The commander of the imperial guard, with a few officers and soldiers, received Quintus as he slowly went out through the heavy stone gate-way into the street, but his silent greeting was not altogether free from embarrassment. During the last few days events had occurred, which had thrown the worthy soldier off his balance. The intrigues of a court, with their underhand and mysterious details, were foreign to his nature. Out in the field, with the Dacian foe in front of him, he could avail himself of the ruses of war and the arts of strategy; but in peace, in the capital of the empire, this mode of action revolted and puzzled him. Such a measure as the wholesale arrest of senators and knights had never been adopted before, even under Domitian. And now this mysterious discovery of Quintus Claudius in the catacomb with the Nazarenes! Norbanus was wholly at a loss how to account for it. The high-priest had given him a very superficial and hasty explanation, and the whole thing might be either the device of some mortal enemy, or the result of some outrageous whim. Norbanus had long known the young man’s spirit and daring, though under different circumstances. A man, who could address a love-song to a vestal virgin, would be quite capable of playing the part of an adherent of the Nazarenes, particularly if among them there bloomed some rose of Palestine, whose beauty would suffer no drawback from the superstition of her people. To be sure—as they came out, the father and son together—their faces were too pale and grave for so light a matter. The worthy warrior had a grave feeling that, whatever had happened, he had not the key of the riddle and would be sure to say the wrong thing, so he wrapped himself in a dignified and significant silence, which each might interpret just as he pleased or as the case required. Quintus understood it to mean kindly sympathy and due considerateness, the Flamen took it for horror and disapproval, the tribunes and centurions attributed it to military severity and discipline.

They took the shortest way to the high-priest’s residence—along the foot of the Capitoline and across the Forum. The people crowded round them from all sides, for the rumor of Quintus’ arrest had long since spread into the remotest quarters of the city. Now, every one wanted to see the illustrious father, who had been to fetch his son out of the depths of the Tullianum. The little procession could hardly get along. Even the lictor, who marched before the high-priest and the soldiers of the guard were powerless. A hundred voices at once shouted their comments on the unwonted sight.

“He plotted against the Caesar’s life,” said a rough voice in the background.

“Nonsense—he is one of Caesar’s friends.”

“He was in the quarry with the Nazarenes.”

“He kissed the cross.”

“He is condemned to death.”

“It was his own father that made the law.”

“But see; it is his father, who is setting him at liberty.”

“That is just the way of the world.”

“True enough. Laws are only made for slaves and beggars! They take things easier at home.”

The last words were spoken under the very nose of the high-priest, so that he could not help hearing them. An angry glow flushed his face, and with a scornful curl of his lip he looked round. He seemed as though he would speak, but he checked himself in time. A smile of supreme contempt parted his haughty lips; then he said aloud to Norbanus:

“You are too considerate, and the people too bold. Your men should use their arms.”

The general looked at him in astonishment.

“To be sure,” Titus Claudius added more mildly, “we might have foreseen this crowd. Such a sight is ambrosia to the mob.”

They were nearly ten minutes reaching the Flamen’s house. Norbanus and one of the officers went in with them to the rooms adjoining the peristyle; the rest remained till farther orders in a room opening out of the atrium.

When Quintus had washed and put on a clean dress he went, still accompanied by Norbanus and his centurion, into his father’s study, where the family had assembled. Quintus wondered to find his mother so calm, comparatively speaking. He did not know, with what enormous effort of self-command Titus Claudius had represented the catastrophe as a trifling mistake, a mere misunderstanding. Lucilia was a good deal excited; the exceptional and startling character of the event gave her fancy much to busy it. She would have given the world to talk over the occurrences of the last few days with Fabulla, the wise old mother of her friend Cneius Afranius; but now, in all this confusion, an expedition to Ostia was quite out of the question. So she must think it all over to herself alone, particularly as Claudia had shut herself up in unapproachable reserve, and had no answer for any questions but “Yes” and “No.” Even now, when her brother came into the room, Claudia was very chary of her words, in marked contrast to Lucilia. And yet Quintus was obscurely conscious, that she took the situation more gravely and seriously than either Octavia or the excited Lucilia. And, in fact, Claudia knew her brother too well, not to feel sure that something deeper was at work here than a mere foolish adventure. The audacity of wild spirits craves a public; its extravagant flights are displayed to those who are like-minded, and who will applaud and admire. But when a man like Quintus had carried out a plan in secret and among such unfamiliar companions, it could be no jesting matter.

During an hour which he spent with his family, Quintus himself was for the most part silent. Seated in a deep easy-chair, he eat a small breakfast which Lucilia brought to him. The Flamen meanwhile exerted himself to explain to the party, what steps he had taken to win Caesar’s favor and clemency for his son, and what the ceremonial sacrifice, which Quintus was to offer, must consist in.

