CHAPTER XLII A MASSACRE OF SLAVES

‘Frigidus a rostris manat per compita rumor.’

Hor. Sat. II. vi. 50.

‘Servos in numero hominum esse non pateris?’—Sen. Ep. xlvii., ap. Macrob. Sat. i. 11.

Rome was in a state of wild excitement. The city had hardly been more agitated when the news of Caligula’s murder had spread among the citizens. The assassination of an emperor was always a possible event. The little human divinity was certain to make so many enemies, and was envied by so many powerful rivals, that the fate of Cæsar after Cæsar made it no more than a nine days’ wonder if another fell. But the victim this time was not a Cæsar. It was one of the chief men in the city, a man of consular rank—no less a person than the Præfect of the city, Pedanius Secundus.

And the dread news was whispered from mouth to mouth that he had been murdered by one of his own slaves!

The people in the Forum and the Velabrum and the Subura and at Libo’s Well, and the merchants at the Janus, and the patricians in their palaces, and the priests in the temples, and the boys of Rome as they played on the steps of the Julian Basilica, were all discussing this sinister event.

Tigellinus and Petronius, and a group of courtiers, were standing together under the porch of the Temple of Castor when the news reached them. They eagerly questioned the messenger.

‘Is it certain that the murderer was a slave?’ asked Tigellinus in tones of horror.

‘He was caught red-handed,’ said the messenger. ‘The dagger was wrenched from him, dripping with blood. His name is Vibius and he does not deny the crime.’

‘And what was his motive?’

‘Some say that the Præfect had promised him his liberty for a certain sum of money. The slave pinched himself for years to raise it, and when he brought the money Pedanius broke his bargain.’

The hearers only shrugged their shoulders.

‘That happens commonly enough,’ said Cæcina Tuscus, Nero’s foster-brother, who had himself been born a slave.

‘It only meant,’ said Senecio, ‘that the Præfect had changed his mind.’

‘Others say,’ continued the man, ‘that Pedanius had a favourite, who had been also a favourite of Vibius, who was driven wildly jealous.’

‘The notion of a slave presuming to have a favourite!’ lisped the effeminate Quintianus. ‘What next?’

‘How many slaves had Pedanius?’ asked Petronius.

‘Four hundred.’

‘Is that all?’ said Tigellinus. ‘It is lucky that he had no more. They will be executed, every one of them—that’s one comfort. Let us thank the gods for the Silanian law.’

They saw Seneca approaching them; and it was evident that he had heard the news, for his face wore a look of sorrow and alarm.

‘How say you, Seneca?’ asked Lucan; ‘is the Silanian law to be carried out, and are all Pedanius’s four hundred slaves to die?’

‘I should hope not,’ said the philosopher, indignantly. ‘What! are we to butcher this multitude, of whom three hundred and ninety-nine are probably innocent? The Silanian law is fit for barbarians. Every good feeling within us abhors the cruel wrong of murdering young and old, innocent and guilty, in one promiscuous massacre.’

‘But that the Præfect of Rome should be murdered by one of his own slaves!’ murmured his hearers.

‘By one of his own slaves—but maddened, report says, by an intolerable wrong.’

‘Wrong?’ answered Vestinus, in surprise. ‘Are not, then, our slaves our chattels? Has a slave rights?’

‘He has the rights of a human being,’ answered Seneca. ‘Are not our slaves of the same flesh and blood as we? Has not a slave feelings? Has not a slave passions?’

‘Yes; very bad passions,’ said young Vedius Pollio.

‘Do they stand alone in that respect?’ asked Seneca, fixing a keen look on him. ‘Do masters never show bad passions?’

Every one understood the allusion, for in the days of Augustus the young man’s ancestor, Vedius Pollio, had ordered a slave to be flung into the fish-pond to feed the lampreys, merely because he fell and broke a crystal vase. Augustus, who was dining with Pollio that day, was so indignant that he ordered the slave to be set free, and every crystal vase in the house to be broken.

‘Seneca will begin to think himself mistaken if I say that I agree with him,’ said Petronius. ‘Nevertheless, I do. I cannot bear to enter a friend’s house and hear it clanking with chains and ringing with yells, like an ergastulum.’

‘Petronius is the soul of good nature,’ said Cassius Longinus; ‘but I pity Rome if those maudlin views prevail.’

‘Yes,’ echoed the fierce Cingonius Varro; ‘so many slaves so many foes. We nobles live all our lives in a sort of beleaguered garrison. If the Senate does not do its duty, I shall emigrate.’

