THE VOICE OF A GOD
Of all the civilisations whose records
lie open to the student, that of Rome is surely one
of the most wonderful. Nowhere, not even in old
Mexico, was high culture so completely wedded to the
lowest barbarism. Intellect Rome had in plenty;
the noblest efforts of her genius are scarcely to
be surpassed; her law is the foundation of the best
of our codes of jurisprudence; art she borrowed but
appreciated; her military system is still the wonder
of the world; her great men remain great among a multitude
of subsequent competitors. And yet how pitiless
she was! What a tigress! Amid all the ruins
of her cities we find none of a hospital, none, I
believe, of an orphan school in an age that made many
orphans. The pious aspirations and efforts of
individuals seem never to have touched the conscience
of the people. Rome incarnate had no conscience;
she was a lustful, devouring beast, made more bestial
by her intelligence and splendour.
King Agrippa in practice was a Roman.
Rome was his model, her ideals were his ideals.
Therefore he built amphitheatres in which men were
butchered, to the exquisite delight of vast audiences.
Therefore, also, without the excuse of any conscientious
motive, however insufficient or unsatisfactory, he
persecuted the weak because they were weak and their
sufferings would give pleasure to the strong or to
those who chanced to be the majority of the moment.
The season being hot it was arranged
that the great games in honour of the safety of Caesar,
should open each day at dawn and come to an end an
hour before noon. Therefore from midnight onwards
crowds of spectators poured into the amphitheatre,
which, although it would seat over twenty thousand,
was not large enough to contain them all. An hour
before the dawn the place was full, and already late
comers were turned back from its gates. The only
empty spaces were those reserved for the king, his
royal guests, the rulers of the city, with other distinguished
personages, and for the Christian company of old men,
women and children destined to the lions, who, it
was arranged, were to sit in full view of the audience
until the time came for them to take their share in
the spectacle.
When Rachel joined the other captives
she found that a long rough table had been set beneath
the arcades, and on it at intervals, pieces of bread
and cups and vases containing wine of the country that
had been purchased at a great price from the guards.
Round this table the elders or the infirm among the
company were seated on a bench, while the rest of
the number, for whom there was not room, stood behind
them. At its head was an old man, a bishop among
the Christians, one of the five hundred who had seen
the risen Lord and received baptism from the hands
of the Beloved Disciple. For some years he had
been spared by the persecutors of the infant Church
on account of his age, dignity, and good repute, but
now at last fate seemed to have overtaken him.
The service was held; the bread and
wine, mixed with water, were consecrated with the
same texts by which they are blessed to-day, only
the prayers were extempore. When all had eaten
from the platters and drunk from the rude cups, the
bishop gave his blessing to the community. Then
he addressed them. This, he told them, was an
occasion of peculiar joy, a love-feast indeed, since
all they who partook of it were about to lay down
the burden of the flesh and, their labours and sorrows
ended, to depart into bliss eternal. He called
to their memory the supper of the Passover which had
taken place within the lifetime of many of them, when
the Author and Finisher of their faith had declared
to the disciples that He would drink no more wine
till He drank it new with them in His kingdom.
Such a feast it was that lay spread before them this
night. Let them be thankful for it. Let them
not quail in the hour of trial. The fangs of
the savage beasts, the shouts of the still more savage
spectators, the agony of the quivering flesh, the last
terror of their departing, what were these? Soon,
very soon, they would be done; the spears of the soldiers
would despatch the injured, and those among them whom
it was ordained should escape, would be set free by
the command of the representative of Caesar, that
they might prosecute the work till the hour came for
them to pass on the torch of redemption to other hands.
Let them rejoice, therefore, and be very thankful,
and walk to the sacrifice as to a wedding feast.
“Do you not rejoice, my brethren?” he
asked. With one voice they answered, “We
rejoice!” Yes, even the children answered thus.
Then they prayed again, and again
with uplifted hands the old man blessed them in the
holy Triune Name.
Scarcely had this service, as solemn
as it was simple, been brought to an end when the
head jailer, whose blasphemous jocosity since his
reproof by Anna was replaced by a mien of sullen venom,
came forward and commanded the whole band to march
to the amphitheatre. Accordingly, two by two,
the bishop leading the way with the sainted woman Anna,
they walked to the gates. Here a guard of soldiers
was waiting to receive them, and under their escort
they threaded the narrow, darkling streets till they
came to that door of the amphitheatre which was used
by those who were to take part in the games.