The more the father talked, the more the son’s heart was wrung. He might be absolutely convinced of all he so vehemently uttered; to Quintus it was all a foul lie, a ridiculous and cowardly subterfuge. It was a lie, to say that mere boyish curiosity had led him to assist at a meeting of the Nazarenes; it was a lie, that intriguing knaves had taken advantage of his curiosity under false pretences. It was a lie, that the Nazarenes had plotted to overthrow the whole fabric of Roman society, that they had fanned his ambition after befooling him, that they had abused his good nature. It was above all a lie, to say that he bitterly repented of ever having had anything to do with the Nazarenes, and only longed to purge himself publicly of the disgrace of that contact. Why was it so impossible to convince the priest—usually so calm, clear-sighted, and just—of the error of his prejudice? Why had he so resolutedly closed his eyes and heart to the truth?

The burden of this question, and all the false aspects of his position, almost crushed the young man to the earth. He returned to the room which had been his till he quitted his father’s house, as dull and indifferent as if he were only half-witted. This room was a pleasing counterpart to Claudia’s pretty room, and, like it, was on the upper floor, and on the same side of the house. The furniture was still as he had left it. Even some of his first books, his playthings as a boy, and other such memorials of the happy past had found an abiding place here, so that—as Octavia said—the son might always recognize his old home in his parents’ house. Lately, no doubt, the quiet nook had for months together never been visited but by the slaves, who came to dust it and shake up the pillows on the divans.

Quintus thanked the captain of the guard for his considerate treatment, and begged to be allowed to be alone. Norbanus, who regarded his watch over the young man as a mere formality, acceded with pleasure. He posted a centurion at the entrance with three men-at-arms, recommended the utmost courtesy to their prisoner, pressed the young man’s hand with a jesting farewell, and left the house, as urgent business required his presence at the palace.

Now, at last, Quintus realized his position. All that he had gone through and done during the last few hours had gone over his head, as it were, not more than half understood. He had walked on like a somnambulist over heights and hollows, without appreciating the danger, and now, waking suddenly, he shuddered to see precipices and yawning gulfs on every side. Wherever he looked, horror stared him in the face—misery, shame, dishonor, and despair. Either way his fate was hopeless. Either he must shatter the existence of the man he loved more than himself—or he must be that mean and cowardly thing, a traitor and a renegade, trailing all he held most sacred in the dust. Had not the Master of Nazareth taught, that no man could have any part in the infinite mercies of God, who fell away from the faith through fear of men? And was it not this which was driving him into denial—base fear of men? It wore, to be sure, the specious aspect, the garb of light of filial love. But ought not the true heir of the Faith patiently to take upon him even that fearful grief? Did not Jesus die on the cross, although he knew that he was breaking his parents’ hearts? Aye, He had done this thing, the Just one, the Mighty, Omnipotent; but he—Quintus—was but a feeble and worthless disciple of the Great Teacher. He could not do it, though the joys of heaven and the torments of hell were in the balance. He must lose his soul to all eternity—if only he might spare his father.

It was a terrible day that he spent, surrounded by all the treasured relics of his unclouded childhood. Titus Claudius came to visit him, to thank him for his filial obedience, and to assure him once more, that his father’s heart had forgiven and forgotten all that had passed. Quintus was incapable of responding to all his loving words, spoken in a voice that trembled with agitation, excepting by sighs and silent signs of consent and submission. In all this Titus Claudius read remorseful distress, and did his utmost to encourage him and raise his spirit; but presently, seeing that his efforts were vain, he left his son to himself again, in the hope that solitude and a night’s rest would restore his agitated soul.

But he was mistaken; Quintus did not close his eyes all night. From time to time he fancied he heard the voice of old Calenus, reproaching him with his base apostasy. Then, tortured with horror, he sprang from his bed. He compared the night he had passed in the Tullianum with this present night under his father’s roof. There—a squalid cell, with death under the clutches of wild beasts an almost absolute certainty. Here—a pretty, comfortable room with freedom ere long, happiness for his family, and all the joys of life for himself. And yet his storm-tossed heart had yesterday been at peace, while to-day it was wrung with incessant and unutterable anguish—“Blind fool!”—he seemed to hear the words spoken—“You think you are sacrificing only your own soul. But are you not also betraying and imperilling, so far as in you lies, the whole glorious work of the Master? If all were to act as you have done, where would the sublime idea be, which brought light and joy to the crucified Saviour: the Redemption, to wit, of mankind? Have you any right to sacrifice the salvation of millions, merely to spare your father—however much you may love him—a transient sorrow, which may even lead him too to the light of truth?”

He thought that Calenus was standing by his bedside, and laid his hand on his forehead. “Take courage!” said the blind man solemnly, “by God’s help all—all—all may be overcome.”

