Chapter III: Part 3

“There is so much that is new and obscure, like wine in fermentation. There comes Aristophanes. Farewell, my friend, for the last time here in life.”

“Wait! Aristophanes beckons! No, see! he weeps! Aristophanes weeps!”

Aristophanes approached. “Euripides,” he said, “don’t go till I have spoken to you.”

“Can you speak?” answered Euripides.

“I weep.”

“Do not quit your role. Shall that represent tears?”

“Sympathise with a companion in distress, Euripides; the Tyrants have closed my theatre.”

“Socrates, shall I sympathise with my executioner?”

“I believe that the Temple of Nemesis has been opened again,” answered Socrates. “Aristophanes has never been ingenuous hitherto; now he is so with a vengeance. Very well, Aristophanes, I sympathise with you that you can no more scoff at me. I pardon you, but I cannot help you to stage your comedies. That is asking too much. Now I follow Euripides home.”

* * * * *

Socrates sat by Aspasia, who had grown elderly. “Euripides has gone to Macedonia,” he said.

“From his wives.”

“You have become bitter.”

“I am tired of seeing ruins and all the rest. The Tyrants are murdering the citizens.”

“That is the occupation of tyrants.”

“Shall we soon have rest?”

“In the Ceramicus, in a cedar coffin.”

“I will not die; I will live, but quietly.”

“Life is not quiet.”

“Yes, if one is well off.”

“One never is.”

“No, not if one is unhappily married, like you, Socrates.”

“My wife is certainly the worst possible; if she had not had me for a husband, she would long ago have been murdered.”

“Xantippe betrays you with her gossiping; and when she does not understand what you say, she gives others distorted ideas of your opinions and your person.”

“Yes, I know that, but I cannot alter it.”

“Why do you continue in such a state of humiliation?”

“Why should I fly? One is only justified in flying from superior force, and Xantippe is not a superior force to me.”

“You are forbidden, on pain of death, to give instruction; that is her work and that of Anytos.”

“She may bring about my death, if she likes, for then she has only brought about my freedom.... Aspasia, I hear that our friendship is on the decline; you have found new friends, you have become another person. Let me say farewell before Lysicles comes.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yes, and the whole town speaks of your coming marriage.”

“With the cattle-dealer, Lysicles?”

“Yes, that is your affair; I don’t talk about it.”

“But you think I should have cherished Pericles’ memory better?”

“I would fain have seen Aspasia’s memory better preserved; but since I have seen Athenians adorn themselves with garlands to celebrate Athens’ overthrow; since I have seen Phidias....”

“How, then, will Socrates end?”

“Certainly not like Aspasia.”

“The gods jest with us. Beware! O Socrates!”

* * * * *

Socrates was at last in prison, accused of having seduced the youth, and blasphemed or repudiated the gods of the State. Among the accusers were a young poetaster, Melitos, the tanner Anytos, and the orator Lykon.

Socrates made his Apology, and declared that he had always believed on God, and the voice of his conscience, which he called his “demon.” He was condemned to drink hemlock, and kept in prison, where, however, he was allowed to see his wife and his few remaining friends.

Just now his wife was with him, and wept.

“Weep not,” said Socrates; “it is not your fault.”

“Will you see the children?”

“Why should I lacerate their little souls with a useless leave-taking? Go to them and comfort them; divert their minds with an expedition to the woods.”

“Shall we rejoice while you are dying?”

“Rejoice that my sufferings come to an end! Rejoice that I die with honour.”

“Have you no last wish?”

“I wish for nothing, except peace and freedom from your foolish tears and sighs, and your disturbing lamentations. Go, woman, and say to yourself that Socrates wants to sleep for he is tired and out of humour; say to yourself that he will wake again, refreshed, rejuvenated, happy and amiable.”

“I wish you had taught me all this before.”

“you had nothing to learn from me.”

“Yes! I have learnt from you patience and self-control.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“I cannot, for I have done it already. Say farewell now, as though I were going on a journey. Say ‘We meet again,’ as though I were soon returning!”

“Farewell, then, Socrates, and be not angry with me.”

“No, I am always well-disposed towards you.”

“Farewell, my husband, for ever.”

“Not for ever. You wish to see me again, don’t you? Put on a cheerful face, and say, ‘We meet again.’”

“We meet again.”

“Good! and when we meet again, we will go with the children together into the woods.”

“Socrates was not what I thought he was.”

