The name of the national deity of Israel is unpronounceable.  The name of the national divinity of Rome is unknown.  To all but the hierophants it was a secret.  For uttering it a senator was put to death.  But Tullius Hostilius erected temples to Fear and to Pallor.  It may have been Fright.  The conjecture is supported by the fact that, as was usual, Rome had any number of deified epithets, as she had also a quantity of little bits of gods.  These latter greatly amused the Christian Fathers.  Among them was Alemona, who, in homely English, was Wet-nurse.

Tertullian, perhaps naively, remarked:  “Superstition has invented these deities for whom we have substituted angels.”  In addition to the diva mater Alemona was the divus pater Vaticanus, the holy father Vatican, who assisted at a child’s first cry.  There was the equally holy father Fabulin, who attended him in his earliest efforts at speech.  Neither of them had anything else to do.

Pavor had.  At thunder, at lightning, at a meteor, at moisture on a wall, at no matter what, at silence even, the descendants of a she-wolf’s nursling quailed.  They lived in a panic.  In panic the gods were born.  It is but natural, perhaps, that Fright should have been held supreme.  The other gods, mainly divinities of prey and of havoc, were lustreless as the imaginations that conceived them.  Prosaic, unimaged, without poetry or myth, they dully persisted until pedlars appeared with Hellenic legends and wares.  To their tales Rome listened.  Then eidolons of the Olympians became naturalized there.  Zeus was transformed into Jupiter, Aphrodite into Venus, Pallas into Minerva, Demeter into Ceres, and all of them ­and with them all the others ­into an irritable police.  The Greek gods enchanted, those of Rome alarmed.  Plutarch said that they were indignant if one presumed to so much as sneeze.

Worship, consequently, was a necessary precaution, an insurance against divine risks, a matter of business in which the devout bargained with the divine.  Ovid represented Numa trying to elude the exigencies of Jove.  The latter had demanded the sacrifice of a head.  “You shall have a cabbage,” said the king.  “I mean something human.”  “Some hairs then.”  “No, I want something alive.”  “We will give you a pretty little fish.”  Jupiter laughed and yielded.  That was much later, after Lucretius, in putting Epicurus into verse, had declared religion to be the mother of sin.  By that time Fear and Pallor had struck terror into the very marrow of barbarian bones.  Fright was a god more serviceable than Zeus.  With him Rome conquered the world.  Yet in the conquest Fright became Might and the latter an effulgence of Jove’s.

Jove was magnificent.  In the Capitol he throned so augustly that we swear by him still.  Like Rome he is immortal.  But Pavor, that had faded into him, was never invoked.  The reason was not sacerdotal, it was political.  Rome never imposed her gods on the quelled.  With superior tact she lured their gods from them.  At any siege, that was her first device.  To it she believed her victories were due.  It was to avoid possible reprisals and to remain invincible, that her own national divinity she so carefully concealed that the name still is a secret.  With the gods, Rome gathered the creeds of the world, set them like fountains among her hills, and drank of their sacred waters.  Her early deity is unknown.  But the secret of her eternity is in the religions that she absorbed.  It was these that made her immortal.

To that immortality the obscure god of an obscure people contributed largely, perhaps, but perhaps, too, not uniquely.  Jahveh might have remained unperceived behind the veil of the sanctuary had not his altar been illuminated by lights from other shrines.  In the early days of the empire, Rome was fully aware of the glamour of Amon, of the star of Ormuzd, Brahm’s cerulean lotos and the rainbow heights of Bel-Marduk.  But in the splendour of Jove all these were opaque.

Jupiter, always imposing, was grandiose then.  His thoughts were vast as the sky.  In a direct revelation to Vergil he said of his chosen people:  “I have set no limits to their conquest or its duration.  The empire I have given them shall be without end." Hebrew prophets had spoken similarly.  Vergil must have been more truly inspired.  The Roman empire, nominally holy, figuratively still exists.  Yet fulfilment of the prophecy is due perhaps less to the God of the Gentiles than to the God of the Jews.  Though perhaps also it may be permissible to discern in the latter a transfiguration of Jove, who originally Zeus, and primarily not Hellenic but Hindu, ultimately became supreme.  After the terrific struggle which resulted in that final metamorphosis, Jerusalem, disinherited, saw Rome the spiritual capital of the globe.

Jerusalem was not a home of logic.  Rome was the city of law.  That law, cold, inflexible, passionless as a sword and quite as effective, Rome brandished at philosophy.  It is said that the intellectual gymnastics of Greece were displeasing to her traditions.  It is more probable that augurs had foreseen or oracles had foretold that philosophy would divest her of the sword, and with it of her sceptre and her might.  Ideas cannot be decapitated.  Only ridicule can demolish them.  Philosophy, mistress of irony, resisted while nations fell.  It was philosophy that first undermined established creeds and then led to the pursuit of new ones.  Yet it may be that a contributing cause was a curious theory that the world was to end.  Foretold in the Brahmanas, in the Avesta and in the Eddas, probably it was in the Sibylline Books.  If not, the subsequent Church may have so assumed.