Again Quintus sat up terror-stricken. It was but a dream with his eyes open—a vision, but how vivid! He had plainly felt the pressure of a hand on his brow, and seen the prophet-like face, with its calm, holy, celestial gaze.

At last morning broke. The slaves came to help him to dress. He felt as if he were being dragged to execution, but he unresistingly submitted to all his father commanded.

The sun was rising over the Esquiline, when the father and son, in festal dress, went out of the house. Norbanus was on the spot, and a large party of clients and friends. The Forum and the adjoining streets swarmed with spectators, notwithstanding the early hour. The recantation was the great event of the day. The supreme council of the Pontifices[95]—at the head of which sat Caesar as Pontifex Maximus—had agreed, in consideration of the distinguished merits of Titus Claudius, that the sacred ceremony should be one with the daily public sacrifice offered by the Flamen Dialis, and that Quintus should be held justified and free from all suspicion of Christian proclivities, if he would, after his father and in unison with the high-priest’s clients and friends, distinctly offer up a prayer to Jupiter, the almighty and all-merciful, calling down vengeance and destruction on all the foes of the State, and especially on the vile and reprobate sect of the Nazarenes. All this Titus Claudius had hastily explained to his son, adding that everything else was a mere matter of course.

The solemn procession made its way up the broad steps to the Capitol. Quintus was suffocating, a weight lay on his breast like a tombstone. Once or twice he stood still, his knees trembled and he could hardly stand. Norbanus, who was walking by his side, had to support him.

At the top Quintus involuntarily looked round him. His eye gazed over the heads of the crowd in the Forum, past the Flavian Amphitheatre, out to the Via Appia. There, to the left, hardly distinguishable in the distance, was the wood, in whose calm retreat salvation had been opened to him—and now?

“Proceed—why do you hesitate?” said his father in his ear; and on they went to the temple. Here again a crowd, half curious and half reverent, had followed them and filled the vast hall. The altar of the patron divinity of the city was decked and wreathed with consecrated plants and costly streamers, ready for the sacred ceremony. A herald now proclaimed silence,[96] and not a murmur was heard. Two of the temple-servants led in the beasts for sacrifice, covered with garlands, while a third made a mixture of wine, spring-water, incense, and cones[97] with which to dedicate them.

The high-priest took his place in front of the altar; he was as pale as death. Raising his hands, he spoke in a deep voice, audible in every corner:

“Jupiter, the merciful and mighty one! Save and defend this city, that thou hast made great!”

“Defend this city, that thou hast made great!” echoed from the chorus; and Quintus too moved his lips in a faint whisper.

“Blast the foes of the Roman name with the lightnings of thy wrath!” Titus Claudius went on, and again the choir repeated the words.

“More especially destroy all reprobates and traitors, who hoist the standard of superstition and plot the ruin of society. Crush the foul brood of rebellious Nazarenes!”

“No—a thousand times no!” shouted a voice of thunder, that echoed from the stone walls. “Tear me in pieces, but spare me so base a lie!”

Titus Claudius staggered; he had to support himself by clinging to the altar.

“My son, my son, what have you done?” he muttered in a husky voice.

“What I had to do,” cried Quintus vehemently. “Lead me back to my cell, kill me—I die a Nazarene!”

An unexampled tumult arose on this unexpected incident. Titus Claudius, with a faint scream, sank senseless into the arms of a temple-servant. The mob, who took up the young man’s words as a note of defiance, forgot all the respect due to the sanctuary, and pressed forward, shouting for prompt vengeance. Indeed any faith in the doctrines of the State religion survived in very few, it was Roman arrogance, which had taken the place of the old Roman pride, which demanded its rights. The crime, that Quintus had now committed, was contempt of the majesty of the people, an insult to the Roman name—a crime a thousand times more unpardonable than the folly of those poor wretches, who gathered in a catacomb to worship in secret round the cross. Norbanus tried in vain to restore order; even his nearest allies seemed paralyzed and helpless.

Suddenly the voice of the Flamen was heard once more; he had recovered his self-possession, and was standing in an imperious attitude before the altar.

“Stand back!” he exclaimed, clenching his fist over the heads of the mob as though he wielded the bolts of Jove. “What do you want? What do you fear? The law is immutable. Centurions of the guard, do your duty, as I do mine. Away with the Nazarene! Take him back to prison! And you, noisy simpletons, meditate in devout silence, till the priest shall have ended his sacred office.”

A death-like stillness responded to this address. No one stirred; neither of the centurions ventured to obey the Flamen’s orders.

“Why do you delay?” said Quintus to Norbanus. “The ground here burns under my feet. Take me away!”

Norbanus and his subalterns quitted the temple with a saddened mien; Quintus walked slowly in their midst. Once he turned, and in a tone of anguish said:

“Father—farewell!”

“You no longer have a father,” said the high-priest averting his eyes, and he at once began the interrupted prayer and performed the service and sacrifice to the end.