Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (ebook reader macos TXT) 📕

deeds inconsistent with the teaching of Christ.

Chilo assured them that that was true, and, raising his eyes to heaven,

he seemed to be praying; in fact, he was thinking whether it would not

be well to accept their proposal, which might save him a thousand

sestertia. But after a moment of thought he rejected it. Euricius was

an old man, perhaps not so much weighted by years as weakened by care

and disease. Quartus was sixteen years of age. Chilo needed dexterous,

and, above all, stalwart men. As to the thousand sestertia, he

considered that—thanks to the plan which he had invented—he would be

able in every case to spare a large part of it.

They insisted for some time, but when he refused decisively they

yielded.

“I know the baker Demas,” said Quartus, “in whose mills slaves and hired

men are employed. One of those hired men is so strong that he would

take the place, not of two, but of four. I myself have seen him lift

stones from the ground which four men could not stir.”

“If that is a God-fearing man, who can sacrifice himself for the

brotherhood, make me acquainted with him,” said Chilo.

“He is a Christian, lord,” answered Quartus; “nearly all who work for

Demas are Christians. He has night as well as day laborers; this man is

of the night laborers. Were we to go now to the mill, we should find

them at supper, and thou mightest speak to him freely. Demas lives near

the Emporium.”

Chilo consented most willingly. The Emporium was at the foot of the

Aventine, hence not very far from the Circus Maximus. It was possible,

without going around the hill, to pass along the river through the

Porticus Æmilia, which would shorten the road considerably.

“I am old,” said Chilo, when they went under the Colonnade; “at times I

suffer effacement of memory. Yes, though our Christ was betrayed by one

of his disciples, the name of the traitor I cannot recall at this

moment—”

“Judas, lord, who hanged himself,” answered Quartus, wondering a little

in his soul how it was possible to forget that name.

“Oh, yes—Judas! I thank thee,” said Chilo.

And they went on some time in silence. When they came to the Emporium,

which was closed, they passed it, and going around the storehouse, from

which grain was distributed to the populace, they turned toward the

left, to houses which stretched along the Via Ostiensis, up to the Mons

Testaceus and the Forum Pistorium. There they halted before a wooden

building, from the interior of which came the noise of millstones.

Quartus went in; but Chilo, who did not like to show himself to large

numbers of people, and was in continual dread that some fate might bring

him to meet Glaucus, remained outside.

“I am curious about that Hercules who serves in a mill,” said he to

himself, looking at the brightly shining moon. “If he is a scoundrel

and a wise man, he will cost me something; if a virtuous Christian and

dull, he will do what I want without money.”

Further meditation was interrupted by the return of Quartus, who issued

from the building with a second man, wearing only a tunic called

“exomis,” cut in such fashion that the right arm and right breast were

exposed. Such garments, since they left perfect freedom of movement,

were used especially by laborers. Chilo, when he saw the man coming,

drew a breath of satisfaction, for he had not seen in his life such an

arm and such a breast.

“Here, lord,” said Quartus, “is the brother whom it was thy wish to

see.”

“May the peace of Christ be with thee!” answered Chilo. “Do thou,

Quartus, tell this brother whether I deserve faith and trust, and then

return in the name of God; for there is no need that thy gray-haired

father should be left in loneliness.”

“This is a holy man,” said Quartus, “who gave all his property to redeem

me from slavery,—me, a man unknown to him. May our Lord the Saviour

prepare him a heavenly reward therefor!”

The gigantic laborer, hearing this, bent down and kissed Chilo’s hand.

“What is thy name, brother?” inquired the Greek.

“At holy baptism, father, the name Urban was given me.”

“Urban, my brother, hast thou time to talk with me freely?”

“Our work begins at midnight, and only now are they preparing our

supper.”

“Then there is time sufficient. Let us go to the river; there thou wilt

hear my words.”

They went, and sat on the embankment, in a silence broken only by the

distant sound of the millstones and the plash of the onflowing river.

Chilo looked into the face of the laborer, which, notwithstanding a

somewhat severe and sad expression, such as was usual on faces of

barbarians living in Rome, seemed to him kind and honest.

“This is a good-natured, dull man who will kill Glaucus for nothing,”

thought Chilo.

“Urban,” inquired he then, “dost thou love Christ?”

“I love him from the soul of my heart,” said the laborer.

“And thy brethren and sisters, and those who taught thee truth and faith

in Christ?”

“I love them, too, father.”

“Then may peace be with thee!”

“And with thee, father!”

Again silence set in, but in the distance the millstones were roaring,

and the river was plashing below the two men.