  Dies irae, dies illa,
  Solvet saeclum in favilla,
  Teste David cum Sibylla.

Not alone David and the Sibyl but Etruscan seers had seen in the skies that the tenth and last astronomical cycle had begun. Plutarch, in his life of Sylla, testified to the general belief in an approaching cataclysm.  Lucretius announced that at any moment it might occur. That was in the latter days of the republic.  In the early days of the empire the theory persisting may have induced the hope of a saviour.  Suetonius said that nature in her parturitions was elaborating a king. Afterward he added that such was Asia’s archaic belief. Recent discoveries have verified the assertion.  In the Akkadian Epic of Dibbara a messiah was foretold. That epic, anterior to a cognate Egyptian prophecy, anterior also to the Sibylline Books, was anterior too to the Hebrew prophets and necessarily to those of Rome.

Among these was Vergil.  In the fourth Eclogue he beheld an age of gold, preceded by the advent on earth of a son of Jove, under whose auspices the last traces of sin and sorrow were to disappear and a new race descend from heaven.  “The serpent shall die,” he declared, adding:  “The time is at hand.”

The Eclogue was written 40 B.C., during the consulate of Pallio, whom the poet wished perhaps to flatter.  Then presently Ovid sang the deathless soul and Tibullus gave rendezvous hereafter.  The atmosphere dripped with wonders.  The air became charged with the miraculous.  At stated intervals the doors of temples opened of themselves.  Statues perspired visibly.  There was a book that explained the mechanism of these marvels.  It interested nobody.  Prodigies were matters of course.

The people had a heaven, also a hell, both of them Greek, a purgatory that may have been Asiatic, and, pending the advent of the son of Jove, in Mithra they could have had a redeemer.  Had it been desired, Buddhism could have supplied gospels, India the trinity, Persia the resurrection, Egypt the life.  From Iran could have been obtained an Intelligence, sovereign, unimaged, and just.  That was unnecessary.  Long since Socrates had displayed it.  In addition, Epicurus had told of an ascension of heavens, skies beyond the sky, worlds without number, the many mansions of a later faith.

Meanwhile, austerity was an appanage of the stoics, in whose faultless code the dominant note was contempt for whatever is base, respect for all that is noble.  A doctrine of great beauty, purely Greek, as was everything else in Rome that was beautiful, its heights were too lofty for the vulgar.  It appealed only to the lettered, that is to the few, to the infrequent disciples of Zeno and of Cicero, his prophet, who, Erasmus said, was inspired by God.

It may be that Cicero inspired a few of God’s preachers.  The latter were not yet in Rome.  Christ had not come.  At that period, unique in history, man alone existed.  The temples were thronged, but the skies were bare.  Cicero knew that.  Elysium and Hades were as chimerical to him as the Epicurean heavens.  “People,” he said, “talk of these places as though they had been there.”  But that which was superstition to him he regarded as beneficial for others, who had to have something and who got it, in temples where a sin was a prayer.

There was once a play of which there has survived but the title:  The Last Will and Testament of Defunct Jupiter. It appeared in the days of Diocletian, but it might have appealed when Cicero taught.  Faith then had fainted.  Fright had ceased to build.  Worship remained, but religion had gone.  The gods themselves were departing.  The epoch itself was apoplectic.  The tramp of legions was continuous.  Not alone the skies but the world was in a ferment.  It was not until a diadem, falling from Cleopatra’s golden bed, rolled to the feet of Augustus, that the gods were stayed and faith revived.

In the interim, prisoners had been deported from Judea.  At first they were slaves.  Subsequently manumitted, they formed a colony that in the high-viced city resembled Esther in the seraglio of Ahasuerus.  Rome, amateur of cults, always curious of foreign faiths, might have been interested in Judaism.  It had many analogies with local beliefs.  Its adherents awaited, as Rome did, a messiah.  They awaited too a golden age.  For those who were weary of philosophy, they had a religion in which there was none.  For those to whom the marvellous appealed, they had a history in which miracles were a string of pearls.  For those who were sceptic concerning the post-mortem, they offered blankness.  In addition, their god, the enemy of all others, was adapted to an empire that recognized no sovereignty but its own.  Readily might Rome have become Hebrew.  But then, with equal ease, she might have become Egyptian.

For those who were perhaps afraid of going to hell and yet may have been equally afraid of not going anywhere, Egypt held passports to a land of light.  Then too, the gods of Egypt were friendly and accessible.  They mingled familiarly with those of Rome, complaisantly with the deified Caesars, as already they had with the pharaohs, a condescension, parenthetically, that did not protect them from Tiberius, who, for reasons with which religion had nothing whatever to do, persecuted the Egyptians, as he persecuted also the Jews.  None the less, Rome, weary of local fictions, might have become converted to foreign ideas.  In default of Syrian or Copt, she might have become Persian as already she was Greek.

Augustus had other views.  Divinities, made not merely after the image of man but in symbols of sin, he saluted.  With a hand usually small, but in this instance tolerably large, he re-established them on their pedestals.  A relapse to spiritual infancy resulted.  It was what he sought.  He wanted to be a god himself and he became one.  His power and, after him, that of his successors, had no earthly limit, no restraint human or divine.  It was the same omnipotence here that elsewhere Jupiter wielded.

