“Wait, my son! I might quote a verse from the same chapter: ‘He who hath part in the first resurrection shall reign with Christ a thousand years.’ So that the Millennium is beginning now, and cannot end forthwith.”
“The old one ends, and the new begins.”
“Just so! The old dark age is past, and we await Christ’s second coming on earth. If you retained the hope, you would see the new era dawn.”
“I do not believe a word of what you say. The last year of the thousand years is here, and now I go out in the desert to await, with fasting, prayer, and penance, the day of the Lord, and the coming of my Redeemer. I will pray for you, my father, but here our ways part, and you will see me no more.”
The Emperor departed, and Silvester remained alone.
“I wait!” he said to himself, “but meanwhile I look after our worldly affairs.” And he unfolded a map of the then known world. With a piece of red chalk he drew crosses and crowns, for the most part in the North. But above Jerusalem he drew a flag with a lance.
The year 999 approached its end, and the Christians lived in a state of deadly anxiety. In Rome and its neighbourhood, all the active business of life had ceased. The fields were not sown, but lay covered with weeds; trade was at a stand-still; the shops were closed. Those who had anything gave it away, and had difficulty in finding anyone to take it. The churches stood open day and night for three months, and each day was like Sunday. People wore their best clothes, for there was no object in keeping them, and they wished to be well dressed in order to meet the Redeemer on His arrival. Christmas had been kept with unwonted solemnity, and men lived at peace with one another. The guards of the city had nothing to do, for the fear of what was coming sufficed to maintain order. People slept with open doors, and no one dared to steal or to deceive. There was no need to do so, for everyone received what he asked for; bakers distributed bread gratis, and innkeepers allowed unlimited credit; the payment of debts was not exacted. The churches were crowded day and night; there was a ceaseless round of confessions, absolutions, masses and communions.
It was the day before New Year’s Eve. Views were divided as to the nature of the coming catastrophe—whether it would come as a flood or as an earthquake. Most of the people remained outside their houses, some on the plain, others on the hills; all with their eyes directed towards heaven.
In the morning, the Plain of Mars was full of men, and a crowd formed a circle round a pile of wood. A madman stood on the pile and spoke, with a quantity of papers and parchments in his hand. He was a rich citizen who for three months had practised fasting and penance, and now, reduced to a skeleton, wished to escape the wrath to come. He had collected a large quantity of dry wood under the pretext of giving warmth to all passing beasts of burthen. Since nobody troubled about what others did, he was allowed to do as he liked.