Chilo looked with fixed gaze into the clear moonlight, and with a slow,

restrained voice began to speak of Christ’s death. He seemed not as

speaking to Urban, but as if recalling to himself that death, or some

secret which he was confiding to the drowsy city. There was in this,

too, something touching as well as impressive. The laborer wept; and

when Chilo began to groan and complain that in the moment of the

Saviour’s passion there was no one to defend him, if not from

crucifixion, at least from the insults of Jews and soldiers, the

gigantic fists of the barbarian began to squeeze from pity and

suppressed rage. The death only moved him; but at thought of that

rabble reviling the Lamb nailed to the cross, the simple soul in him was

indignant, and a wild desire of vengeance seized the man.

“Urban, dost thou know who Judas was?” asked Chilo, suddenly.

“I know, I know!—but he hanged himself!” exclaimed the laborer.

And in his voice there was a kind of sorrow that the traitor had meted

out punishment to himself, and that Judas could not fall into his hands.

“But if he had not hanged himself,” continued Chilo, “and if some

Christian were to meet him on land or on sea, would it not be the duty

of that Christian to take revenge for the torment, the blood, and the

death of the Saviour?”

“Who is there who would not take revenge, father?”

“Peace be with thee, faithful servant of the Lamb! True, it is

permitted to forgive wrongs done ourselves; but who has the right to

forgive a wrong done to God? But as a serpent engenders a serpent, as

malice breeds malice, and treason breeds treason, so from the poison of

Judas another traitor has come; and as that one delivered to Jews and

Roman soldiers the Saviour, so this man who lives among us intends to

give Christ’s sheep to the wolves; and if no one will anticipate the

treason, if no one will crush the head of the serpent in time,

destruction is waiting for us all, and with us will perish the honor of

the Lamb.”

The laborer looked at Chilo with immense alarm, as if not understanding

what he had heard. But the Greek, covering his head with a corner of

his mantle, began to repeat, with a voice coming as if from beneath the

earth,—“Woe to you, servants of the true God! woe to you, Christian men

and Christian women!”

And again came silence, again were heard only the roar of the

millstones, the deep song of the millers, and the sound of the river.

“Father,” asked the laborer at last, “what kind of traitor is that?”

Chilo dropped his head. “What kind of traitor? A son of Judas, a son

of his poison, a man who pretends to be a Christian, and goes to houses

of prayer only to complain of the brotherhood to Cæsar,—declaring that

they will not recognize Cæsar as a god; that they poison fountains,

murder children, and wish to destroy the city, so that one stone may not

remain on another. Behold! in a few days a command will be given to the

pretorians to cast old men, women, and children into prison, and lead

them to death, just as they led to death the slaves of Pedanius

Secundus. All this has been done by that second Judas. But if no one

punished the first Judas, if no one took vengeance on him, if no one

defended Christ in the hour of torment, who will punish this one, who

will destroy the serpent before Cæsar hears him, who will destroy him,

who will defend from destruction our brothers in the faith of Christ?”

Urban, who had been sitting thus far on a stone, stood up on a sudden,

and said,—“I will, father.”

Chilo rose also; he looked for a while on the face of the laborer,

lighted up by the shining of the moon, then, stretching his arm, he put

his hand slowly on his head.

“Go among Christians,” said he, with solemnity; “go to the houses of

prayer, and ask the brethren about Glaucus; and when they show him to

thee, slay him at once in Christ’s name!”

“About Glaucus?” repeated the laborer, as if wishing to fix that name in

his memory.

“Dost thou know him?”

“No, I do not. There are thousands of Christians in Rome, and they are

not all known to one another. But tomorrow, in Ostrianum, brethren and

sisters will assemble in the night to the last soul, because a great

apostle of Christ has come, who will teach them, and the brethren will

point out to me Glaucus.”

“In Ostrianum?” inquired Chilo. “But that is outside the city gates!

The brethren and all the sisters,—at night? Outside the city gates, in

Ostrianum?”

“Yes, father; that is our cemetery, between the Viæ Salaria and

Nomentana. Is it not known to thee that the Great Apostle will teach

there?”

“I have been two days from home, hence I did not receive his epistle;

and I do not know where Ostrianum is, for I came here not long since

from Corinth, where I govern a Christian community. But it is as thou

sayest,—there thou wilt find Glaucus among the brethren, and thou wilt

slay him on the way home to the city. For this all thy sins will be

forgiven. And now peace be with thee—”

“Father—”

“I listen to thee, servant of the Lamb.”

On the laborer’s face perplexity was evident. Not long before he had

killed a man, and perhaps two, but the teaching of Christ forbids

killing. He had not killed them in his own defence, for even that is

not permitted. He had not killed them, Christ preserve! for profit.

The bishop himself had given him brethren to assist, but had not

permitted him to kill; he had killed inadvertently, for God had punished

him with too much strength. And now he was doing grievous penance.

Others sing when the millstones are grinding; but he, hapless man, is

thinking of his sin, of his offence against the Lamb. How