CHAPTER LII ALITURUS AMONG THE CHRISTIANS

Ἐὰν δὲ πάντες προφητεύωσιν, εἰσέλθῃ δὲ τις ἄπιστος, ἐλέγχεται ὑπὸ πάντων, ἀνακρίνεται ὑπὸ πάντων.—S. Pauli I. ad Cor. xiv. 24.

Aliturus did not find it easy to fulfil his promise. Ishmael Ben Phabi, stimulated by Sadducean hatred, made every inquiry among the Jews of Rome, and learnt much that was useful to him. Josephus, who had no special hatred against the Christians, but wished to know more about them, because, as a Pharisee, he was interested in their doctrine of the Resurrection, was able to give him some useful hints. Esther, a Jewish freedwoman of Nero, wife of Arescusus, was still more serviceable. At one time she had been drawn to the Christians by their sanctity of life, but she was an intense enthusiast of Mosaism, and, shocked by the views of gentile converts respecting the nullity of the Law, she had felt the reaction of antipathy against them.96 But Primitivus, who had succeeded Phlegon (the lover of the epileptic girl Syra), as keeper of the Spoliarium, gave him the key he needed. Primitivus, in his work at the amphitheatre, had more than once come in contact with Christians, and Phlegon had told him what he had heard about them from Syra. He revealed to Aliturus the mystic watchword of the Fish.

Armed with this watchword, the actor managed to establish relations with Philetus, a slave of dubious character, who had nominally joined the Christians because he found among them a sympathy and a kindness which he had forfeited in his gentile surroundings. This thankless traitor conducted him one evening, in the disguise of an Ephesian merchant, into the remote sand-pit where the Christians held their largest gatherings.

He found himself in an assembly of at least a thousand persons, who had come by various roundabout obscure paths. A narrow opening led to the half-subterranean place of rendezvous, and this was strongly guarded by a body of Christian youths, who challenged and scrutinised every comer. As they entered, the worshippers extinguished their lamps and torches, and the vast space was in complete darkness, except that a few lights glimmered in its deepest recesses. Aliturus was accustomed to scenes of hardened wickedness, but he shuddered in expectation of the nameless horrors which pagan slander led him to suppose he would witness. How deep was his astonishment at the order, the decorum, the innocent fervour, the holy devotion, the almost childlike simplicity of the entire ceremony! Truly these men and women were no orgiastic rioters! Linus was in the chair of the chief pastor, and he was assisted by Cletus and other presbyters. Sometimes he offered up prayers for all, sometimes the whole assembly joined in common prayer, and the deep ‘Amen’ swelled like the sound of a mighty wave. They joined in hymns addressed to God and to Christ, and then the assembly was swept by the indescribable emotion of Spiritual Presence which found vent in speaking in the Tongue. But there was nothing disorderly or tumultuous in the manifestations, for the worshippers had taken to heart the warnings which Paul had given to the Church of Corinth. The pantomimist was struck with the awful depth and penetrative force of those strange sounds, which no skill of his—trained as he had been for years—would enable him to reproduce. When some rose to interpret the mysterious utterances, he heard many allusions to Babylon—which his Jewish origin made him recognise as a cryptogram for Rome—and references to the recent fire. But it was only spoken of as an awful judgment of God, a sign of Christ’s second Advent, a prelude to the conflagration of the world. He heard nothing wicked, nothing seditious. On the contrary, every exhortation inculcated innocence and purity of life; and prayers were offered for the Emperor, and all in authority. In Roman society he had heard many a bitter jest, many a mordant innuendo aimed at the Emperor, by men who were too vain to conceal their sarcasms, even when they were perilous.97 But here he heard no such objurgations. When the interpretation of tongues was over, Linus rose to address his flock.

He spoke first of the conflagration, and of all the disasters which they had recently witnessed. He alluded with many tears to the brethren who had perished in the burning streets, or lay buried under the ruins of fallen houses, and he bade them not to sorrow as men without hope, since the dead who die in the Lord were blessed. How far more awful was the fate of those worshippers of false gods, who had lived in defiant wickedness, and who, instead of passing from life to life, had passed from death unto death, and a fiery looking for of judgment! One practical duty he pressed upon them. Most of them were poor; but God had given them the true riches. And now that so many of their brethren were left destitute, it was their duty to show that they believed the words of the Lord Jesus, that it is more blessed to give than to receive. The heathen said, ‘See how these Christians love one another.’ Yes, they loved one another, and all who were of the household of faith; but let them also be kind and gentle to those who treated them despitefully, remembering Him who had said, ‘I say unto you, “Love your enemies.”’

