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

“Oh, lord, why didst thou not listen to my counsels?” exclaimed he, putting his hands together.

“Silence!” said Vinicius, “and listen!”

Here he looked sharply into Chilo’s eyes, and spoke slowly with emphasis, as if wishing the Greek to understand every word of his as a command, and to keep it forever in memory.

“Croton threw himself on me to kill and rob me, dost understand? I killed him then, and these people dressed the wounds which I received in the struggle.”

Chilo understood in a moment that if Vinicius spoke in this way it must be in virtue of some agreement with the Christians, and in that case he wished people to believe him. He saw this, too, from his face; hence in one moment, without showing doubt or astonishment, he raised his eyes and exclaimed,—“That was a faith-breaking ruffian! But I warned thee, lord, not to trust him; my teachings bounded from his head as do peas when thrown against a wall. In all Hades there are not torments enough for him. He who cannot be honest must be a rogue; what is more difficult than for a rogue to become honest? But to fall on his benefactor, a lord so magnanimous—O gods!”

Here he remembered that he had represented himself to Ursus on the way as a Christian, and stopped.

“Were it not for the ‘sica,’ which I brought, he would have slain me,” said Vinicius.

“I bless the moment in which I advised thee to take a knife even.”

Vinicius turned an inquiring glance on the Greek, and asked,—“What hast thou done to-day?”

“How? What! have I not told thee, lord, that I made a vow for thy health?”

“Nothing more?”

“I was just preparing to visit thee, when this good man came and said that thou hadst sent for me.”

“Here is a tablet. Thou wilt go with it to my house; thou wilt find my freedman and give it to him. It is written on the tablet that I have gone to Beneventum. Thou wilt tell Demas from thyself that I went this morning, summoned by an urgent letter from Petronius.” Here he repeated with emphasis: “I have gone to Beneventum, dost understand?”

“Thou has gone, lord. This morning I took leave of thee at the Porta Capena, and from the time of thy departure such sadness possesses me that if thy magnanimity will not soften it, I shall cry myself to death, like the unhappy wife of Zethos [Aedon turned into a nightingale] in grief for Itylos.”

Vinicius, though sick and accustomed to the Greek’s suppleness, could not repress a smile. He was glad, moreover, that Chilo understood in a flash; hence he said,

“Therefore I will write that thy tears be wiped away. Give me the candle.” Chilo, now pacified perfectly, rose, and, advancing a few steps toward the chimney, took one of the candles which was burning at the wall. But while he was doing this, the hood slipped from his head, and the light fell directly on his face. Glaucus sprang from his seat and, coming up quickly, stood before him.

“Dost thou not recognize me, Cephas?” asked he. In his voice there was something so terrible that a shiver ran through all present.

Chilo raised the candle, and dropped it to the earth almost the same instant; then he bent nearly double and began to groan,—“I am not he—I am not he! Mercy!”

Glaucus turned toward the faithful, and said,—“This is the man who betrayed—who ruined me and my family!”

That history was known to all the Christians and to Vinicius, who had not guessed who that Glaucus was,—for this reason only, that he fainted repeatedly from pain during the dressing of his wound, and had not heard his name. But for Ursus that short moment, with the words of Glaucus, was like a lightning-flash in darkness. Recognizing Chilo, he was at his side with one spring, and, seizing his arm, bent it back, exclaiming,—“This is the man who persuaded me to kill Glaucus!”

“Mercy!” groaned Chilo. “I will give you—O lord!” exclaimed he, turning his head to Vinicius, “save me! I trusted in thee, take my part. Thy letter—I will deliver it. O lord, lord!”

But Vinicius, who looked with more indifference than any one at what was passing, first because all the affairs of the Greek were more or less known to him, and second because his heart knew not what pity was, said,—“Bury him in the garden; some one else will take the letter.”

It seemed to Chilo that those words were his final sentence. His bones were shaking in the terrible hands of Ursus; his eyes were filled with tears from pain.

“By your God, pity!” cried he; “I am a Christian! Pax vobiscum! I am a Christian; and if ye do not believe me, baptize me again, baptize me twice, ten times! Glaucus, that is a mistake! Let me speak, make me a slave! Do not kill me! Have mercy!”

His voice, stifled with pain, was growing weaker and weaker, when the Apostle Peter rose at the table; for a moment his white head shook, drooping toward his breast, and his eyes were closed; but he opened them then, and said amid silence,—

“The Saviour said this to us: ‘If thy brother has sinned against thee, chastise him; but if he is repentant, forgive him. And if he has offended seven times in the day against thee, and has turned to thee seven times, saying, “Have mercy on me!” forgive him.’”

Then came a still deeper silence. Glaucus remained a long time with his hands covering his face; at last he removed them and said,—“Cephas, may God forgive thy offences, as I forgive them in the name of Christ.”

Ursus, letting go the arms of the Greek, added at once:

“May the Saviour be merciful to thee as I forgive thee.”

Chilo dropped to the ground, and, supported on it with his hands, turned his head like a wild beast caught in a snare, looking around to see whence death might come. He did not trust his eyes and ears yet, and dared not hope for forgiveness. Consciousness returned to him slowly; his blue lips were still trembling from terror.

“Depart in peace!” said the Apostle, meanwhile.

Chilo rose, but could not speak. He approached the bed of Vinicius, as if seeking protection in it still; for he had not time yet to think that that man, though he had used his services and was still his accomplice, condemned him, while those against whom he had acted forgave. This thought was to come to him later. At present simply astonishment and incredulity were evident in his look. Though he had seen that they forgave him, he wished to bear away his head at the earliest from among these incomprehensible people, whose kindness terrified him almost as much as their cruelty would have terrified. It seemed to him that should he remain longer, something unexpected would happen again; hence, standing above Vinicius, he said with a broken voice,—