Early next morning Quintus made his way to the Flamen’s house. The great sitting of the Senate, which was to determine the fate of the edict against the Nazarenes, had been fixed for this forenoon; until he should join it, Titus Claudius was spending the morning with his family. The weather was unusually mild for the late season, and Octavia had ordered that breakfast should be served in the peristyle, and here, comfortably extended on his couch, the high-priest was enjoying his favorite dish, fresh eggs with garum.[20] The ladies, attended only by Baucis and a little girl, were sitting in easy-chairs, sipping milk cooled with ice[21] out of pale, gleaming Murrhine cups. Perfect silence reigned in the cavaedium; not even a slave stole across the marble flags, and the very tree-tops, golden in the morning sunshine, were motionless in the mild autumn air.

As Quintus came in from the arcade, and saw this party of those who were near and dear to him, his heart sank within him. A longing, which even in his sleep had haunted his dreams, and had driven him from his bed before daybreak, came over him now with almost irresistible force; his impulse was to throw himself at his father’s feet, and kiss the hands that had so often rested lovingly on his head and brow. But he controlled himself. He went up to the high-priest, and gave him an affectionate kiss as usual, pressed his hand warmly, and then greeted the rest of the party gaily enough.

The previous day Quintus had come to a conclusion, which must open an impassable gulf between himself and his father. At the very time, when Titus Claudius was putting the finishing strokes to the great plan of attack against the Nazarenes, Quintus had made up his mind, that nothing less than the doctrine of that contemned sect could quench the thirst of his yearning soul. This consciousness had started into being suddenly, like a plant which springs up in a night; but the soil whence it made its way towards the light was—as we already know—ready long since, up-turned, as it were, by the ploughshare of doubt and dissatisfaction. The germ of his new views of life had long been slumbering as a dim craving, a longing, deep but aimless, for some saving certainty; it had needed no more than a fertilizing shower to develop it. Quintus was not disposed to bring a critical philosophy to bear on each of the various mysteries of the new faith, which, indeed, were as yet only known to him in part; but he grasped the kernel of the matter, and the more he investigated it, the deeper his conviction grew. The grand principle of the brotherly equality of all men, impressed him as strongly as the simple and yet consoling metaphysics of Christianity. To a naturally-creative imagination like his, the doctrine of an universal spirit embracing all time and space in sempiternal love was intrinsically clear and intelligible. He found in it the happy half-way term between the bewildering superstitions of popular belief and the cold abstractions of systematic philosophy. Added to this, was the ineffaceable impression made on his feelings by the high-souled nature of the wounded slave. The figure of Eurymachus shed a heavenly light on the source, whence he could have derived his invincible strength and lofty contempt of suffering and death.

Late the evening before, Quintus had sought out old Thrax, and had told him that Eurymachus at last was safe. Then they had all sat together for a long time—Quintus, Thrax, Glauce, Euterpe, and Diphilus—and the old man had not wearied of talking of the carpenter’s Son, of his wanderings through the land of Palestine, and the agonizing death he had suffered on the cross to redeem mankind. The impressive story of that life and passion, which has touched and stirred so many million hearts since, had an extraordinary effect on Quintus. And, in fact, Thrax told his story well; the glow of conviction seemed to sparkle from his eyes. His was not the calm inspiration of Eurymachus—it was the language of a vehement and excited nature, of a soul full of suppressed energy and enthusiasm; not John, who leaned on the bosom of Jesus, but Peter drawing his sword in passionate zeal.

As Barbatus ceased speaking, Quintus started up, threw his arms round him, and exclaimed through his tears: “Receive me among you.... I too, am one of you!”So it was agreed that Quintus Claudius, the son of the Flamen, Titus Claudius Mucianus, should, next day, be baptized in a quarry not far from the river Almo.

It was the thought of this privilege, and of the contradictory aspects of his position, which all through the night had pursued him in a thousand different forms, and now, in his father’s hall, filled him with unutterable confusion. He felt that he must for a moment forget the abyss that lay between them, and once more hear his father’s voice in loving tones, before their parting was an accomplished fact—forever.