From this topic he passed to the duty of watchfulness. All around them lay the kingdom of Satan and of darkness. They knew its grossness, its misery. Their beloved Apostle Paul had painted it for them to the life in his letter to their Church. ‘Be sober, then,’ he said, ‘be vigilant! Already there are wars and rumours of wars, and earthquakes, and famines, the sea and the waves roaring, and men’s hearts failing them for fear of the things coming on the earth. Is not the mighty calamity which we have witnessed one of the birth-throes of the Messiah? Love not the world, therefore, brethren, nor the things of the world. Count the things that are, as though they are not. For, speaking in the Spirit, I tell you that very soon will the great tribulation begin, which must be before the end. But ye know the words of the Master, “He that shall endure to the end, the same shall be saved.”’

A deep murmur rose from the multitude, and many wept at the thought of coming woes. But they did not shrink from the peril of that baptism of blood which they knew would be to them the portal of salvation, and the murmur swelled into an Hosanna and a Hallelujah which rang with steadfastness and exultation.

Then Cletus, the second presbyter, rose and said: ‘Our father Linus has spoken. He has warned us that evil days are at hand. Already it is whispered, we cannot tell by whom, that our hands kindled this great conflagration. You know, brethren, that we would rather die than be guilty of such a monstrous crime. But at the bar of the Gentiles innocence will not avail us; nor will pity touch the hearts of our enemies in Babylon, where Satan’s throne is. But though a host should encamp against us, yet will we not be afraid. He who set His angel to stand by the three children in the furnace; He who saved Daniel from the lions, and Jonah in the belly of the whale, will not forsake us. We thank God in this great crisis that Paul, the Apostle to us Gentiles, has been set free. He knew not what was coming, or he would have stayed with us; but John the beloved is on his way to us, and he will comfort us in all our afflictions.’

At the close of his address, young men, clad in white, of modest demeanour, went round among the worshippers and received in earthen vessels the humble contributions of men and women, of whom not a few were themselves in deep poverty. Aliturus, moved to an extent of which he could give no account, dropped into the vessel every piece of gold which he had with him, and amazed those who afterwards counted the offerings. With uplifted arms and solemn voice, Linus pronounced the benediction. Lanterns and torches were rekindled, and silently, in twos and threes, by the same secret paths, the multitude melted away.

But as he made his way home with the attendant slave, the heart of Aliturus burned within him. He had come to curse and to betray; he went back blessing these Christians altogether. How unlike was the reality to the lies which he had confidently believed! These men and women, whose name was the synonym of malefactor—those of whom the scum of the Forum spoke as incestuous cannibals—they were innocent, they were holy! they alone were innocent, they alone were holy! Aliturus had heard the philosophers talking together. How hard and unnatural were their doctrines; how inconsistent their lives; how hopeless their aspirations; how hollow their vaunts of blessedness compared with those of these men! Among these was happiness, or it was nowhere. He had seen palaces—their gilded misery, their monotonous weariness, their reckless guilt—he had experienced the emptiness of that intoxicating fame which shouted in the voice of innumerable spectators. Alas, alas! what a bubble was the life of the gentile world, and what spectres followed those who chased it!