Now, at a word from the bishop, they began to chant
a solemn hymn, and singing thus, were thrust along
the passages to the place prepared for them.
This was not, as they expected, a prison at the back
of the amphitheatre, but, as has been said, a spot
between the enclosing wall and the podium, raised a
little above the level of the arena. Here, on
the eastern side of the building, they were to sit
till their turn came to be driven by the guards through
a little wicket-gate into the arena, where the starving
beasts of prey would be loosed upon them.
It was now the hour before sunrise,
and the moon having set, the vast theatre was plunged
in gloom, relieved only here and there by stray torches
and cressets of fire burning upon either side of the
gorgeous, but as yet unoccupied, throne of Agrippa.
This gloom seemed to oppress the audience with which
the place was crowded; at any rate none of them shouted
or sang, or even spoke loudly. They addressed
each other in muffled tones, with the result that
the air seemed to be full of mysterious whisperings.
Had this poor band of condemned Christians entered
the theatre in daylight, they would have been greeted
with ironical cries and tauntings of “Dogs’
meat!” and with requests that they should work
a miracle and let the people see them rise again from
the bellies of the lions. But now, as their solemn
song broke upon the silence, it was answered only
by one great murmur, which seemed to shape itself
to the words, “the Christians! The doomed
Christians!”
By the light of a single torch the
band took their places. Then once more they sang,
and in that chastening hour the audience listened with
attention, almost with respect. Their chant finished,
the bishop stood up, and, moved thereto by some inspiration,
began to address the mighty throng, whom he could
not see, and who could not see him. Strangely
enough they hearkened to him, perhaps because his speech
served to while away the weary time of waiting.
“Men and brethren,” he
began, in his thin, piercing notes, “princes,
lords, peoples, Romans, Jews, Syrians, Greeks, citizens
of Idumaea, of Egypt, and of all nations here gathered,
hearken to the words of an old man destined and glad
to die. Listen, if it be your pleasure, to the
story of One whom some of you saw crucified under Pontius
Pilate, since to know the truth of that matter can
at least do you no hurt.”
“Be silent!” cried a voice,
that of the renegade jailer, “and cease preaching
your accursed faith!”
“Let him alone,” answered
other voices. “We will hear this story of
his. We say let him alone.”
Thus encouraged the old man spoke
on with an eloquence so simple and yet so touching,
with a wisdom so deep, that for full fifteen minutes
none cared even to interrupt him. Then a far-away
listener cried:
“Why must these people die who are better than
we?”
“Friend,” answered the
bishop, in ringing tones, which in that heavy silence
seemed to search out even the recesses of the great
and crowded place, “we must die because it is
the will of King Agrippa, to whom God has given power
to destroy us. Mourn not for us because we perish
cruelly, since this is the day of our true birth, but
mourn for King Agrippa, at whose hands our blood will
be required, and mourn, mourn for yourselves, O people.
The death that is near to us perchance is nearer still
to some of you; and how will you awaken who perish
in your sins? What if the sword of God should
empty yonder throne? What if the voice of God
should call on him who fills it to make answer of his
deeds? Soon or late, O people, it will call on
him and you to pass hence, some naturally in your
age, others by the sharp and dreadful roads of sword,
pestilence or famine. Already those woes which
He whom you crucified foretold, knock at your door,
and within a few short years not one of you who crowd
this place in thousands will draw the breath of life.
Nothing will remain of you on earth save the fruit
of those deeds which you have done these
and your bones, no more. Repent you, therefore,
repent while there is time; for I, whom you have doomed,
I am bidden to declare that judgment is at hand.
Yes, even now, although you see him not, the Angel
of the Lord hangs over you and writes your names within
his book. Now while there is time I would pray
for you and for your king. Farewell.”
As he spoke those words “the
Angel of the Lord hangs over you,” so great
was the preacher’s power, and in that weary darkness
so sharply had he touched the imagination of his strange
audience, that with a sound like to the stir of rustling
trees, thousands of faces were turned upwards, as
though in search of that dread messenger.
