Quo Vadis: A Narrative of the Time of Nero by Henryk Sienkiewicz (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

Christ would hear him more readily there than in any other place; so when he found it, he threw himself on the ground and exerted all the strength of his suffering soul in prayer for mercy, and so forgot himself that he remembered not where he was or what he was doing. In the afternoon he was roused by the sound of trumpets which came from the direction of Nero’s Circus. He went out of the hut, and gazed around with eyes which were as if just opened from sleep.

It was hot; the stillness was broken at intervals by the sound of brass and continually by the ceaseless noise of grasshoppers. The air had become sultry, the sky was still clear over the city, but near the Sabine Hills dark clouds were gathering at the edge of the horizon.

Vinicius went home. Petronius was waiting for him in the atrium.

“I have been on the Palatine,” said he. “I showed myself there purposely, and even sat down at dice. There is a feast at the house of Vinicius this evening; I promised to go, but only after midnight, saying that I must sleep before that hour. In fact I shall be there, and it would be well wert thou to go also.”

“Are there no tidings from Niger or Nazarius?” inquired Vinicius.

“No; we shall see them only at midnight. Hast noticed that a storm is threatening?”

“Yes.”

“To-morrow there is to be an exhibition of crucified Christians, but perhaps rain will prevent it.”

Then he drew nearer and said, touching his nephew’s shoulder,—“But thou wilt not see her on the cross; thou wilt see her only in Corioli. By Castor! I would not give the moment in which we free her for all the gems in Rome. The evening is near.”

In truth the evening was near, and darkness began to encircle the city earlier than usual because clouds covered the whole horizon. With the coming of night heavy rain fell, which turned into steam on the stones warmed by the heat of the day, and filled the streets of the city with mist. After that came a lull, then brief violent showers.

“Let us hurry!” said Vinicius at last; “they may carry bodies from the prison earlier because of the storm.”

“It is time!” said Petronius.

And taking Gallic mantles with hoods, they passed through the garden door to the street. Petronius had armed himself with a short Roman knife called sicca, which he took always during night trips.

The city was empty because of the storm. From time to time lightning rent the clouds, illuminating with its glare the fresh walls of houses newly built or in process of building and the wet flag-stones with which the streets were paved. At last a flash came, when they saw, after a rather long road, the mound on which stood the small temple of Libitina, and at the foot of the mound a group of mules and horses.

“Niger!” called Vinicius, in a low voice.

“I am here, lord,” said a voice in the rain.

“Is everything ready?”

“It is. We were here at dark. But hide yourselves under the rampart, or ye will be drenched. What a storm! Hail will fall, I think.”

In fact Niger’s fear was justified, for soon hail began to fall, at first fine, then larger and more frequent. The air grew cold at once. While standing under the rampart, sheltered from the wind and icy missiles, they conversed in low voices.

“Even should some one see us,” said Niger, “there will be no suspicion; we look like people waiting for the storm to pass. But I fear that they may not bring the bodies out till morning.”

“The hail-storm will not last,” said Petronius. “We must wait even till daybreak.”

They waited, listening to hear the sound of the procession. The hail-storm passed, but immediately after a shower began to roar. At times the wind rose, and brought from the “Putrid Pits” a dreadful odor of decaying bodies, buried near the surface and carelessly.

“I see a light through the mist,” said Niger,—“one, two, three,—those are torches. See that the mules do not snort,” said he, turning to the men.

“They are coming!” said Petronius.

The lights were growing more and more distinct. After a time it was possible to see torches under the quivering flames.

Niger made the sign of the cross, and began to pray. Meanwhile the gloomy procession drew nearer, and halted at last in front of the temple of Libitina. Petronius, Vinicius, and Niger pressed up to the rampart in silence, not knowing why the halt was made. But the men had stopped only to cover their mouths and faces with cloths to ward off the stifling stench which at the edge of the “Putrid Pits” was simply unendurable; then they raised the biers with coffins and moved on. Only one coffin stopped before the temple. Vinicius sprang toward it, and after him Petronius, Niger, and two British slaves with the litter.

But before they had reached it in the darkness, the voice of Nazarius was heard, full of pain,—

“Lord, they took her with Ursus to the Esquiline prison. We are carrying another body! They removed her before midnight.”

Petronius, when he had returned home, was gloomy as a storm, and did not even try to console Vinicius. He understood that to free Lygia from the Esquiline dungeons was not to be dreamed of. He divined that very likely she had been taken from the Tullianum so as not to die of fever and escape the amphitheatre assigned to her. But for this very reason she was watched and guarded more carefully than others. From the bottom of his soul Petronius was sorry for her and Vinicius, but he was wounded also by the thought that for the first time in life he had not succeeded, and for the first time was beaten in a struggle.

“Fortune seems to desert me,” said he to himself, “but the gods are mistaken if they think that I will accept such a life as his, for example.”

Here he turned toward Vinicius, who looked at him with staring eyes. “What is the matter? Thou hast a fever,” said Petronius.

But Vinicius answered with a certain strange, broken, halting voice, like that of a sick child,—“But I believe that He—can restore her to me.”

Above the city the last thunders of the storm had ceased.