‘Who makes our slaves our foes?’ answered Seneca. ‘Mine are not. Most of them are faithful to me. They are my humble friends. I believe they love me. I know that many of them would die for me. We become slaves ourselves because we have so many.’

‘Tush!’ said Scævinus. ‘These sentimentalities will ruin us. Why, some of us have a thousand slaves, and some of us have more. We don’t know their names, and have to keep a nomenclator to tell us. Galba is the only person I know who keeps up the ridiculous old fashion of all the slaves and freedmen coming in twice daily, to say “Good morning” and “Good evening.” Are we to waste our time in trying to curry favour with them? I rule mine by the lash and the chain and the torture. Ha! Pudens, my grave newly-wedded primipilar; here will be some work for you.’

‘Never!’ said Pudens. ‘I would rather resign my commission than carry out the Silanian law and superintend the slaughter of the innocent.’

‘And you, my young Titus?’ asked Petronius. ‘I hear you are going soon to see some military service. Do you think that your step-mother Cænis and the boy Domitian will be able to keep your slaves in order?’

‘We have but few, Petronius,’ said Titus; ‘but they love us. When I was ill, all the familia were as tender in their attentions as if they had been brothers.’

‘Like to like,’ whispered Tigellinus. ‘He is half of slave-origin himself.’

‘And what may your origin be?’ asked Vestinus, to whom the remark had been made, and who loathed Tigellinus.

The rumour had spread that all the slaves of Pedanius were to be executed, and the attitude of the people grew very threatening. Many of them had been slaves themselves, and many of them lived in intimacy with the slave population, which immensely outnumbered the freedmen. Familiar with the insolence and the exactions of the wealthy, they assembled in throngs and demanded that there should be a trial, and that the innocent should be spared. Their language became so menacing that the Senate was hastily convened. It was hoped by all the more just and kind of the senators that mild counsels would prevail, and the Silanian decree be repealed or modified. They pointed out that the extreme rarity of the crime showed that the peril was not great; that, in this particular instance, Pedanius, besides being a merciless master, had provoked his own fate; that there was not a tittle of evidence to prove the complicity of the familia in this deed of isolated vengeance; that it would be monstrous to kill innocent boys and girls, and faithful men and women, for one madman’s crime. But the Senate was carried away partly by the selfish fears of many of its members, and partly by the impassioned speech of Cassius Longinus. An eminent jurist, a conservative who considered the traditions of the past incomparably superior to the wisdom of the present, a man of great wealth, high rank, and a certain Roman integrity, he rose in his place, and threw the weight of his influence into the scale of the old pagan ruthlessness.

‘Often have I been present, Conscript Fathers,’ he said, ‘at meetings of the Senate in which I have only protested by my silence against the innovations which are almost invariably for the worse. I did not wish you to think that I was unduly biassed by my personal studies, nor did I wish to weaken such weight as I may possess by too frequent and fruitless interpositions. But to-day the commonwealth demands my undivided efforts. A consular of Rome has been murdered in his own house by a slave’s treachery, and an unrepealed decree of the Senate threatens punishment to the whole family of slaves who neither prevented nor revealed the plot. Decree impunity for them, that when the chief magistracy of the city has been no protection we may each of us, forsooth, be defended by our own dignity! Who can be protected by any number of slaves, if four hundred were not enough to protect Pedanius Secundus? If fear did not suffice to make his slaves vigilant, which of us will be safe? There are some who do not blush to pretend,’ he continued, darting an angry glance at Seneca, ‘that the murderer did but avenge his own wrongs! Let us, then, pronounce at once that Pedanius was justly murdered! Are we to argue a case which our wiser ancestors have already decided? Why, even if the decision had now to be made for the first time, do you imagine that a slave would have had the daring to murder his master without one threat, without one rash murmur about his design? He concealed his plan, forsooth; he prepared his dagger, and no one knew of it! Could he, then, with equal facility pass through the slaves who were on night-watch, unfasten the doors of the bedchamber, carry in a light, perpetrate the bloody deed, without one person being aware of it? Guilt betrays itself beforehand in many ways. If slaves reveal to us our peril, we can live, though we be single among multitudes, safe among those who tremble for themselves—at the worst not unavenged among the guilty. Our ancestors looked with suspicion on the character of slaves, even when the slaves, born on their estates or in their houses, had learnt from infancy to love their master. But in these days we count nations among our households. Their rites are different; their religions are foreign or nil. We cannot keep in order this sink and scum of humanity except by fear. But, you say, “some of the innocent will perish among them.” Be it so! Are no brave soldiers beaten to death with rods when a routed army is punished by decimation? No great example can be inflicted without some unfairness, but the public advantage outweighs the individual injustice; and in any case, if four hundred slaves do perish, it will be a cheap loss.’