“Look, look!” screamed
a hundred voices, while dim arms pointed to some noiseless
thing that floated high above them against the background
of the sky, which grew grey with the coming dawn.
It appeared and disappeared, appeared again, then
seemed to pass downward in the direction of Agrippa’s
throne, and vanished.
“It is that magician’s
angel,” cried one, and the multitudes groaned.
“Fool,” said another, “it was but
a bird.”
“Then for Agrippa’s sake,”
shrilled a new voice, “the gods send that it
was not an owl.”
Thereat some laughed, but the most
were silent. They knew the story of King Agrippa
and the owl, and how it had been foretold that this
spirit in the form of a bird would appear to him again
in the hour of his death, as it had appeared to him
in the hour of his triumph.
See Josephus, “Antiquities
of the Jews,” Book XVII.,
Chap. VI., Se; and Book XIX., Chap. VIII., Se.
Just then from the palace to the north
arose a sound of the blare of trumpets. Now a
herald, speaking on the summit of the great eastern
tower, called out that it was dawn above the mountains,
and that King Agrippa came with all his company, whereon
the preaching of the old Christian and his tale of
a watching Vengeance were instantly forgotten.
Presently the glad, fierce notes of the trumpets drew
nearer, and in the grey of the daybreak, through the
great bronze gates of the Triumphal Way that were
thrown open to greet him, advanced Agrippa, wonderfully
attired and preceded by his legionaries. At his
right walked Vibius Marsus, the Roman President of
Syria, and on his left Antiochus, King of Commagena,
while after him followed other kings, princes, and
great men of his own and foreign lands.
Agrippa mounted his golden throne
while the multitude roared a welcome, and his company
were seated around and behind him according to their
degree.
Once more the trumpets sounded, and
the gladiators of different arms, headed by the equites
who fought on horseback, numbering in all more than
five hundred men, were formed up in the arena for the
preliminary march past the salutation of
those about to die to their emperor and lord.
Now, that they also might take their part in the spectacle,
the band of Christian martyrs were thrust through
the door in the podium, and to make them seem as many
as possible in number, marshalled two by two.
Then the march past began. Troop
by troop, arrayed in their shining armour and armed,
each of them, with his own familiar weapon, the gladiators
halted in front of Agrippa’s throne, giving to
him the accustomed salutation of “Hail, King,
we who are about to die, salute thee,” to be
rewarded with a royal smile and the shouts of the approving
audience. Last of all came the Christians, a motley,
wretched-looking group, made up of old men, terrified
children clinging to their mothers, and ill-clad,
dishevelled women. At the pitiful sight, that
very mob which a few short minutes before had hung
upon the words of the bishop, their leader, now, as
they watched them hobbling round the arena in the
clear, low light of the dawning, burst into peals of
laughter and called out that each of them should be
made to lead his lion. Quite heedless of these
scoffs and taunts, they trudged on through the white
sand that soon would be so red, until they came opposite
to the throne.
“Salute!” roared the audience.
The bishop held up his hand and all
were silent. Then, in the thin voice with which
they had become familiar, he said:
“King, we who are about to die forgive
thee. May God do likewise.”
Now the multitude ceased laughing,
and with an impatient gesture, Agrippa motioned to
the martyrs to pass on. This they did humbly;
but Anna, being old, lame and weary, could not walk
so fast as her companions. Alone she reached
the saluting-place after all had left it, and halted
there.
“Forward!” cried the officers.
But she did not move nor did she speak. Only
leaning on her staff she looked steadily up at the
face of the king Agrippa. Some impulse seemed
to draw his eyes to hers. They met, and it was
noted that he turned pale. Then straightening
herself with difficulty upon her tottering feet, Anna
raised her staff and pointed with it to the golden
canopy above the head of Herod. All stared upward,
but saw nothing, for the canopy was still in the shadow
of the velarium which covered all the outer edge of
the cavea, leaving the centre open to the sky.
It would appear, however, that Agrippa did see something,
for he who had risen to declare the games open, suddenly
sank back upon his throne, and remained thus lost
in thought. Then Anna limped forward to join
her company, who once more were driven through the
little gate in the wall of the arena.