“Go! I want to sleep.”

She went, but met in the doorway Plato and Crito.

“The hour approaches, friends,” said Socrates wearily, and with feverish eyes.

“Are you calm, Master?”

“To say the truth, I am quite calm. I will not assert that I am joyful, but my conscience does not trouble me.”

“When, Socrates, when--will it happen?”

“You mean, When is it to happen,--the last thing? Plato, my friend, my dearest... it hastens.... I have just now enjoyed a sleep. I have been over the river on the other side; I have seen for a moment the original forms of imperishable Beauty, of which things on earth are only dim copies.... I have seen the future, the destinies of the human race; I have spoken to the mighty, the lofty, and the pure; I have learnt the wise Order which guides the apparent great disorder; I trembled at the unfathomable secret of the Universe of which I had a glimmering perception, and I felt the immensity of my ignorance. Plato, you shall write what I have seen. You shall teach the children of men to estimate things at their proper value, to look up to the Invisible with awe, to revere Beauty, to cultivate virtue, and to hope for final deliverance, as they work, through faithful performance of duty and self-renunciation.”

He went to the bed, and lay down.

Plato followed him, “Are you ill, Master?”

“No, I have been; but now I am getting well.”

“Have you already....”

“I have already emptied the cup!”

“Our Wisest leaves us.”

“No mortal is wise! But I thank the gods who gave me modesty and conscience.”

There was silence in the room.

“Socrates is dead!”

FLACCUS AND MARO

After the death of Socrates, the greatness of Athens was no more. Sparta ruled for a time, and then came the turn of Thebes. Subsequently the Macedonians invaded the country, and governed it till the year 196 B.C., when the Romans conquered both Macedonia and Greece, and completely destroyed Corinth, but spared Athens, which was deprived of its fortifications under Sulla, on account of the great memories which gathered round it.

Now, in Julius Caesar’s time, it had become the fashion to send youths to Athens to study Grammar, Rhetoric, and Philosophy there. There was no great philosopher there, but they studied the history of philosophy. There was also no religion, for no one believed on the gods of the State, although, from old habit, they celebrated the sacrificial feasts.

Athens was dead, and so was the whole of the ancient world--Egypt, Syria, Asia Minor. In Rome they lived on the memories of the past of Greece, and the greatest Roman, Cicero, when he wished to discuss some philosophic theme, always commenced by citing the opinions of the ancient Greeks on the subject; he also closed in the same way, for he had no original opinion of his own on any subject, such as the nature of the gods, &c.

One early spring day, during the last years of Julius Caesar, two students sat in an arbour below Lykabettos, opposite the college of Kynosarges. Wine was on the table, but they did not seem very devoted to their yellow “Chios.” They sat there with an air of indifference, as though they were waiting for something. The same atmosphere of lethargy seemed to pervade their surroundings. The innkeeper sat and dozed; the youths in the college opposite lounged at the door; pedestrians on the high road went by without greeting anyone; the peasant in the field sat on his plough, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

The elder of the two students fingered his glass, and at last opened his mouth.

“Say something!”

“I have nothing to say, for I know nothing.”

“Have you already learnt everything?”

“Yes.”

“I came yesterday from Rome with great hopes of being able to learn something new and of hearing something remarkable, but I hear only silence.”

“My dear Maro, I have been here for years, and I have listened, but heard nothing new. I have heard in the Poikile that Thales maintained that there were no gods, but that everything had been produced from moisture. I have further heard Anaximines’ doctrine that air was the source of all things; Pherecydes’ doctrine of ether as the original principle; Heraclitus’ doctrine of fire. Anaximander has taught me that the universe came from some primitive substance; Leucippus and Democritus spoke to me of empty space with primitive corpuscles or atoms. Anaxagoras made believe that the atom had reason. Xenophanes wished to persuade me that God and the Universe were one. Empedocles, the wisest of the whole company, despaired at the imperfection of reason, and went in despair and flung himself head foremost into Etna’s burning mountain.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No! it may well be a lie like everything else. Then I learnt a number of interesting doctrines from Plato which were subsequently all confuted by Aristotle. At last I took up my position with the wisest of the wise--Socrates, who openly declared, as you know, that he knew nothing.”

“That is the same as the Sophists said,--that one knew nothing, and hardly so much.”

