standing by.

“Well, these Christians refuse to venerate the images of the Augustus, and therefore are foes to the commonwealth. They should be rooted out.”

“You are right there. As to their religious notions—who cares about them? Let them adore what they will—onions like the Egyptians, stars like the Chaldeans, a sword like the Scythians—that is nothing to us; but when they refuse to swear by the Emperor and to offer sacrifice for the welfare of the empire then, I say, they are bad citizens, and should be sent to the lions.”

“The lions,” laughed the stout man, “seem to respond to the voice, which sounded in their ears, ‘Dinner for you, good beasts!’ Well, may we have good sport at the games founded by Domitius Afer. I love to lie in bed when the _circius_ (mistral) howls and the snowflakes fly. Then one feels snug and enjoys the contrast. So in the amphitheater one realizes the blessedness of life when one looks on at wretches in the hug of the bear, or being mumbled by lions, or played with by panthers.”

Perhaps the only man whom the blast did not startle was Tarsius, the inebriated slave, who had been expelled the house of Baudillas, and who was engrossed only with his own wrongs, and who departed swearing that he excommunicated the Church, not the Church him. He muttered threats; he stood haranguing on his own virtues, his piety, his generosity of spirit; he recorded many acts of charity he had done. “And I—I to be turned out! They are a scurvy lot. Not worthy of me. I will start a sect of my own, see if I do not.”

Whilst reeling along, growling, boasting, confiding his wrongs to the walls on each side, he ran against Callipodius just as the words were in his mouth: “I am a better Christian than all of them. I don’t affect sanctimoniousness in aspect, but I am sound, sound in my life—a plain, straight‐walking man.”

“Are you so?” asked Callipodius. “Then I wish you would not festoon in such a manner as to lurch against me. You are a Christian. Hard times are coming for such as you.”

“Aye, aye! I am a Christian. I don’t care who knows it. I’m not the man to lapse or buy a _libellus_,(5) though they have turned me out.”

Callipodius caught the fellow by the shoulder and shook him.

“Man,” said he. “Ah, a slave! I recognize you. You are of the family of Julius Largus Litomarus, the wool merchant. Come with me. The games are in a few days, and the director of the sports has been complaining that he wanted more prisoners to cast to the beasts. I have you in the nick of time. I heard you with these ears confess yourself to be a Christian, and the sole worthy one in the town. You are the man for us—plump and juicy, flushed with wine. By the heavenly twins, what a morsel you will make for the panthers! Come with me. If you resist I will summon the crowd, then perhaps they will elect to have you crucified. Come quietly, and it shall be panthers, not the cross. I will conduct you direct to the magistrate and denounce you.”

“I pray you! I beseech you! I was talking nonsense. I was enacting a part for the theater. I am no Christian; I was, but I have been turned out, excommunicated. My master and mistress believe, and just to please them and to escape stripes, and get a few favors such as are not granted to the others, I have—you understand.” The slave winked.

Beside Callipodius was a lad bearing a torch. He held it up and the flare fell over the face of the now sobered Tarsius.

“Come with me, fellow,” said Callipodius. “Nothing will save you but perfect obedience and compliance with what I direct. Hark! was not that the howl of the beasts. Mehercule! they snuff you already. My good friend Æmilius Lentulus Varo, the lawyer, will be your patron; a strong man. But you must answer my questions. Do you know the Lady Quincta and her daughter? Quincta is the widow of Harpinius Læto.”

“Aye, aye! the wench was fished out of the pond to‐day.”

“That is right. Where are they, do you know their house?”

“Yes, but they are not at home now.”

“Where are they then?”

“Will you denounce them?” asked the slave nervously.

“On the contrary. They are menaced. I seek to save them.”

“Oh! if that be all, I am your man. They are in the mansion of Baudillas, yonder—that is—but mum, I say! I must not speak. They kicked me out, but I am not ungenerous. I will denounce nobody. But if you want to save the ladies, I will help you with alacrity. They charged me with being drunk—not the ladies—the bishop did that—more shame to him. I but rinsed out my mouth with the Ambrussian. Every drop clear as amber. Ah, sir! in your cellar have you——”

A rush of people up the street shouting, “The will of the god! the will of the god! It is being proclaimed in the forum.”