For a second time, with an effort,
Agrippa lifted himself from his throne. As he
rose the first level rays of sunrise struck full upon
him. He was a tall and noble-looking man, and
his dress was glorious. To the thousands who
gazed upon him from the shadow, set in that point of
burning light he seemed to be clothed in a garment
of glittering silver. Silver was his crown, silver
his vest, silver the wide robe that flowed from his
shoulders to the ground.
“In the name of Caesar, to the
glory of Caesar, I declare these games open!”
he cried.
Then, as though moved by a sudden
impulse, all the multitude rose shouting: “The
voice of a god! The voice of a god! The voice
of the god Agrippa!”
Nor did Agrippa say them nay; the
glory of such worship thundered at him from twenty
thousand throats made him drunken. There for a
while he stood, the new-born sunlight playing upon
his splendid form, while the multitude roared his
name, proclaiming it divine. His nostrils spread
to inhale this incense of adoration, his eyes flashed
and slowly he waved his arms, as though in benediction
of his worshippers. Perchance there rose before
his mind a vision of the wondrous event whereby he,
the scorned and penniless outcast, had been lifted
to this giddy pinnacle of power. Perchance for
a moment he believed that he was indeed divine, that
nothing less than the blood and right of godhead could
thus have exalted him. At least he stood there,
denying naught, while the people adored him as Jéhovah
is adored of the Jews and Christ is adored of the
Christians.
Then of a sudden smote the Angel of
the Lord. Of a sudden intolerable pain seized
upon his vitals, and Herod remembered that he was but
mortal flesh, and knew that death was near.
“Alas!” he cried, “I
am no god, but a man, and even now the common fate
of man is on me.”
As he spoke a great white owl slid
from the roof of the canopy above him and vanished
through the unroofed centre of the cavea.
“Look! look! my people!”
he cried again, “the spirit that brought me
good fortune leaves me now, and I die, my people, I
die!” Then, sinking upon his throne, he who
a moment gone had received the worship of a god, writhed
there in agony and wept. Yes, Herod wept.
Attendants ran to him and lifted him in their arms.
“Take me hence to die,” he moaned.
Now a herald cried:
“The king is smitten with a
sore sickness, and the games are closed. To your
homes, O people.”
For a while the multitude sat silent,
for they were fear-stricken. Then a murmur rose
among them that spread and swelled till it became a
roar.
“The Christians! The Christians!
They prophesied the evil. They have bewitched
the king. They are wizards. Kill them, kill
them, kill them!”
Instantly, like waves pouring in from
every side, hundreds and thousands of men began to
flow towards that place where the martyrs sat.
The walls and palisades were high. Sweeping aside
the guards, they surged against them like water against
a rock; but climb they could not. Those in front
began to scream, those behind pressed on. Some
fell and were trodden underfoot, others clambered
upon their bodies, in turn to fall and be trodden
underfoot.
“Our death is upon us!” cried one of the
Nazarenes.
“Nay, life remains to us,”
answered Nehushta. “Follow me, all of you,
for I know the road,” and, seizing Rachel about
the middle, she began to drag her towards a little
door. It was unlocked and guarded by one man
only, the apostate jailer Rufus.
“Stand back!” he cried, lifting his spear.
Nehushta made no answer, only drawing
a dagger from her robe, she fell upon the ground,
then of a sudden rose again beneath his guard.
The knife flashed and went home to the hilt.
Down fell the man screaming for help and mercy, and
there, in the narrow way, his spirit was stamped out
of him. Beyond lay the broad passage of the vomitorium.
They gained it, and in an instant were mixed with
the thousands who sought to escape the panic.
Some perished, some were swept onwards, among them
Nehushta and Rachel. Thrice they nearly fell,
but the fierce strength of the Libyan saved her mistress,
till at length they found themselves on the broad
terrace facing the seashore.
“Whither now?” gasped Rachel.
“Where shall I lead you?” answered Nehushta.
“Do not stay. Be swift.”
“But the others?” said
Rachel, glancing back at the fighting, trampling,
yelling mob.
“God guard them! We cannot.”
“Leave me,” moaned her
mistress. “Save yourself, Nou; I am spent,”
and she sank down to her knees.
“But I am still strong,”
muttered Nehushta, and lifting the swooning woman
in her sinewy arms, she fled on towards the port, crying,
“Way, way for my lady, the noble Roman, who
has swooned!”
And the multitude made way.