The sense of an imperative duty was added to this sentiment. He felt that, hoping against hope, he must, even at the eleventh hour, try to weaken his father’s position.—The final details of the edict, he knew, were virtually in the Flamen’s hands. The Senate had long been accustomed to vote for whatever the Emperor wished, without any alterations, and Titus Claudius spoke in Caesar’s name. Domitian, amply satisfied of his representative’s inexorable temper, had not even taken the trouble to look through the sketch of the edict; the whole tenor of the law, in fact, lay in the high-priest’s hands.

How gladly would Quintus have poured out his heart to his father, and have told him without reserve all that he held to be true, fair, and good! How willingly would he have gone up to him, and have said: “Caesar’s government is groping in darkness; these Christians, whom you are condemning to destruction, are not criminals, but noble, virtuous, high-souled men—as noble, and virtuous, and high-souled as you yourself, father, who persecute them with such vindictive fury.”But such boldness, alas! was out of the question; Quintus knew his father too well. He knew, that the rigid convictions of a mind like his were impervious to all that was new or strange, that even the logic of facts could only reach him by a long and circuitous route. His convictions had been the slow growth of years of unresting activity, and now they were immovable—a part of his very self. Thus Quintus had not the smallest doubt, that Titus Claudius, like a second Brutus, would not spare his own son, if duty and paternal feeling should come into conflict. So it was not his own peril only, which dictated moderation and silence, but regard for his father’s situation; and he never had felt a more tender reverence for him, than in this terrible hour. He could not speak as an adherent, nor even as a defender of the persecuted creed; only as a looker-on from the point of view of abstract justice. In speech and in silence alike he must betray no impatience, and seem only to have acquired his more exact knowledge of the Christian creed by accident. He could do no more than represent the Nazarenes as harmless folks, who neither deserved persecution nor were worth the trouble.

When he had taken his seat at the table by Lucilia, like a man who has time before him, he asked, throwing his head back and clasping his hands across his knee:

“Well, father ... and to-day is the last meeting?”

“As you say,” replied the high-priest.

“I must confess, that the matter has remained almost unknown to me.... I have been so absorbed in study, that I have hardly time to frequent the baths....”“You are three-and-twenty, Quintus! When do you propose to take a proper interest in the great concerns of the Empire?”

“Indeed I generally follow them all with eager interest. It is only that just lately, at this moment....”

“This is the very moment, when all who are well-affected ought to cling together and show their zeal in action.”

“It is said, that the decree you propose is excessively severe,” said Quintus after a pause.

“It will answer its purpose.”

“And will be issued unmodified?”

“Why should good sound sense be modified?”

“Well ... opinions might differ.”

“They might, if the whole body of the Fathers[22] were men of the same stamp as that Cornelius Cinna ... then sound sense would indeed be in danger!”

“Cornelius Cinna is a man of keen judgment....”

“I quite understand, that you should talk the language of the uncle of your betrothed; but, as I know him, he is devoid of all capacity for statesmanship. Now in this matter of the Nazarenes he has amply betrayed his want of judgment—I will call it so, since I should be loth to suppose that his opposition arises from mere personal aversion.”

“What?” cried Quintus astonished. “Cornelius Cinna takes the part of the Nazarenes?”

“No, he does not take their part, but he does not regard them as dangerous. He laughs at them as visionaries and fools, who are no more to be held as reprobate, than the worshippers of Isis, or any other oriental sect. Mockery, contempt, are the only weapons worthy of a thinking man. When I pointed out to him, that the creed of the Nazarenes was undermining the religion of the state in a way which no other superstition had done, he dared to utter these audacious words: ‘If your Olympus cannot take care of itself, it may crumble into dust.’”

“The words, I admit, sound audacious enough,” replied Quintus, looking his father in the face; “but they cover a truth nevertheless, which, it seems to me, cannot fail to be self-evident to the priest of Jupiter.”

