CHAPTER XII ONESIMUS

‘Non tressis agaso.’—Persius, v. 76.

But we must now turn for a time from the Palace of the Emperor and the grand houses of the nobles crowded with ancestral images, gleaming with precious marbles, enriched with Greek statues of priceless beauty, to the squalid taverns and lodging-houses of the poorest of that vast and mongrel populace which surged through the streets of Rome.

It was not an Italian populace, but was composed of the dregs of all nations, which had been flowing for several generations into the common sewer of Rome. It congregated in all the humbler and narrower streets; in the Velabrum it bawled mussels and salt fish for sale; it thronged the cook-shops of the Esquiline; it crowded densely into the cheaper baths; it swarmed in the haunts of vice which gave so bad a name to the Subura. Long ago the Syrian Orontes had flowed into the Tiber, and brought with it its flute-players, and dancers, and immoralities.28 Long ago, when the Forum loungers dared to howl at him, the great Scipio had stormed at them as step-sons of Italy—as people who had no father and no mother—and bidden them to be silent.

The city was almost as much a Greek as it was a Roman city. But, besides this, it abounded in Orientals. Here would be heard the shaken sistra of the Egyptian Serapis, whose little temple in the Campus Martius was crowded by credulous women. Here you would be met by the drunken Galli of the Phrygian Cybele, whose withered, beardless faces, cracked voices, orgiastic dances, and gashings of themselves with knives, made their mendicancy more offensive than the importunities of the beggars who lounged all day about the Sublician and Fabrician bridges, or half-stormed the carriages of the nobles as they slowly drove up the steep hill of Aricia. Of this promiscuous throng—to say nothing of Asiatics, Gauls, Germans, Spaniards, and Scythians—some were

‘From farthest south,

Syene, and where the shadow both way falls,

Meroe, Nilotic isle; and more to west

The realm of Bocchus to the Blackmoor sea;

From India and the Golden Chersonese,

And utmost Indian isle, Taprobane,

Dusk faces with white silken turbans wreathed.’

One quarter of the city—that across the Tiber—was largely given up to Jews. They had flocked to Rome in extraordinary numbers after the visit of Pompey to Jerusalem. Sober Roman burghers long remembered with astonishment, and something of alarm, the wild wail which they raised at the funeral of Julius Cæsar, who had always been their generous patron. They were numerous enough, and organised enough, to make it a formidable matter to offend them, though the majority of them—conspicuous everywhere by the basket and hay which they carried to keep their food clean from Gentile profanation—pursued the humblest crafts, and sold sulphur-matches or mended broken pottery, while the lowest of all told fortunes, or begged, or cheated, with cringing mien. The persistence and ability of many of their race had, however, gained them a footing in the houses of the great. Aliturus, the actor, was at this moment a favourite of Nero, and of Rome. The authors of that age—Martial, Juvenal, Persius, Tacitus—abound with wondering and stinging allusions to the votaries of Mosaism.

They made many converts, and the splendid beauty of Berenice and Drusilla, the daughters of Herod Agrippa I., together with the wealth of their brother, Agrippa II., had given them a prominent position in distinguished circles. To their father, the brilliant adventurer Agrippa I., the favourite of Caligula, Claudius had practically owed his elevation to the Empire, since he it was who induced the senators to acquiesce in that uncouth dominion.

The streets of Rome were full of persons who lived in semi-pauperism; lazzaroni who had nothing to depend upon but the sportula or dole supplied by noble and wealthy families, or grants of corn made at nominal prices by the Emperor. They lived anyhow, by their wits and by their vices. In that sunny climate the wants of life are few, and they found abundance of excitement and amusement, while they could hardly be left to starve amid the universal profusion which sometimes squandered millions of sesterces over a single meal.

But few of the dregs of the people presented a more miserable aspect than a Phrygian youth who was loitering aimlessly about the Forum near the hour of noon. The Forum was nearly deserted, for most of the people were taking their siesta, and the youth sat down, looking the picture of wretchedness. He was pale and thin, as though he had gone through many hardships. His tunic was soiled and ragged, and he appeared to be, as he was, a homeless and friendless stranger, alone among the depraved and selfish millions of the world’s capital.

While he was thinking what he had best do to allay the pangs of hunger, he saw a young student enter the Forum followed by a little slave. He paid no particular attention to them, but a few moments later his curiosity was aroused, first by hearing the blows of an axe, and then by seeing the student run hastily out of the Forum with the slave-child at his heels. Strolling to the corner from which the sounds had come, he found himself opposite to the lattice-work which projected over the shops of the silversmiths, and seeing an axe lying on the ground, picked it up, and examined it. Alarmed by a rush of feet, he looked up and saw the ‘bucket-men’29 (as the mob nicknamed the police) running up to him. While he was wondering what they could want, he found himself rudely arrested, and saluted with a volley of violent abuse.30

‘What have I done?’ he asked in Greek.

‘What have you done, you thievish rascal? You ask that, when we have caught you, axe in hand, hewing at and stealing the lead of the roof?’

The youth, who knew Latin imperfectly, was too much puzzled and confused to understand the objurgations addressed to him; but a crowd of idlers rapidly collected, and speaking to one of them, he was answered in Greek that the people of the neighbourhood had long been blamed for stealing the lead from the silversmiths. They had not done it, and were indignant at being falsely accused. And now, as he had been caught in the act, he would be haled off to the court of the City Prætor, and it would be likely to go hard with him. If he got off with thirty lashes he might think himself lucky. More probably he would be condemned to branding, or—since an example was needed—to the cross.