“You are right, and our good Socrates was a Sophist, without wishing to be one. But there is one, a single one, who.... Yes, I mean Pythagoras. He has proclaimed this and that doctrine in the East and the West, but I have found one anchor in his philosophy, and I have gripped firm ground with it. I certainly swing in the wind, but I do not drift away from it.”

“Tell me.”

“Do what you think right at the risk of being banished from your country; the mob cannot judge what is right. Therefore you should think little of their praise, and despise their blame. Cultivate the friendship of kindred spirits, but regard the rest of mankind as a worthless mass. Always be at war with ‘the beans’ (he means the democrats). ‘Odi profanum vulgus et arceo!’”

“You ought to live at home in Rome, Flaccus, where....”

“Yes, what are you doing now in Rome?”

“Caesar is Caesar; he conquers the world, and unites all the highest functions, even the priestly, in his own person. I have nothing against it, but they say he is aiming at his own deification.”

“Why not? All gods have first been heroes, and many gods have not been so great as Caesar. Romulus was certainly no giant, though he had the luck to come first, as someone must. Now he is a god, has a temple, and they sacrifice to him.”

“It is probably a lie, like everything else.”

“Probably.”

“Yes, I have heard another legend of the founding of Rome by Aeneas’ son Ascanius, who fled from Troy; and I intend to take it as the starting-point of my great poem....”

“You mean the _Aeneid_, of which I have heard mention.”

“Yes, the _Aeneid_.”

“Is it difficult to write poetry?”

“No; one follows good patterns. Hitherto Theocritus has been mine, but now I shall go to Father Homer himself.”

“By Heracles! Now there you will be undisturbed--so long, that is, as Maecenas sends you the sesterces regularly.”

“Yes, he does! But how do you get along?”

“My father, a freedman, toils as quaestor, and will find me a place.”

“Have you no interests, no passions, no ambitions?”

“No; what should I do with them? ‘Nihil admirari.’ That is my motto. If there are gods who guide the destinies of men and nations, why should I interfere and wear myself out in a useless struggle? Think of Demosthenes, who for thirty years delivered speeches against the Macedonian, and warned his countrymen, who would not listen to him! The gods were with the Macedonian, and condemned Hellas to be overthrown. Demosthenes was imprisoned. Comically enough, he was accused of having been bribed by the same Macedonian. That was, of course, a lie. This patriot who sacrificed himself for the salvation of his fatherland, who believed he was fighting on the gods’ side, had to take poison, and fell, fighting against the gods! Vestigia terrent!”

During their conversation, the sun had gone down, and now in the twilight beacons were visible flaming on Aegina, on Salamis, by Phaleros, in the Piraeus, and finally on the Acropolis. The murmurs from the city became louder till they rose to one immense paean of joy. Men came down the streets, and brought their wives and children with them, some on foot, others riding and driving. The worthy innkeeper Agathon was aroused, and went out into the highway to learn the cause of the confusion. The two students had gone on the inn roof to look out. But they surmised danger for foreigners like themselves, and, alarmed by the ever louder shouting, descended again, and concealed themselves in the wine-press. At last Agathon’s voice was heard: “Caesar is assassinated! Death to the Romans! Freedom for Hellas!”

Such was the news. The garden of the inn filled with people, wine flowed, and shouts of joy resounded, varied by sarcastic remarks on the passing Romans who were fleeing northwards from the town in order to reach the Macedonian frontier.

Maro and Flaccus underwent great anxiety, hidden as they were in the vat of the wine-press, from which hiding-place they heard the whole news, with its accompanying details. Caesar had been assassinated by Cassius and Brutus in the Capitol.

“Brutus?” whispered Maro. “Then it is certainly over with the Caesars, just as the old Brutus made an end of the Kings!”

And Brutus was flying to Hellas to rouse the Greeks against the Romans. “Long live Brutus!” they cried in the garden.

“Then we shall live also!” said the pliant Flaccus. “Caesar is dead; let us do homage to Brutus for the present.”

* * * * *

Many years had passed when the former student of Athens, Quintus Horatius Flaccus, was walking one day in the garden of his villa on the Sabine Hills. This villa he had received as a gift from his friend Maecenas, who possessed a splendid country-house close by in Tibur itself.

Horace was now a very famous poet, but still essentially the same as he had been when a student in Athens. Destiny or the gods had played with him, but the poet had taken it as a good joke on the part of the Higher Powers, and answered it with a satire. After the murder of Caesar, Brutus had fled to Greece, and been so well received there, that the Athenians had erected a statue to him, and raised troops for him against Antonius and the other generals, among whom was the invalid Octavianus (afterwards Augustus).