“You think so? I can only tell you, that I see nothing of the sort. The rabble crowd of superstitious cannot, to be sure, destroy almighty Jupiter himself, but it can upset the belief in his divine rule. We may be deprived of our discernment of the truth, if a lie becomes paramount.”

“Why then do you not resist the belief in Isis?”

“Because the religion of Isis has never dared to interfere in any way with that of the state. Besides, Isis is Juno; the name makes no difference. The symbol may vary—the essence remains untouched. You know, that even in my own house I have suffered Baucis....”

“Oh! merciful Isis!” cried the old woman in alarm, “am I too to be dragged under the dreadful law? Why, how often have I been to Barbillus? Four, or at most five times—or six or seven....”

“Hold your tongue, and leave us together,” cried the priest angrily. “She is getting silly,” he added, as Baucis vanished among the columns.

“She is growing deaf,” said Claudia in excuse. “Since our return from Baiae, I have had more to put up with every day.”“You see I can be patient,” Titus Claudius went on, addressing his son. “But in this instance we must take up arms against the attacks of a dangerous foe. The Nazarenes are working underground, day and night, like moles. Their passion for converts amounts to insanity; they are systematically undermining the state and society. I am determined to put a stop to these attacks. If we do not put our veto on them in time, we shall have a common porter on the throne of the Caesars, and all that wear the purple will be put to the sword. Some slave, whose sole employment till now has been to drag dead beasts to be buried, or carry plague-stricken wretches through the streets, will be sacrificing in the Roman Capitol as high-priest to the Nazarene! I know it all full well; there are unmistakable signs in the air. This, my dear Quintus, by the help of the gods, is what we must oppose, and I shall avail myself of the aid of all the terrors of the law. This very day it will be proclaimed to all men, that leniency is at an end: henceforth the punishment for the crime of belonging to the Nazarenes is death by wild beasts in the Arena.”

The blood faded from the young man’s face; his heart stood still. He could not utter a word.

“What is the matter with you?” asked Titus Claudius startled. “You are pale ... trembling....”

“It is nothing,” Quintus said with an effort. “I was only horrified at the severity of the measure. What? The disgraceful death of the vilest criminals ... hideous butchery for the amusement of the mob...? Father, impossible!”

“It is necessary,” replied the Flamen.

“I do not understand you. Is it necessary to punish with death a crime—which to me seems an error indeed, but a pardonable, a noble, a sublime error...? Father, you do not know these persecuted people; you have never studied their doctrine; you cannot imagine how completely you are entangled in delusions about them. The Nazarenes are not rebels; they are quiet, duteous folk, who ask but one thing: to be allowed to worship their God. Their Master himself taught them: ‘To render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’”

“Only a partisan of the sect could have poured such lies into your ear....”

“I was, by accident, witness to a discussion,” Quintus stammered out. “And I will pledge my life and honor as to the truth of what I have said!”

“The truth!” laughed his father. “For the truth of your own view of the matter at most. By the gods, but I really do not understand how my son, of all men, should have come to be a defender of this accursed sect! However, be it so! I leave you the free exercise of your judgment; the course of events will soon rectify it. Meanwhile, you will perhaps allow me to carry out the line of action, which I have cautiously weighed with solemn appeals to my conscience.”

“Then you want to conjure the age of Nero from the grave?”

“Yes, my son. The age of Nero was not so bad, though the unbridled Caesar himself committed many crimes. His fight against the Nazarenes wipes out all scores.”

“Then you can praise him for having wrapped Nazarenes in tow and rosin, and set fire to it?”

“Those are mere foolish tales, invented by contemptible writers, who were at a loss for color in their pictures.”

“What? Things that all the world knows, a fable!”

“As you say.”

The blood mounted to the young man’s brow.

“Then perhaps you will say it is a fable, that Domitian—a second Nero—has killed his mistress by a kick?”

“Who says so?” cried Titus Claudius starting up.

“All Rome. You only, Father, seem to be ignorant of what has filled thousands with horror.”

“You heard it from Cinna.”