They swept round Callipodius and the slave, spinning them, as leaves are spun in a corner by an eddy of wind, then swept forward in the direction of the great square.

“Come aside with me, fellow,” said Callipodius, darting after the slave who was endeavoring to slink away. “What is your name? I know only your face marked by a scar.”

“Tarsius, at your service, sir!”

“Good Tarsius, here is money, and I undertake to furnish you with a bottle of my best old Ambrussian for your private tipple, or to make merry therewith with your friends. Be assured, no harm is meant. The priests of Nemausus seek to recover possession of the lady Perpetua, and it is my aim to smuggle her away to a place of security. Do thou watch the door, and I will run and provide litters and porters. Do thou assure the ladies that the litters are sent to convey them in safety to where they will not be looked for; say thy master’s house. I will answer for the rest. Hast thou access to them?”

“Aye! I know the pass‐word. And though I have been expelled, yet in the confusion and alarm I may be suffered again to enter.”

“Very excellent. Thou shalt have thy flask and an ample reward. Say that the litters are sent by thy master, Largus Litomarus.”

“Right, sir! I will do thy bidding.”

Then Callipodius hastened in the direction of the habitation of Æmilius.

Meanwhile the forum filled with people, crowding on one another, all quivering with excitement. Above were the stars. Here and there below, torches. Presently the chief magistrate arrived with his lictors, and a maniple of soldiers to keep order and make a passage through the mob between the Temple of Nemausus and the forum.

Few women were present. Such as were, belonged to the lowest of the people. But there were boys and men, old and young, slaves, artisans, freedmen, and citizens.

Among the ignorant and the native population the old Paganism had a strong hold, and their interests attached a certain number of all classes to it. But the popular Paganism was not a religion affecting the lives by the exercise of moral control. It was devoid of any ethic code. It consisted in a system of sacrifice to obtain a good journey, to ward off fevers, to recover bad debts, to banish blight and mildew. The superstitious lived in terror lest by some ill‐considered act, by some neglect, they should incur the wrath of the jealous gods and bring catastrophe on themselves or their town. They were easily excited by alarm, and were unreasonable in their selfish fervor.

Ever in anticipation of some disaster, an earthquake, a murrain, fire or pestilence, they were ready to do whatever they were commanded, so as to avert danger from themselves. The words of the Apostle to the Hebrews describing the Gentiles as being through fear of death all their lifetime subject to bondage, were very true. The ignorant and superstitious may be said to have existed on the verge of a panic, always in terror lest their gods should hurt them, and cringing to them in abject deprecation of evil. It was this fear for themselves and their substance that rendered them cruel.

The procession came from the temple. Torches were borne aloft, a long wavering line of lurid fire, and vessels were carried in which danced lambent flames that threw out odoriferous fumes.

First came the priests; they walked with their heads bowed and their arms folded across their breasts, and with fillets of wool around their heads. Then followed the priestesses shrouded in sable mantles over their white tunics. All moved in silence. A hush fell on the multitude. Nothing was heard in the stillness save the tramp of feet in rhythm. When the procession had reached the forum, the chief priestess ascended the rostrum, and the flambeau‐bearers ranged themselves in a half‐circle below. She was a tall, splendidly formed woman, with profuse dark hair, an ivory complexion, flashing black eyes under heavy brows.

Suddenly she raised her arms and extended them, letting the black pall drop from her shoulders, and reveal her in a woven silver robe, like a web of moonlight, and with white bare arms. In her right she bore an ivory silver‐bound wand with mistletoe bound about it, every berry of translucent stone.

Then amidst dead silence she cried: “The god hath spoken, he who founded this city, from whom are sprung its ancient patrician families, who supplieth you with crystal water from his urn. The holy one demands that she who hath been taken from him be surrendered to him again, and that punishment be inflicted on the Christians who have desecrated his statue. If this, his command, be not fulfilled, then will he withhold the waters, and deliver over the elect city to be a desolation, the haunt of the lizard and the owl and bat. To the lions with the Christians! _Locutus est Divus Archegos!_”