Horace was compelled to serve as a soldier, and actually commanded a legion at Philippi, where Brutus fell. The poet, who was no warrior, fled from the superior force of the enemy, and came to Rome, where, after the amnesty had been proclaimed, he became a clerk in a public office. At the same time he had begun to write verses, was discovered by Maecenas, and received his reward in the form of an estate.

The Emperor Augustus admired him, and offered him a position as secretary, but Horace refused, partly because he could never see anything else but an usurper in this Emperor, partly because he loved freedom and independence above all things.

Just now he was walking in his garden, whose fruit-trees he had himself cultivated. He plucked roses and hyacinths, for he awaited the visit of a favourite guest, his old friend and fellow-student of Athens, Publius Virgilius Maro, as well known as Horace himself, although he had not yet allowed his _Aeneid_ to appear in manuscript.

A table was laid in a vine-arbour; flagons of old Massisian and Falernian lay already on ice, oysters and eels were there; a kid and some quails were roasting on the spit in the kitchen; fruit had been plucked in the garden; and the only thing wanting on the table, which had been laid for two persons, were flowers.

A little slave, who was able to write, ran to and fro between the garden-gate and the dove-tower, in order to look out for the expected guest. The poet was standing at the water-barrel and washing his hands, after he had finished plucking flowers, when someone clapped him on the shoulder.

“Virgil! Which way have you come, then?”

“Over the hills of Tibur from Maecenas.”

“Welcome, wanderer, whichever way you have come! Sit down--you must be tired--in my hemicyklion, under the olives I planted myself, while the spits turn, and they ply the chopping-knife. Here you see my plot of land which represents the world to me.”

Their first greetings and questions were over, and the two friends sat down to the table. The host was certainly an Epicurean or votary of pleasure; but in order to be able to enjoy, one must be moderate, and the meal, judging by Roman customs, was quite a frugal one, but simple and brilliant. Then the cups were passed round, and the wine awoke memories in spite of its supposed lethal capacity of quenching them.

“Well, you were in the war, friend?” began Virgil.

“Yes, and I fled disgracefully, as you know.”

“I have read so in one of your poems, but it is said not to be true, and you have slandered yourself.”

“Have I? Perhaps! One talks nonsense when one writes.”

“You poet, do you remember how you asked me in Athens whether it were difficult? How did you come to write?”

“I needed money!”

“Now you slander yourself again! If all clients who needed money could write, the world would be full of poets.”

“Well, perhaps it was not so. But speak of yourself--of your _Aeneid_.”

Virgil looked gloomy: “Of that I will not speak.”

“Is it finished?”

“More than that! It is done with!”

“Done with?”

“Yes! When I read it, I found it a failure! It was not Homer; it was nothing. It was a punishment, because I wished to outshine my father.”

“Have you destroyed it?”

“Not yet; but it is sealed up, in order to be destroyed after my death.”

“Now _you_ are slandering yourself, and you are depressed, Maro, not by years, not by work, but by something else.”

“Yes, by something else. The future disturbs me!”

Horace shook his cup and recited: [Footnote: Hor. Od. I. ii.] “Do not go to the astrologers, Leuconoe. Better bear life as it comes. Be wise, clear your wine! While we speak, envious life is flying. Enjoy the present, and think as little as possible about the future.”

“That I cannot!” broke in Virgil. “I cannot drown myself in my cups, when I see my fatherland perishing.”

“Has Rome ever been so powerful as it is now? Do we not possess the whole known world--Egypt, Syria, Greece, Italy, Spain, Germany, Gaul, Britain? And yet we live in a time of peace: the Temple of Janus is closed; the earth rejoices; the arts flourish; and commerce was never so active as at present.”

“Yes, the peace that precedes a war. For all these conquered nations are awake, and have an eye on Rome. Not on Greece as before, for Greece is barren and laid waste, and passes into the great silence. Do you know that Sulla and Mithridates have gone slaying and pillaging over Hellas, so that science and art have fled to the Egyptian Alexandria or the growing Byzantium? Do you know that pirates, whose origin is unknown, from the East, have recently plundered every temple in Hellas, so that hardly any religious service can be held there? The oracles are dumb, the poets are silent like song-birds in a storm, the great tragedies are no longer performed; people rather go to see farces and gladiatorial shows. Hellas is a ruin, and Rome will soon be one.”