Quintus shrugged his shoulders.

“Be easy,” the priest went on; “I have it from Parthenius, that Julia died of her long illness.”

“Parthenius!” laughed Quintus scornfully.

“I am not justified in doubting his assertion, particularly in this instance, when it is in contradiction to such an impossible calumny. I myself have been intimate with Caesar long enough to know his calm nature, his equanimity, and self-command.”

“Yes, when he speaks to you; but every one knows that he wears a mask in your presence. You are, in fact, the only man in Rome, who can command his respect.”

“I should be a fool indeed to believe such a thing. I know full well, that hatred and calumny never sleep. The higher their prey, the more virulent is their attack. Beware, my son, of propagating such disgraceful reports; do not break the law which threatens the detractors of the sovereign with heavy punishment.”

“Then, to be a worthy citizen, I must choke the truth?”“Not the truth—only lies. The weeds have been allowed to grow too long, and now we must mow down the crop, which threatens to choke the good seed! Here comes the boy to tell us the time. In an hour the Senate meets. Let us enjoy the interval without vexing each other.”

“Then you persist in extreme measures? Every one who confesses the Nazarene must die?”

“Without reprieve, be he slave or senator.”

Quintus was fighting an agonizing battle; his lips trembled, already parted to cry in despair to the inexorable judge: “Father, you are condemning your son to death...!” but he controlled himself in time. He rose.

“Farewell,” he said in a low voice, and he held out both hands to his father. “I am very busy,” he added in a steady voice. “Important business—you need not laugh, Lucilia—requires my return. Father, when it is your turn to speak in the Senate, remember your son—perhaps the thought may soften your heart; the Christians, too, whom you doom to death, are fathers ... sons....”

He rushed away. He was on the verge of tears, but he set his teeth and clenched his fist.

“Oh! misery, misery!” he said to himself. “Father! Father! who could have foreseen this severance when I, as a boy, sat at your feet? Nay, quite lately, when you spoke to me so gravely!—How happy, how gay they all were; and he, so calm in the sense of doing his duty! If he only knew—it would kill him!”

He hurried through the atrium, almost beside himself; Blepyrus, to whom he had only yesterday granted his pardon, was waiting there with others of his clients and slaves.

His family looked after him in silence. Octavia was the first to speak.

“It is strange,” she said thoughtfully, “by all the gods, strange! What can have come over him? He always held the populace in such contempt.”

“It is impossible to count upon him,” said Lucilia. “But this time, it seems to me, he is carrying his whim too far.”

“You are wrong,” said her father sternly. “It was no whim that spoke in that mood of excitement, it was genuine enthusiasm. I have observed in him for some time, that this frame of mind has been growing to a height. It is the sacred fire of pity, which burns within him, a noble sentiment which discerns the man even in the criminal. He cannot comprehend, that the State must ignore all such sentiment, if the commonwealth is not to suffer. His impulse is a foolish one, but I love him for it; and many a Roman maiden who, with thumbs turned down,[23] helps in condemning the stricken gladiator to the death-blow, might envy him his nobler soul!”

The high-priest rose and walked two or three times up and down, past the fountain where the sparkling water now gleamed in the rising sun.

“It is time to go,” he said, standing still in front of his wife. “What a pity! It is a glorious morning, and I feel as if I had never so thoroughly enjoyed the rest and peacefulness of this peristyle. Perhaps it is only by contrast with the storms outside, that toss the vessel of state.... The sitting will be a long one, if only on Cinna’s account, who never will refrain from words, even when the struggle is a hopeless one. I shall be thankful if it is all over by supper-time. And—did I tell you?—Sextus Furius is to be our guest.”

Claudia colored.

“He is welcome,” Octavia said.

“Oh! that odious man with a long-pointed nose!” cried Lucilia. “It is horrible always to have none but such weak-kneed old men at table with us.”

Titus Claudius was accustomed to allow considerable license to his adopted daughter’s audacity, but such broadly-expressed contempt was beyond all permissible measure.