There was more than one senator who burned to refute the glittering sophisms and cruel hardness of the jurist’s speech; but Pætus Thrasea was absent, as he often was, and Seneca was cowed by his habitual timidity. He felt how easily he could have torn the speech of Longinus into shreds, and with what genuine lightnings of indignant conviction he could have shattered its pedantries and its inhumanity. But he had not the nerve to confront the impulses of a selfish panic. He longed to plead the cause of mercy and of justice, as he was so well capable of doing, and had the murmurs of dissent which the speech of Cassius evoked been but a little louder he might have plucked up courage and have saved the Senate from a deed of blood. But it was whispered on all sides that Nero leaned to severity, and Seneca’s heart failed him once more. The murmurs died away; and Cingonius Varro, emboldened by the devilish plea of necessity, rose to propose further that not only the slaves of Pedanius should be killed, but all the freedmen who lived under his roof be banished. Nero, however, made known that, while he did not wish the ancient severity to be mitigated, neither did he wish it to be increased, and the proposal dropped without a seconder.

But let us notice in passing that retribution followed cruelty. The merciless met with no mercy themselves. Cassius, who meanwhile had become blind, was not long afterwards banished by Nero to unwholesome Sardinia. Varro, a little later, was put to death by Galba just after he had become Consul elect. Many who thus voted for the murder of the innocent were murdered though innocent themselves.

The Senate might decree, but the people were indignant even to fury. Those who knew one or other of these poor slaves, and knew their innocence of what had been an act of sudden fury on the part of Vibius, did their utmost to raise a tumult. Hermas, the slave of Pedanius, whom Onesimus had seen in the Antian ergastulum, was known to all the Christians as one of their brethren; and though their principles forbade them to resist the decree of the state by violence, their lamentations and appeals that some pity should be extended to the victims stirred the hearts of the multitude. And they knew that many senators and Prætorians were in their favour. At one time an attempt at rescue seemed probable. A crowd armed with stones and torches gathered in front of the house of Pedanius, where the four hundred slaves were now in chains under a guard of soldiers. But they were terrified by the blind deification of the imperial authority, and a mixed and cowardly mob found no leader to inspirit them to attack the house.

Titus was deeply moved and excited, and he went to his old friend Pudens to see if anything could be done. Pudens was dreading lest he should be appointed to see the execution carried out. When Claudia, hanging on his shoulder and looking into his manly face with her innocent blue eyes, entreated him to fear God rather than man, he assured her with a kiss and a smile, that at all costs, even at the cost of martyrdom, he would refuse. But Nereus had told him about poor Hermas, and the sweet and engaging character of that young man was so well known in the Christian community, that Pudens would have been ready if possible to provide for his escape.

‘I wish,’ said Titus, ‘that Onesimus had not been killed as he is said to have been at the last gladiatorial show. There is a rumour that, after all, he escaped with his life, but if so he has disappeared, poor fellow, no one knows where. He helped us when Britannicus was in danger. He might help us now.’

The centurion shook his head. He knew nothing of the attack on the King of the Grove, and supposed that Onesimus was still with Dromo at Aricia, but he thought it safest to say nothing about him even to Titus.

They could think of no step to take; but Nereus, who, as a confidential freedman, had been present, heard the hint, and he determined to act upon it on his own responsibility. He knew that Onesimus was not available, but he knew a young Christian slave-boy named Protasius in the house of Pudens who had been acquainted with some of the home-born slaves of Pedanius, and was thus familiarT12 with the slaves’ cells in his house. There was no time to lose. The massacre was to be carried out the next day. Nereus went to the boy, who said that he knew of a little neglected window half hidden by thick bushes in the peristyle, and if he could only get there he could make his way to the cell of Hermas. The night would be dark and moonless, yet the risk would be terrific, the chance almost hopeless. But the Christians were taught not to hold their lives dear unto themselves, and they considered that martyrdom in the cause of duty was the most glorious of crowns. Further than this, they always acted together, as a faithful, secret, well-organized body. With the connivance of the Prætorian Vitalis, who was a Christian, Nereus found means to get the boy introduced into the house, and, creeping along in the darkness, he found Hermas tied with cords in his cell. He had taken a knife with him, the rope was quickly severed, and both he and Hermas, knowing every intricacy of the house and grounds, got away in safety with an ease which they attributed to the special interposition of Heaven in their behalf. What were those glimmering lights which seemed to flash and fade in the dim silence as they stole through the peristyle? Was not some white angel of God helping to deliver them, as angels had stood by the three youths in the furnace, and had liberated Peter and John from prison? The belief aided them, for it gave them a confidence which was ready for any emergency, and contributed in no small measure to the unheard-of facility of their escape.