“Times are bad, I grant, but every time has been one of decay, and has, however, prepared the way for a new epoch. The fallen leaves of autumn form a forcing-bed for the coming spring; Nature, life, and history ever renew themselves through death. Therefore death is to me only a renewal, a change, and whenever I meet a funeral, I always say to myself, ‘O how pleasant it is to live!’”

“My dear Flaccus, you live with your dreams in the Golden Age, while we others only drag ourselves through this life of the Iron Age. Do you remember how Hesiod complains already of his own time?”

“No, I have forgotten that, but in order to oblige you I will listen.”

“‘The people of to-day are an iron race, and never rest from the burden of work, neither by day nor by night. They are a sinful folk, and the gods send them heavy troubles. But even when they send joy, this turns to their misfortune. Some day Zeus will destroy them, these many-tongued people, when they are born with grey locks on their temples. Yes, our children are born old men already, toothless, wrinkled and with bald heads. The father is not gracious to the child, nor the child to the father, nor the guest to his host, nor servant to fellow-servant, nor brother to brother. Children dishonour their old parents, revile them and speak unfriendly words--these young scoundrels who know nothing of divine vengeance, and never thank their ageing parents for their fostering care of them as children. Might is right, and one city destroys another. Honesty and faithfulness in keeping vows are never rewarded, as little as kindness or justice. Oh no, they who practise sin and break the law, demand honour. Scoundrels betray noble men, and commit perjury without scruple. Envy follows men, these unhappy ones with their harsh voices and dreadful faces, who rejoice over the evil and the mischief which they do.’”

“Yes, so Hesiod spoke a thousand years ago, and I must confess his words are well deserved, but what can one do?”

“Yes, they are. Cicero was murdered, and I feel inclined to follow the example of Cato, who died in order to escape sin. I sink, Flaccus, in lies and hypocrisy. But I will not sink ... I will mount. I have praised Augustus and his son Marcellus in my verses, but I believe no more in them, for they are not the future. Therefore the _Aeneid_ shall be burnt!”

“You disquiet me, Maro. But what do you believe in?”

“I believe in the Sibyl, who has prophesied that the Iron Age will end, and the Golden Age return.”

“You have sung of that in the Fourth Eclogue, I remember.... Have you fever?”

“I believe I have. Do you remember--no! our fathers remember when the Capitol was burnt, and the Sibylline books destroyed. But now new books have come from Alexandria, and in them they have read that a new era will begin; that Rome will be destroyed but built up again, and that a Golden Age....”

Here the seer was silent. Then he continued: “Pardon me, Flaccus, but I am poorly, and must ride home before the mists rise from the Campagna.”

“Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume! Labuntur anni! I will follow you, friend, on my ass, for you are sick. But ‘the man of righteous heart and rock-like purpose will not be shaken nor terrified by the blind zeal of the citizens commanding evil, nor the glance of the threatening tyrant.... If the walls of the world fall in, they will bury him unterrified beneath their ruin.’”

* * * * *

Some days later Virgil died in Naples. His will was opened, and actually found to contain a request that his _Aeneid_ should be burnt. But it was not carried out. Posterity has passed various judgments on this ignoring of a dead man’s wish--some think it was a pity; others that it was a good thing.

When Christianity arrived, Virgil was enrolled among the prophets. The _Aeneid_ was regarded as a Sibylline book and included in the liturgy. Pilgrimages were made to the poet’s tomb. And later on he was raised to the rank of a saint by Dante.

LEONTOPOLIS

A caravan was encamped on a height eastward of the ancient Egyptian town Heliopolis. There were many people in it, but all were Hebrews. They had come on camels and asses from Palestine through the desert--the same desert which the Israelites had passed through thousands of years before.

In the evening twilight, by the faint light of the half-moon, hundreds of camp-fires were to be seen, and by them sat the women with their little children while the men carried water.

Never yet had the desert beheld so many little children, and, as they were now being put to bed for the night, the camp echoed with their cries. It was like an enormous nursery. But when the washing was over, and the little ones were laid to their mothers’ breasts, the cries one after the other ceased, and there was complete silence. Under a sycamore tree sat a woman, and suckled her child; close by stood a Hebrew, feeding his ass with branches of the broom plant; when he had done that, he went higher up the hill, and looked towards the north. A foreigner--a Roman, to judge by his dress--passed, and regarded the woman with the child closely, as though he were counting them.