“Lucilia!” he exclaimed almost angrily. “You sometimes allow yourself jests, which seem to me positively silly. Remember—do you hear me?—many follies, which we forgive in a child, sound shocking when uttered by the lips of a young woman. How dare you make any guests of mine the subject of your mockery? Sextus Furius is an honorable man, wise, experienced, and worthy of all respect. If his outward man is not altogether that of the fine gentlemen, who swarm and buzz from morning till night round the dressing-chairs and litters[24] of fine ladies, in my eyes, at least, that is to his advantage.”

“My dear, good, little father,” said the criminal, “do not take a thoughtless speech so seriously; I cannot bear to hear you speak to me so ungraciously—and your eyes are not so kind and sweet as usual, and here on your forehead—just here—there is an ugly line that makes you look so much older....”

She threw her round, rosy arms round his neck, and stroked his cheek lovingly.

“Come, be kind again to your little girl—and I will declare that your long-nosed—oh! I forgot—your excellent friend, Sextus Furius, is delightful.” Titus Claudius gently released himself; he could not help smiling.

“It is impossible to scold you, you little imp,” he said shaking his head. “I am afraid I spoil you.”

And he once more glanced up at the blue sky, as though he grudged having to exchange the airy peristyle for the senate-house. Then, waving them a farewell, he went off to his own rooms.

“But he is a perfect horror, all the same,” Lucilia repeated, when her father was out of hearing. “I can tell you, Mother dear, I could not kiss him for a thousand millions, much less marry him! And is this long-nosed, weak-kneed creature to be the husband of our Claudia?”

“Silence, silly child,” said Octavia with affected severity. “Your father’s will is our law. He has his own reasons for whatever he decides on.”

“You are only making believe,” said Lucilia. “You know you like him no better than I do, and you, too, grieve over the odious fancy....”

“Lucilia!”

“Well ... is one to bite one’s tongue out simply from respect of persons? My father often has fancies. What should Claudia have to do with that wooden simpleton? And he is as cowardly as a whimpering woman! Cornelia told me so—she heard it from her uncle.”

“It is not every one, that has the headstrong spirit of Cinna.”

“A Scythian, who simply cut down all before him, his wife into the bargain, rather than a milksop, that you can knock down with a feather!”

“You know nothing about it, child. But where is Claudia? Why has she left us?”

“She has gone to her own room, I daresay, to cry there. Since yesterday, when my father told her of his determination, she has practised such complete self-control, that her grief must have its way at last.”

But Lucilia was mistaken. Claudia had followed her father, and went into his room close on his heels.

“What do you want?” he asked in surprise, seeing his daughter stand before him, pale, calm, and stately.

“I have a confession to make to you, which has been on my lips ever since yesterday.”

“Well?” said the high-priest, hardly attending.

“Send away the servants.”

“Child, I have no time now for any discussions; in twenty minutes....”

“I will not detain you.” The Flamen signed to the slaves, who disappeared with an enquiring glance at the young girl’s unusually serious face and manner.

“Now—what have you to say?” he asked, when they were alone.

“Father,” said Claudia in a low, but resolute tone, “I cannot marry Sextus Furius.”

“Folly!”

“It is not folly—it is as I say.”“Indeed! and why not?”

“Because I do not care for him.”

“An excellent reason! Why, you hardly know him; try first to understand his worth.”

“I solemnly assure you it is quite in vain. My heart is given away—I love Caius Aurelius Menapius.”

“What!” cried the priest sternly. “A provincial, a man of no birth or family!”

“He is a Roman knight.”

“A knight—and who is not a knight now-a-days? A man is a knight, if he is anything but a laborer or a slave. Besides, is not his mother descended from some barbarian tribe?”

“From the tribe, that could conquer Varus.”

“So much the worse. It grieves me to have to tell you, that I will never submit to such a vagary.”

“But let me ask you one thing: do you not esteem Caius Aurelius?”

“You know I do. From the first I have thought most highly of him. But, by Jupiter! To regard him as my guest is one thing—as a suitor for my daughter’s hand is quite another!”