Jupiter had flamens who told him the time of day.  He had others that read to him.  For his amusement there were mimes.  For his delectation, matrons established themselves in the Capitol and affected to be his loves.  But then he was superb.  Made of ivory, painted vermillion, seated colossally on a colossal throne, a sceptre in one hand, a thunderbolt in the other, a radiating gold crown on his august head, and, about his limbs, a shawl of Tyrian purple, he looked every inch the god.

The Caesars, if less imposing, were more potent.  Their hands, in which there was nothing symbolic, held life and death, absolute dominion over everything, over every one.  Jupiter was but a statue.  They alone were real, alone divine.  To them incense ascended.  At their feet libations poured.  The nectar fumes confused.  Rome, mad as they, built them temples, raised them shrines, creating for them a worship that they accepted, as only their due perhaps, but in which their reason fled.  In accounts of the epoch there is much mention of citizens, senators, patricians.  Nominally there were such people.  Actually there were but slaves.  The slaves had a succession of masters.  Among them was a lunatic, Caligula, and an imbecile, Claud.  There were others.  There was Terror, there was Hatred, there was Crime.  These last, though several, were yet but one.  Collectively, they were Nero.

If philosophy ever were needed it was in his monstrous day.  To anyone, at any moment, there might be brought the laconic message:  Die.  In republican Rome, philosophy separated man from sin.  At that period it was perhaps a luxury.  In the imperial epoch it was a necessity.  It separated man from life.  The philosophy of the republic Cicero expounded.  That of the empire Seneca produced.

The neo-stoicism of the latter sustained the weak, consoled the just.  It was a support and a guide.  It preached poverty.  It condemned wealth.  It deprecated honours and pleasure.  It inculcated chastity, humility, and resignation.  It detached man from earth.  It inspired, or attempted to inspire, a desire for the ideal which it represented as the goal of the sage, who, true child of God, prepared for any torture, even for the cross, yet, essentially meek, sorrowed for mankind, happy if he might die for it.

In iambics that caressed the ear like flutes, poets had told of Jupiter clothed in purple and glory.  They had told of his celestial amours, of his human and of his inhuman vices.  Seneca believed in Jupiter.  But not in the Jove of the poets.  That god dwelled in ivory and anapests.  Seneca’s deity, nowhere visible, was everywhere present. Creator of heaven and earth, without whom there is nothing, from whom nothing is hidden, and to whom all belongs, our Father, whose will shall be done.

“Life,” said Seneca, “is a tribulation, death a release.  In order not to fear death,” he added, “think of it always.  The day on which it comes judges all others." Meanwhile comfort those that sorrow. Share your bread with them that hunger. Wherever there is a human being there is place for a good deed. Sin is an ulcer.  Deliverance from it is the beginning of health ­salvation, salutem."

Words such as these suggest others.  They are anterior to those which they recall.  The latter are more beautiful, they are more ample, there is in them a poetry and a profundity that has rarely been excelled.  Yet, it may be, that a germ of them is in Seneca, or, more exactly, in theories which, beginning in India, prophets, seers, and stoics variously interpreted and recalled.

However since they have charmed the world, their effect on Nero was curious.  Seneca was his preceptor.  But so too was Art.  The lessons of these teachers, fusing in the demented mind of the monster, produced transcendental depravity, the apogee of the abnormal and the epileptically obscene.  What is more important, they produced Christianity.

Christianity already existed in Rome, but obscurely, subterraneanly, among a class of poor people generally detested, particularly by the Jews.  Christianity was not as yet a religion, it was but the belief of a sect that announced that the world was to be consumed.  Presently Rome was.  The conflagration, which was due to Nero, swept everything sacred away.

Even for a prince that, perhaps, was excessive.  Nero may have felt that he had gone too far.  An emperor was omnipotent, he was not inviolable.  Tiberius was suffocated, Caligula was stabbed, Claud was poisoned.  Nero, it may be, in feeling that he had gone too far, felt also that he needed a scapegoat.  Christian pyromania suggested itself.  But probably it suggested itself first to the Jews, who, Renan has intimated, denounced the Christians accordingly.  Such may have been the case.  In any event, then it was that Christianity received its baptism of blood.

All antiquity was cruel, but, barring perhaps the immense Asiatic butcheries, Nero contrived then to surpass anything that had been done.  Bloated and hideous, his hair done up in a chignon, a concave emerald for monocle, in the crowded arena he assisted at the rape of Christian girls.  Their lovers, their brothers and fathers were either eaten alive by beasts or, that night, dressed in tunics that had been soaked in oil, were fastened to posts and set on fire, in order that, as human torches, they might illuminate palace gardens, through which, costumed as a jockey, Nero raced.

The spectacle in the amphitheatre, which fifty thousand people beheld; the succeeding festival at which all Rome assembled, were two acts in the birthday of a faith.

Then, to the cradle, presently, Wise Men came with gifts ­the gold, the frankincense, the myrrh, of creeds anterior though less divine.