The Hebrew showed signs of uneasiness, and began a conversation with the Roman, in order to divert his attention from the woman.

“Say, traveller, is that the City of the Sun there in the west?”

“You see it!” answered the Roman.

“Then it is Bethshemesh.”

“Heliopolis, from which both Greeks and Romans have derived their wisdom; Plato himself has been here.”

“Can Leontopolis also be seen from here?”

“You see the pinnacles of its temple two miles northward.”

“But that is the land of Goshen, which our father Abraham visited, and which Jacob had portioned out to him,” said the Hebrew, turning to his wife, who only answered with an inclination of her head. Then, speaking to the Roman, he continued, “Israel wandered from Egypt to Canaan. But after the Babylonish captivity a part of them returned and settled down here. You know that.”

“Yes, I know that. And now the Israelites here have increased till they number many thousand souls, and have built a temple for themselves, which you see standing in the distance. Did you know that?”

“Yes, something about it. So that, then, is Roman territory?”

“Yes. Everything is Roman now--Syria, Canaan, Greece, Egypt--Germany, Gaul, Britain; the world belongs to Rome, according to the prophecy of the Cumaean Sibyl.”

“Good! But the world is to be redeemed through Israel, according to God’s promise to our father Abraham.”

“I have heard that fable also, but for the present Rome has the fulfilment of the promise. Do you come from Jerusalem?”

“I come through the desert like the others, and I bring wife and child with me.”

“Child--yes! Why do you Hebrews carry so many children with you?”

The Hebrew was silent, but since he perceived that the Roman knew the reason, and since the latter looked like a benevolent man, he resolved to tell the truth.

“Herod the King heard from the Wise Men of the East the prophecy that a King of the Jews would be born in Bethlehem in the land of Judaea. In order to escape the supposed danger, Herod had all the children recently born in that district put to death. Just as Pharaoh once had our first-born put to death here. But Moses was saved, in order to free our people from the Egyptian bondage.”

“Well! but who was this King of the Jews to be?”

“The promised Messiah.”

“Do you believe that he is born?”

“I cannot tell.”

“I can,” said the Roman. “He is born; he will rule the world, and bring all people under his sceptre.”

“And who will that be?”

“The Emperor, Augustus.”

“Is he of Abraham’s seed or of David’s house? No. And has he come with peace, as Isaiah prophesied, ‘His kingdom shall be great, and of peace there shall be no end’? The Emperor is certainly not a man of peace.”

“Farewell, Israelite. Now you are a Roman subject. Be content with the redemption through Rome. We know not of any other.”

The Roman departed.

The Hebrew approached his wife. “Mary!” he said.

“Joseph!” she answered. “Hush! The child sleeps.”

THE LAMB

Herod Antipas, the Tetrarch, had come to Jerusalem, because there was much unrest among the populace. He had taken up his dwelling with Pilate, the Governor. Since on the preceding evening he had witnessed a gladiatorial show in the circus and then taken part in an orgy, he slept late into the morning--so late that his host, who was waiting for his guest, had gone upon the roof.

There lay the Holy City, with Mount Moriah and the Temple, Zion and David’s House. To the north-west and west there stretched the Valley of Sharon to the Mediterranean Sea, which in the clear air appeared like a blue streak at a distance of five miles.

In the east there rose the Mount of Olives, with its gardens and vineyards, olives, figs and terebinths, below ran the brook Kedron whose banks were decked in their spring apparel of flourishing laurels, tamarisks, and willows.

The Governor was restless, and often paused to stand by the parapet of the roof in order to look down into the forecourt of the Temple. Here numbers of people moved about busily, forming themselves into knots which dissolved and then formed larger groups.

At last the Tetrarch appeared. He had overslept himself, and his eyes were blood-shot. He gave the Governor a brief greeting, and settled himself as though for a conversation. But he found it hard to bring out a word; his head hung down, and he did not know how to begin, for the orgies of the preceding night had made him forget what he had come for.

Pilate came to his help: “Speak, Herod; your heart is full, and your mind uneasy.”

“What do you say, my brother?”

“We were speaking yesterday of the strange man who stirs up the people.”

“Quite right! I had John beheaded. Is it he who is going about?”

“No, it is another one now.”

“Are there two of them?”

“Yes, this is another one.”