“Father, if you part me from Caius Aurelius, I shall never be happy again. He has my promise.”

Her tone, and, yet more, the sparkle in her eyes betrayed such settled determination, that the high-priest was staggered. The thought flashed upon him that, after all, not everything in the world could be calculated by the inexorable laws of logic; the possibility of Claudia’s choosing for herself he had never taken into consideration. And now this possibility—nay, actuality—stood before him so pressingly, in the form of a pair of tearful, suppliant eyes, that he at once lost his grasp of the situation. As for Claudia herself, her forced calmness was fast giving way before the storm of excitement, which shook every fibre of her slender frame.

“Claudia, my darling,” stammered the Flamen, clasping his child in his arms, “you are trembling and tearful; but come, come, be reasonable. There, lay your head on my shoulder, and tell me, calmly and without tears, what is troubling your heart? I am your father, my child, and not a tyrant. Do you hear, my Claudia?”

She looked up like a flower after a thunder-shower—a radiance of a grateful smile lighted up her features.

“You are so good!” she said, tenderly. “Forgive me, if I cannot help causing you trouble.”

“Speak, my child; tell me everything. But, no; for the present leave me. You are agitated, and time presses. We will talk it all over—this very evening.—Just now I have not leisure—I belong to my country. Meanwhile I must ask you one thing: do not be too abrupt with Sextus Furius. Promise me that, dear Claudia.”

“With all my heart.”

She kissed her father eagerly and left the room.

“No,” said the priest half-aloud, “she must not and shall not be unhappy. I never before saw her like this; that anguish came from the bottom of her heart. I know her; I understand her! The dignity of my name! Yes, it is dear to me, and sacred as a gift bestowed by the gods—but at that price! Never. My heart swelled as she clung to me, crying in my arms. And yet what a joy to me, in spite of sorrow! Ah, my children! how you have grown to be part of my very soul! Every life-throb of my heart is doubled by your lives! I thank Thee, all-merciful giver, for so precious a blessing—every cloud of incense, that rises from thine altar, wafts up my fervent thanks to thy throne!”

For a few minutes he stood absorbed in thought; then he called his slaves to dress him.

A quarter of an hour later Titus Claudius was at the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, where the Senate was to sit.

Almost all the Fathers had met on this occasion. Here sat Nerva, a noble and reverend figure, mild, but majestic as Jove; there, bending over his rolled book and writing tablets, sat Cornelius Cinna, the chief opponent of the proposed law; there again sat Sextus Furius, shy and hesitating, but in earnest discussion with his neighbor, evidently endeavoring to display a feverish anxiety that the new decree should be passed. On every side were snow-white togas, grave and dignified faces, a strangely-excited air of suspense. The scribes—the writers of protocols—sat at tables prepared to write, while at the entrances stood the lictors[25] with their axes and fasces.

The presiding magistrate—on this occasion a praetor, no doubt because the consul, Titus Flavius Clemens, was suspected of secretly favoring the Nazarenes, or even of having joined the sect—pronounced the sitting opened.[26] He briefly set forth the occasion of the present meeting, and explained to the assembled worthies the main features of the edict, as drawn up by Titus Claudius.

When these preliminary statements—known as the relatio,[27] had been got through, the collecting of votes began with the usual formula addressed to each senator: “Quid censes?”—“What thinkest thou?”

As almost every member present declared his assent without hesitation, and some with servile cordiality, in hardly more than a quarter of an hour it came to Cinna’s turn to express his opinion.

He rose slowly. His by no means remarkable stature seemed to grow from the sheer calm dignity of the man. His eye glanced contemptuously round at the assembled multitude and rested, at length, on the grave face of Titus Claudius Mucianus. Then, in clear and audible tones, he began to contest the proposed measure which, in his opinion, was unworthy of the Roman name. It was a brilliant and memorable effort of political eloquence. At the same time his discourse was not framed on the ordinary models in any respect, it was not with the arid wisdom of a statesman that he spoke—no, it was the biting lash of the satirist that he wielded—the fiery invective of epigram, that gave glow to his words. There was not a province of human knowledge so recondite, that his subtle mind had not drawn upon it for drastic similes and ironical comparisons.