Nereus had confided to Junia his secret attempt to save Hermas, and she pleaded that something should be done at the same time to save the hapless Syra, who in the mean time had been married to Phlegon. But this proved to be impossible. All the women slaves were shut up in the triclinium together, and the door was carefully guarded. Syra remained among the doomed. Phlegon was still technically the slave of Pedanius, but as he was not in the household he had been passed over. This was poor Syra’s only comfort, and it was taken from her. Phlegon left his duties at the spoliarium, and behaved so menacingly in the mob that he was seized and, on the evidence of a freedman, included in those set apart for execution.

Meanwhile, after the humiliating adventure in the grove of Diana, Onesimus was unwilling to linger at Aricia. With no plan, but in the restlessness of despair, he disguised himself as well as he could, and by unfrequented paths slunk back to Rome, not knowing and not caring what might befall him there. He slept under the vestibule of the Temple of Mars, and next morning, mingling with the crowd that surged through the streets, he heard that the dreadful sentence against the slaves of Pedanius was to be carried into immediate execution. All thoughts of a rescue had been abandoned, for Nero had published a notice that any interference with the sentence would be treated with the extremest penalty. The clang of soldiers’ armour was heard on every side, and Prætorians lined the entire distance between the house of Pedanius and the remote part of the Esquiline, where the slaves were to be killed. The poor victims, tied together by fours, were led out of the house. Eagerly Onesimus scanned their faces, and was glad that he did not see the face of Hermas among them.

A little delay occurred when the soldiers on guard discovered that Hermas had escaped, but as they themselves ran serious peril of being punished for carelessness in the matter, they prudently held their tongues.

When the procession began to move, the wail which rose from the doomed victims was taken up by the multitude, and they abandoned themselves to their emotions with all the passion of a Southern people. They wept and wrung their hands, and raised their arms to heaven, as though to appeal for vengeance. But the Prætorians surrounded the slaves with drawn swords, and armed gladiators, who lined the streets, sternly thrust back the surging mob. A ghastly sense of fascination drew Onesimus to the scene of execution. There was no time to be particular as to the mode of death. The soldiers, dreading a riot, were chiefly anxious to get through their odious task as quickly as possible. One after another, amid groans and shrieks, and pools of blood, old grey-haired men and women, and young boys and little children and fair girls, had the sword driven into their throats or through their hearts. The agony of the boys was pitiable to witness. Some of them had belonged to the order of slaves who were chosen for their beauty, were dressed in rich robes, and pampered with every form of luxury and indulgence. Their mode of life had left no courage in them, and death meant to them the end of all things, or some tormenting Tartarus. But in vain they wept, in vain they pleaded for mercy.

On the other hand, the high bearing of some of the slaves moved a deeper pity than the fate of these victims of luxury and cruelty. For some of the Christians in the household of Pedanius, who had not been so fortunate as Hermas, knew that their brethren were looking on with prayer and sympathy, and went to their fate, not only with Stoic dignity, but with beautiful humility and simple peace. They felt something of the glory of martyrdom. A light shone in their upturned faces, and there was an accent as of music in their murmured prayers. There were a few of their heathen fellow-sufferers who bared their breasts to the sword with stolid indifference, and even with unseemly levity; but the Christians went to death as to a coronation. One poor boy—his name was Verus—moved many to tears. When first he heard the groans of those who fell as the sword smote them, he shrank back and trembled, for he was little more than a child. His father had become a convert of Linus, and he had caused his children to be baptised in infancy, and this was his favourite son. Even in that evil slave-household the boy had grown up unstained, like some white lily whose roots are in the mud. When Verus saw the sword driven into his father’s heart, he sprang back with a cry, and in his excitement grasped the hand of one of the legionaries. The brutal executioner flung him back so violently that he fell. Instantly regaining his composure, he rose to his knees, clasped his hands, and turning his eyes heavenwards, began to pray—‘Our Father, which art in heaven.’ At that moment the sun shone forth out of dark clouds, and as the light streamed over him, and made a natural aureole round his bright hair, they saw his face as it had been the face of an angel. Even the soldier who had raised his hand to strike stood amazed, and delayed his blow. But with a jeer the ruffian who had flung him back, brought down his sword on the boy’s head. He fell without a word, and the blood streamed over the bright face, and bedabbled the fair hair. As for Syra and Phlegon, they stood hand in hand in mute despair, and perished together, having known no consolation in life but their pure love for each other, and appalled by the mystery which crowned lives so miserable as theirs had been with a death so cruel and undeserved.