“But they have the same history--a prophecy which foretold their birth, and the fable of a supernatural origin, just like the Perseus of mythology, and the philosopher Plato in history. Is it a confusion of persons?”

“No, not at all.”

“What is his name? Josua, Jesse...?”

“His name is Jesus, and he is said to have passed his childhood in the Egyptian towns Heliopolis and Leontopolis.”

“Then he must be a magician or wizard; can he not come and divert me?”

“It is difficult to find him, for he is now in one place, now in another. But we will question the High Priest; I have had him called, and he waits below.”

“Why is there this commotion in the court of the Temple?”

“They are going to erect the Emperor’s statue in the Holy of Holies.”

“Quite right! Our gracious Emperor Tiberius lives like a madman on Capri, and is pummelled by his nephew Caligula, if the offspring of incest can be called a nephew. And now he is to become a god. Ha! Ha!”

“Antiochus Epiphanes had the statue of Zeus set up in the Holy of Holies. He, however, _was_ a god. But to set up this beast, Tiberius, means a tumult.”

“What are we to do? Call the Priest here.”

Pilate went and fetched the High Priest Caiaphas.

Herod closed his eyes, and folded his hands over his breast. He regarded all matters of business as an interruption to his pleasures, and generally liked to cut them short. When Pilate returned with Caiaphas, the Tetrarch awoke from his doze, and did not know where he was, or what they were talking about. Pilate stepped forward, aroused him to consciousness, and directed his attention to the matter in hand.

“There is a tumult in the Temple,” was his first observation, for that disturbed his sleep. “Ah! the Priest is here. What is the meaning of the uproar below?”

“It is the Galilaean, who has taken to using force, and has driven the money-changers out of the Temple.”

Herod’s curiosity was aroused: “I should like to see him.”

“He has already gone.”

“Tell us, High Priest, who is this man? Is he the Messiah?”

“That is incredible. The son of a poor carpenter, who is weak in the head!”

“Is he a prophet?”

“He stirs up the people, he breaks the law, he is a glutton and wine-bibber, and he blasphemes God. Yes, he says that he himself is God, the Son of the Highest.”

“Have you witnesses to this?”

“Yes, but they contradict each other.”

“Then procure better witnesses, who will agree. But now, Priest, we must talk of something else. You know that the Senate have decreed the apotheosis of the Emperor, and that his image is to be set up in the Temple. What do you think about it?”

“We live by the favour of the Emperor. But if this abomination is done, we will all die as the Maccabees did.”

“Then die!”

Caiaphas considered a moment before he answered. “I will summon the Sanhedrim, and tell them what the Emperor wishes.”

“Yes, do that. And before the Passover you must bring the Galilaean before me, for I wish to see him.”

“I will.”

“Then go in peace.”

Caiaphas retired.

“They are a hard people, these Israelites,” said Pilate, for want of something better to say. “I am also of Israel,” answered Herod somewhat curtly, “for I am an Edomite, of Esau’s race, and my mother was a Samaritan, belonging to the despised people.”

Pilate saw that he had made a slip, and therefore struck the ground three times with his official staff. A large trap-door opened, and a table came up covered with all kinds of delicacies according to Roman taste.

Herod’s countenance cleared.

* * * * *

In the Court of the Priests stood Caiaphas and Annas, and spoke with each other.

“Since we cannot avert the abomination,” said Caiaphas, “and the Emperor’s image is to be erected in the Holy of Holies, and the people will be destroyed if there is an insurrection, it is better for us to bring an offering to the Lord, and that one man die for the people.”

“You are right. An extraordinary atoning sacrifice is necessary, and as the Passover is approaching, let us sacrifice the Galilaean.”

“Good! But the offering should be pure. Is the Galilaean pure?”

“Pure as a lamb.”

“May he then take Israel’s sins upon him, that we may be set free through his blood. Who brings him into our hands?”

“One of his disciples, who stands outside.”

“Fetch him in.”

John, later known as the “Evangelist,” was brought in, and Caiaphas began to examine him.

“What do you say concerning your teacher? Has he transgressed the law of Moses?”

“He has fulfilled the law.”

“But what new commandment has he introduced into our holy law?”

“Love one another.”

“Did he say he was the King of the Jews?”

“The Master said, ‘My kingdom is not of this world.’”

“Has he not made children rebel against their parents?”

“The Master said, ‘He who loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me.’”

“Did he not say that one has a right to neglect one’s duties as a citizen?”