“Will you nail flies to the cross,” he exclaimed in a voice of thunder, “erect cranes and levers, to lift a straw over a wall? Send me a hundred cohorts to my country-house; a mole-hill has been discovered there! Give me shears and scythes and a couple of wagons; I want to cut a rose-bud at Praestum! Reef the sails, captain, the fair Lycoris is about to sneeze! You are really inimitable, you stern guardians of morals and most sapient defenders of the immaculateness of the State! Punish the sparrows, if you please; one of those traitorous villains but just now soiled my cloak. Away with the wretch to the field of blood! If you do not at once take steps, the Senate and the whole Roman people will be buried alive by cock-sparrows.”

After thus gibbeting the measure as absolutely superfluous, petty and ridiculous, from the point of view of any cultivated and philosophical mind, he followed up his statement to its logical issues.

“This decree,” he cried, turning towards Titus Claudius, “condemns the Nazarenes, because they regard the gods of the populace as unreal—as mere idols of the fancy. Well! And is it the right or the duty of the State, to take under its control any such matters of personal conviction? Where would you draw the line, ye assembled Fathers? Do you not perceive, that you are throwing away the last fragments of our liberties, if you assent to this law? What? You will kill the Nazarenes? Then you are equally bound to crush all, who refuse to acknowledge the love passages of Mars and Rhea Silvia as facts! And again I say, where do you draw the line? How far does the duty of a staunch citizen extend? Must an Athenian, for instance, give due guarantee, that he accepts the historical reality of Leda’s eggs? Is he required to believe in Danae’s golden shower, in Sisyphus[28] and his tormenting labor with the marble mass that forever rolls downwards? Nay, noble Fathers! Nothing like this has ever yet been heard of in Rome. Never yet has the State ventured to put forward any article of faith as a test and standard, and require every Roman citizen to be persuaded of its truth or lose his rights and privileges. What is the meaning of our old, beautiful and truly Latin word ‘religio?’[29] Nothing more than the holy dread, the heartfelt reverence of man before a higher power; but what that higher something may be, it contains no indication. It is left to each individual, to conceive of an idea which may satisfy his own soul and intellect. The measure now before you will drag this religion from the depths of men’s souls into the public street, as it were, in defiance of the original deep-felt sense of the word, and of the spirit of our traditions and customs; it will create a State-religion, and condemn every man’s opinions to wear at least the same livery. Assembled Fathers! Such a decree as this means ossification—spiritual ossification—of the age we live in, and for this, if for no other reason, it should be thrown out!”

He paused; a dull, uneasy silence filled the room. The senators sat in consternation at the unheard-of audacity of the man, who could dare to defy Caesar’s omnipotence with such disinterested liberality.

“He is uttering his own death-warrant,” whispered Sextus Furius. Gradually a low murmur arose and swelled by degrees.“Have you done?” asked the President, seeing that Cornelius Cinna gave no sign of resuming his seat.

“Allow me a few words more,” replied Cinna. “Do not be afraid, that my intention is merely to postpone your decision by digressions.[30] I only want to touch on one other point, which has perhaps escaped the notice of the noble Fathers. This law, which in accordance with my every conviction I feel bound to oppose, not only threatens to cripple the public mind; it will destroy all the peace and happiness of family life. Tale-telling and dishonorable espionage, to a very grave extent, will be the inevitable out-come—and of these, as it is, Rome needs no increase! A law, which offers a prize, as it were, to the informer—such a law, I say, is death to the morality and mutual confidence of the people. I have warned you! Do not calmly lend a hand in forging a weapon, which threatens thousands of peaceful citizens with death. Can you foresee, that no conditions will arise to turn its point, even against yourselves? You are masters of the cast only so long as the spear is in your own hands. Assembled Fathers, I am convinced that you will unanimously reject this measure which, on one hand, is superfluous and undignified, and, on the other, to the last degree dangerous—reject it, I say, to the honor and glory of the name of Rome!”