The youth could only cry, and wring his hands, and protest his innocence; but his protests were met by the jeers of the crowd.

‘Ah!’ said one, ‘how will you like to have the three letters branded with a hot iron right across your forehead? That won’t make the girls like your face better.’

‘Whose slave are you?’ asked another. ‘Won’t you catch it from your master! You’ll have to work chained in the slave-jail or at the mill, and may bid good-bye to the sunlight for a year or two at least.’

‘Slave?’ said another. ‘I don’t believe he’s a slave. He looks too ragged and starved. He’s had no regular rations for a long time, I’ll be bound.’

‘A runaway, I expect,’ said a third. ‘Well, anyhow he’ll have to give an account of himself, unless he likes to have a ride on the little horse,31 or have his neck wedged tight into a wooden fork.’

‘Furcifer? Gallows-bird!’ cried others of the crowd. ‘And we honest citizens are to be accused of stealing because of his tricks!’

‘It’s a sad pity, too,’ said a young woman; ‘for look how handsome he is with those dark Asiatic eyes!’

As most of these remarks had been poured out in voluble and slang Latin, the young Phrygian could only make out enough to know that he was in evil case; and, weakened as he was by exposure and insufficient food, he could but feebly plead for mercy, and protest that he had done no wrong.

But the police had not dragged him far when they saw Pudens and Titus approaching them down the Viminal Hill, on which the centurion lived. At the sight of a centurion in the armour of the Prætorians, and a boy who wore a golden bulla, and whom some of them recognised as a son of the brave general Vespasian, the crowd made way. As they passed by, Titus noticed the youth’s distress, and, compassionate as usual, begged Pudens to ask what was the matter. The vigiles briefly explained how they had seized their prisoner, who must have been guilty of the lead-stealing complained of, for the axe was in his hand, and no one else was near.

‘What have you to say for yourself?’ asked the centurion.

‘I am innocent,’ said the prisoner, in Greek; ‘the axe is not mine. I only picked it up to look at it. It must have been a young student who was using it, for I saw him run out of the Forum with his slave.’

Pudens and Titus exchanged glances, for they had met the student and slave still hurrying rapidly along. He was the real culprit, but he had heard the silversmiths call for the police, and had taken to his heels. Pudens had seen him stop at the house of a knight a street or two distant, and run up the steps with a speed which a Roman regarded as very undignified.

‘Come with me,’ he said to the police, ‘and I think I can take you to the real offender. This youth is innocent, though things look against him.’

Followed by the crowd, who grumbled a little at losing the enjoyment of watching the trial, Pudens led them to the knight’s house. The little slave was amusing himself with hopping to and fro under the vestibule.

‘Keep back, Quirites,’ said the head vigil. ‘The centurion and I will ask a question here.’

‘Do you know this axe, my small salaputium 32?’ said Pudens.

‘Yes,’ said the child with alacrity, for he was too young to understand the situation. ‘It is ours. We dropped it not long ago.’

‘The case is clear,’ said Pudens. ‘I will be witness;’ and he offered his ears for the officer to touch.33 ‘Meanwhile you can set this youth free.’

The officer touched his ear with the recognised formula. ‘Remember, you will be my witness in this case.’

The student was arrested, but his father got him off by a large secret bribe to the police and to the silversmiths. The crowd dispersed, and Pudens and Titus, without waiting to watch the issue of the affair, turned their steps towards the Vicus Apollinis, which led to the Palace.

Soon afterwards they heard footsteps behind them, and, turning round, saw the youth whom they had rescued.

‘What more do you want?’ said Pudens, in answer to his eager, appealing look. ‘I have got you out of your trouble; is not that enough?’

‘I am weak, and hungry, and a stranger,’ said the youth, humbly.

‘He wants money,’ whispered Titus, and drawing a denarius from the breast of his toga, he put it into his hand.

But, kneeling down, the stranger seized the hem of the scarlet sagum which Pudens happened to be wearing, and kissing it, exclaimed, ‘Oh, sir, take me into your household! I will do anything!’

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Onesimus.’

‘A good name, and of good omen.34 What are you? You look like a slave. Not a runaway slave, I hope?’

‘No sir,’ said Onesimus, to whom a lie came as easy as to most of his race. ‘I lived at Colossæ. I was kidnapped by a slave-dealer, but I escaped.’

‘And you want to go back to Colossæ?’

‘No sir. I am left an orphan. I want to earn my living here.’

‘Take him,’ said Titus. ‘You have plenty of room for an extra slave, and I like his looks.’

But Pudens hesitated.

‘A Phrygian slave!’ he said; ‘why even proverbs warn me against him.’ He quoted two, sotto voce, to Titus—‘Worst of the Mysians,’ used of persons despicably bad; and ‘More cowardly than a Phrygian hare.’

‘Well,’ said Titus, ‘I will give you proverb for proverb; “Phrygians are improved by scourging.”’35

‘Yes,’ answered Pudens; ‘but I am not accustomed to rule my slaves by the whip.’

The boy had not heard them, for they spoke in low tones, but he marked the hesitation of Pudens, and, still crying bitterly, stooped as though to make marks with his finger on the ground. His motion was quick, but Pudens saw that he had drawn in the dust very rapidly a rude outline of a fish, which he had almost instantaneously obliterated with a movement of his palm.

Pudens understood the sign. The youth was, or had been, a Christian, and knew that if Pudens happened to be a Christian too his favour would be secured.

‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘My household is small and humble, but I have just lost my lacquey, who died of fever. I will speak to my head freedman. Perhaps, when we have heard something more about you, he will let you fill the vacant place.’