In vain the agonised spectators cursed the soldiers, cursed the dead Pedanius, cursed the Senate, and in their madness did not even refrain from cursing Nero. Before an hour was over the deed was done. The yet warm bodies, the yet palpitating limbs, of these three hundred and ninety-eight victims, were flung into one of the deep pits of the Esquiline, and a cartload of sawdust soaked up the bloody traces of that slaughter of the innocent.

Sickened, dazed, horrified, Onesimus left the dreadful scene, and went back to the Forum, where he sat half-stunned, on the steps of the great Julian Basilica. The life of Rome was going on as though nothing had happened. Peasants were selling chestnuts and olives and macerated chickpeas to the crowd. Idlers were sauntering up and down, occasionally stopping to listen to the lampoons of a bawling poetaster, or to watch the tame vipers of a snake-charmer. Others, who could not stand poets reciting in the dog-days, were devoting their attention to the performances of a learned pig.85 The vestal Rubria passed by in all the pride of her stola, and tasselled pallium, and jewelled necklace, amid the deep reverence of the people, and unconscious of the coming doom which Nero’s vileness had soon in store for her. Boys were playing at draughts on the circles which they had cut in the marble pavement, where they may still be seen. The swallows twittered and chased each other about under the blue sky; but nothing could charm away the gloom of the Phrygian’s heart, and with his head bent over both palms he sat, the picture of despair.

A touch on the shoulder, the whisper of his name, made him spring to his feet in alarm; but looking round he saw the bright, honest face of Titus smiling down on him.

‘How did you recognise me?’ he asked.

‘A disguise does not often deceive me,’ said Titus; ‘but I recognised you by your figure and attitude. I won’t betray you. Come here, behind the shrine of Vesta, and tell me about yourself.’

‘How wretched and ill you look!’ he said, as they stood alone under the shadow of the little circular temple and the House of the Vestals. ‘Where have you been this long time? What has happened to you? Why are you here? I was mentioning you to Pudens only this morning, and if we had known that you were in Rome you might have been of use.’

‘You once helped to save my life,’ said Onesimus, ‘when I did not deserve it. I will tell you all.’

He gave an outline of what had befallen him, concealing only the shameful attack on the Rex at Aricia.

‘And what will you do now?’ asked Titus.

‘Starve—beg—die!’ he answered, in deep dejection.

‘Listen,’ said Titus. ‘I have just heard from Pudens that he is likely to be sent to a command in Britain, and I shall go with him. Claudia will accompany him, and the old British king, Caractacus. I think that when you left Aricia you might have come to Pudens and shown yourself more grateful for his kindness. But the centurion is very good and forgiving, and, if I ask him, I am sure that he will let you go with us to Britain.’

Onesimus longed to accept the offer, but he thought of Junia. He was near her now.

‘Is Nereus to go?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Titus. ‘Nereus is a freedman now, and he is too old for so distant a voyage and so hard a service.’

Then Onesimus confessed his love for Junia, and the wild hope which he still entertained that he might some day be accepted by her. Humbly he took the hand of Titus and kissed it, and said—

‘Forgive me; I will struggle on as best I may.’

‘Nay,’ said Titus; ‘I have not forgotten what you once did for me and Britannicus, though in that matter, too, you fell short afterwards. I never forget Britannicus,’ he added, sadly, and stood for a moment silent. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I know two people in Rome, besides Pudens, who are good and kind. One is my uncle, Flavius Sabinus; the other is Pomponia Græcina. I am sure that one of them would find some place for you. Acte has asked about you more than once, and was, I know, fond of you. But it would not be safe for you to enter Nero’s Palace again.’

‘Then let me serve the lady Pomponia, if I may.’

‘Follow me,’ said Titus; ‘I will see what I can do for you.’

Their way led towards the Capenian Gate, where the Appian Road enters the city. They had not proceeded far when they met a procession of humble people thronging round a band of soldiers, who were entering Rome in charge of several prisoners.