The impression made by this speech—which derived from the dignified presence, the sonorous voice and the impressive manner of the speaker an importance far beyond the mere meaning of the words—was so profound, that it fanned into brief flame the few sparks of the old Roman spirit, which still lurked here and there in the assembly. Shouts of approbation were audible on both sides. For a moment the grave features of Titus Claudius wore an expression of anxiety. But the cries of assent were few and scattered. On any other occasion Cornelius Cinna would have triumphed, but now only one voice could gain a hearing—the voice of fear. The effect of its eloquence was visible as the next names were called; the members announced, not without hesitation, that there was much in Cinna’s discourse which was amply justified, but that they must nevertheless cast their votes in favor of the decree, particularly as they felt assured that Titus Claudius, the real originator of the measure, would only have acted on a perfect knowledge of the state of affairs, and after the maturest deliberation. And indeed, the motives which the Flamen had assigned on former occasions, had by no means been nullified by Cornelius Cinna.

When four or five speakers had expressed themselves to this effect, in feeble and colorless language, it was the turn of Titus Claudius Mucianus himself. He rose with the lofty indifference of a man, who no longer has a doubt of the triumph of his cause. He abstained, almost too evidently, from all rhetorical effects. In a cold and strictly business-like address he recapitulated the points from which the government viewed the measure. Cornelius Cinna, he said, was entirely wrong, if he thought that its object was to fetter liberty of thought and belief. The whole matter bore a simply political aspect in the eyes of the government. He thanked the eloquent speaker, who had thrown so much light on the subject from the other side; such a dissertation always tended to enlightenment. At the same time, he hoped that the assembled Fathers would allow themselves to be guided rather by the force of solid argument, than by the dazzling light of a brilliant oratorical display. Then, step by step, he proceeded to demolish Cinna’s assertions, and it was with special emphasis, that he combatted the idea that the new law would conduce to espionage and informing; the measure—as the most superficial glance could detect—contained nothing to arouse suspicion on that score. Cornelius Cinna had altogether misunderstood its tendency. The speaker ended with a short but striking picture of the danger to society, which it was proposed to guard against, and appealed to the assembled Fathers, in the words of the old Roman text of warning: “Be on your guard, lest the Fatherland should suffer!”[31]

A thunder of applause filled the temple. The remaining senators renounced all expression of opinion, and the praetor proceeded to collect the votes by a show of hands.[32] The measure was passed against a minority of six. The exhausted senators rose and made their way homewards—only just in time for the usual supper-hour.

Quintus Claudius supped late and alone. He had spent the whole day in solitude in his room; gloomy and anxious forebodings tortured his soul. He eat but little, and then again withdrew—not even Blepyrus was admitted to his apartments. At about the beginning of the second vigil, Quintus threw on his toga and went out slowly into the moonless night. After a long walk he reached the coppice on the bank of the Almo, where Euterpe and Diphilus were waiting for him. An hour later the deed was done. Quintus was baptized by the eldest member of the congregation of Nazarenes.

It was nearly midnight, when he took his way homewards. The endless Appian Way was silent as he turned into it, and silent too was the busy city. It was not till he reached the Flavian amphitheatre, that he met any stir of life. There, standing by the fountain of the Meta Sudans, was a group of men, talking eagerly. They were discussing the event of the day—the edict just published against the Christians.

“There will be heaps and heaps of arena fights,” cried one; “the Subura swarms with Nazarenes.”

“Let them have it!” said another. “The last wild-beast fight was the most wretched affair; and when I sit there, in my newly-bleached toga,[33] blood is what I want!”

“Merciful Lord Jesus Christ!” murmured Quintus. “From this hour my only God! To Thy keeping I commend my life. And ah! protect him—that dear father, who never dreams how fearful is the darkness that shrouds his sight. Preserve him—my dear, dear father; and forgive him, O God—him and his fellows—for they know not what they do.”