“The Master said, ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness.’”

“Did he tell labourers to leave their work?”

“The Master said, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden.’”

“Did he say that he would conquer the world?”

“The Master said, ‘In the world ye have tribulation, but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.’”

Caiaphas was weary: “According to all that I have heard and perceived, this man has not answered a single question.”

“The Master answers in spirit and in truth, but you ask according to the flesh and the letter. We are not the children of one spirit.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He has sent me to preach good tidings to the poor, to heal the broken in heart, to preach deliverance to the captives, to give sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised.”

“What you speak in foolishness, young man, can neither bring credit to you nor to your teacher.”

“Woe unto you when men praise you, and he who departeth from evil maketh himself a prey.”

Caiaphas turned to Annas: “This is not the man who will deliver the Galilaean up to us.”

“They have sent another one--Listen! Is your name Iscariot?”

“No; my name is John.”

“Then go in peace, but send us Iscariot instead. But wait! Give us in two words the teaching of your Master regarding the meaning of life.”

“Death is a gain for the righteous,” answered John without stopping to think.

“Is life not itself...?”

“Through death ye shall enter into life.”

“We have heard enough. Go.”

But Caiaphas repeated to himself, as though he thought he would understand those words in his own mouth better: “Death is a gain for the righteous.”

Now there arose a clamour from the market-place and the hall of justice. Annas and Caiaphas went out upon the battlemented walls to find out the cause. Levites were standing there, and looking down.

“Has he been taken?”

“He has already been seized as an inciter to insurrection, because he bade his disciples to sell their garments and buy a sword.”

“Have they found them with weapons?”

“They have found two swords.”

“Then he is already condemned.”

Then they heard a cry rise from the crowd before the Court of Justice--at first difficult to distinguish, but ever clearer. The people were crying “Crucify! Crucify!”

“Is that not too severe, regarded as a punishment?” said Caiaphas.

“No,” answered the Levite; “one of his disciples called Simon or Peter drew his sword and wounded one of the servants called Malchus.”

“Do we need any more witnesses?”

“But the Teacher said, ‘Put up thy sword into its sheath, for they that take the sword, shall perish with the sword.’”

“That is a difficult saying,” said Annas, and went down. But the people continued to cry, “Crucify! Crucify!”

THE WILD BEAST

Before the temple of Jupiter Latiaris in Rome, two men of the middle classes met each other. They both remained standing in order to contemplate the new temple, which was different from all others, and looked as if it had felt the effects of an earthquake. The basement had the shape of a roof; the columns stood reversed with their capitals below, and the roof was constructed like a basement with cellar-windows.

“So we meet here again, Hebrew,” said one of the two, who resembled a Roman merchant. “Was it not in Joppa that we last met?”

“Yes,” answered the Hebrew. “One meets the Roman everywhere; he is at home everywhere; one also meets the Hebrew everywhere, but he is at home nowhere. But tell me, whose temple is this?”

“This is the Temple of the Wild Beast, the Emperor Caligula, the madman, the murderer, the incestuous. He has erected it to himself; his image stands within; and the madman comes every day to worship himself.”

So saying, the Roman made a sign on his forehead, moving the forefinger of his right hand first from above, below, and then from left to right.

The Hebrew looked at him in astonishment.

“Are you not a Roman?”

“Yes, I am a Roman Christian.”

“Where do you live?”

“Here under Rome, in the catacombs.”

He pointed to a hole in the ground, which resembled those that led down to the cloacae.

“Do you live here under the ground?”

“Yes, that is where we Christians live; there we lie like seed in the earth, and germinate.”

“Those are grave-vaults down there.”

“Yes, we are buried with Christ, and await the resurrection.”

“Have you a temple down there?”

“We have our religious service there, and to-day we celebrate the birth of Christ.”

“Someone is coming down the street,” said the Hebrew. The Roman opened the trap-door in the ground in order to descend. From below the sounds of a choral hymn were heard. “The City hath no need of the moon, neither of the sun, for the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.”

“Who is the Lamb?” asked the Hebrew.

“Jesus Christ, the Redeemer of the World.”

“Do you think the world is redeemed, while this mad Caligula....”

“The world will be redeemed, if we continue to hope.”

“You have, then, taken the promise away from Israel?”

“No, we have inherited the promise, for Christ was of the stock of Israel.”

“Someone is coming.”

“Then farewell. We shall always meet, for the earth is ours.”

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.