His thoughts went back to the days of a childhood spent in Hebron under the rustling boughs of the oak of Mamre. Happier for him had he lived and died in his native Palestine, unknown, innocent, faithful to the religion of his people. But his grandfather had been implicated in the tearing down of the golden eagle, instigated by the two bold young Rabbis Judas and Matthias, in the days of Herod the Great, and had been put to death. His father had struggled in vain against adversity, and his widowed mother, left in utter destitution, had died of a broken heart. Penniless and an orphan, the boy had been carried down to Gaza by a villanous agent of Herod, and had been sold to a Roman slave-dealer. This trader in human flesh had seen in him the promise of extraordinary beauty, which would enable him to repay himself in a few years a hundred times over the paltry sum which he had paid for the Jewish orphan. He kept him with care, fed him well, had him taught Greek, and gave him an artistic education—not from any feelings of kindness, but solely with a view to ultimate gain. He kept him apart from the other slave-boys of his shop, who were meant for less luxurious destinies, and would only command moderate prices as grooms or foot-boys. They, with chalked feet, were exposed for sale on the public catasta in sight of every passer-by, and could be purchased for little more than five hundred sesterces; but those who wished to see the brilliant Aliturus must be persons of wealth and distinction, who were admitted into the inner apartments, and who would be willing to pay at least eight thousand sesterces. He had been purchased by the wealthy and luxurious Sulla, who, charmed by his vivacity, grace, and genius, saw a means of enriching himself by having him trained as a pantomime. During these years Aliturus had not only seen the darkest side of pagan life, but had grown familiar with its viciousness in every form. Abandoning the religion of Moses, he had found no other in its place, and lived only for the present. On the stage he had rapidly surpassed all competitors, with the exception of Paris, who shared with him the position of a favourite of the Roman people. The large sums of money which he amassed by his art enabled him to purchase his freedom before he was twenty-three; and, in a career of unchecked outward prosperity he had become a familiar inmate of the noblest patrician houses, and even of the imperial circle. For some years he had been the favourite of all the gilded youth, the darling of the Roman ladies. But the faith of his childhood still hung about him. Amid the giddiest whirl of vice and pleasure, he still felt in his heart an aching void; and the events of this evening had revealed to him not only how aching the void was, but also the misery and failure in which his life would end, with no vista beyond it save the darkness of the grave. Often before, in his lonelier moments, he had seen virtue and pined for its loss; but now that pure ideal shone before him with a more heavenly lustre, and remorse pierced him like a sword.

He awaited the next gathering of the Christians with feverish impatience—not with his first purpose of accumulating evidence for their extirpation, but rather for the sake of his own soul and that he might leave no stone unturned to save them. He was also deeply anxious to see him whom Cletus had described as ‘John the beloved.’ He longed to hear more of the Master whom the Christians worshipped with such passionate devotion, and to know wherein lay the secrets of the hope which He had kindled, of the peace which He had bequeathed, of the righteousness which He had placed within reach of attainment, not only by the noble and the learned, but by the despised and by paupers and by slaves.

It was to him a time of anxiety and trial. He had to act that week one of his favourite, most exciting, and most unworthy parts. He was pledged to it; myriads were expecting to see him in it; he had already received for it a large sum of money from Varro, the president of the games, and he had neither the courage to withdraw from it nor any appreciable excuse for doing so. He acted it with all his accustomed supremacy of skill, but he acted it mechanically and with a wounded conscience; and he listened to the thunders of applause which his grace evoked with loathing for himself and for his degraded audience. He returned to his house physically weary, but even more mentally prostrate, and, flinging himself on a couch, turned his face to the wall and wept. A summons from the Palace forced him to rouse himself, to put on a court dress, and assume his usual aspect of easy gaiety.T16 Nero asked him with feverish eagerness whether he had succeeded in tracking the Christians to their haunts, and what evidence he had been able to collect against them.

‘Give me time, Cæsar,’ he said. ‘I went three days ago to their assembly and I heard nothing which could be construed into sedition, and I saw nothing to their discredit. I am driven to disbelieve what I told you about them.’

‘They are sly foxes,’ said Nero. ‘Poppæa has heard more about them from the Jew Josephus. You are not initiated into their mysteries, so that you did not really see what they are.’

‘And what matters it what they are?’ said Tigellinus. ‘We must have some criminals to accuse of having caused the fire; and who so handy as this secret, morose, man-hating, child-killing, flesh-eating sect of darkness, whom the people detest, and whom in any case it would be a merit to exterminate?’

‘Poor wretches!’ said Aliturus. ‘I should be sorry to do them more harm than I have done already; but after the next nundine I may have more to tell you.’

‘That man is wavering,’ said Tigellinus, when Aliturus had gone. ‘He is a Jew, and he is not so much in earnest as he was. He seems to be touched by the squeamish effeminacy of pity.’

‘Poppæa says that the Jews hate these Christians even more than we do,’ answered Nero.

‘Nevertheless, Cæsar, you may be certain that the two superstitions spring from the same root. I will find out the Christian haunts for myself. It is high time to strike a blow.’