Now, at last, Quintus realized his position. All that he had gone through and done during the last few hours had gone over his head, as it were, not more than half understood. He had walked on like a somnambulist over heights and hollows, without appreciating the danger, and now, waking suddenly, he shuddered to see precipices and yawning gulfs on every side. Wherever he looked, horror stared him in the face—misery, shame, dishonor, and despair. Either way his fate was hopeless. Either he must shatter the existence of the man he loved more than himself—or he must be that mean and cowardly thing, a traitor and a renegade, trailing all he held most sacred in the dust. Had not the Master of Nazareth taught, that no man could have any part in the infinite mercies of God, who fell away from the faith through fear of men? And was it not this which was driving him into denial—base fear of men? It wore, to be sure, the specious aspect, the garb of light of filial love. But ought not the true heir of the Faith patiently to take upon him even that fearful grief? Did not Jesus die on the cross, although he knew that he was breaking his parents’ hearts? Aye, He had done this thing, the Just one, the Mighty, Omnipotent; but he—Quintus—was but a feeble and worthless disciple of the Great Teacher. He could not do it, though the joys of heaven and the torments of hell were in the balance. He must lose his soul to all eternity—if only he might spare his father.
It was a terrible day that he spent, surrounded by all the treasured relics of his unclouded childhood. Titus Claudius came to visit him, to thank him for his filial obedience, and to assure him once more, that his father’s heart had forgiven and forgotten all that had passed. Quintus was incapable of responding to all his loving words, spoken in a voice that trembled with agitation, excepting by sighs and silent signs of consent and submission. In all this Titus Claudius read remorseful distress, and did his utmost to encourage him and raise his spirit; but presently, seeing that his efforts were vain, he left his son to himself again, in the hope that solitude and a night’s rest would restore his agitated soul.
But he was mistaken; Quintus did not close his eyes all night. From time to time he fancied he heard the voice of old Calenus, reproaching him with his base apostasy. Then, tortured with horror, he sprang from his bed. He compared the night he had passed in the Tullianum with this present night under his father’s roof. There—a squalid cell, with death under the clutches of wild beasts an almost absolute certainty. Here—a pretty, comfortable room with freedom ere long, happiness for his family, and all the joys of life for himself. And yet his storm-tossed heart had yesterday been at peace, while to-day it was wrung with incessant and unutterable anguish—“Blind fool!”—he seemed to hear the words spoken—“You think you are sacrificing only your own soul. But are you not also betraying and imperilling, so far as in you lies, the whole glorious work of the Master? If all were to act as you have done, where would the sublime idea be, which brought light and joy to the crucified Saviour: the Redemption, to wit, of mankind? Have you any right to sacrifice the salvation of millions, merely to spare your father—however much you may love him—a transient sorrow, which may even lead him too to the light of truth?”
He thought that Calenus was standing by his bedside, and laid his hand on his forehead. “Take courage!” said the blind man solemnly, “by God’s help all—all—all may be overcome.”
Again Quintus sat up terror-stricken. It was but a dream with his eyes open—a vision, but how vivid! He had plainly felt the pressure of a hand on his brow, and seen the prophet-like face, with its calm, holy, celestial gaze.
At last morning broke. The slaves came to help him to dress. He felt as if he were being dragged to execution, but he unresistingly submitted to all his father commanded.
The sun was rising over the Esquiline, when the father and son, in festal dress, went out of the house. Norbanus was on the spot, and a large party of clients and friends. The Forum and the adjoining streets swarmed with spectators, notwithstanding the early hour. The recantation was the great event of the day. The supreme council of the Pontifices[95]—at the head of which sat Caesar as Pontifex Maximus—had agreed, in consideration of the distinguished merits of Titus Claudius, that the sacred ceremony should be one with the daily public sacrifice offered by the Flamen Dialis, and that Quintus should be held justified and free from all suspicion of Christian proclivities, if he would, after his father and in unison with the high-priest’s clients and friends, distinctly offer up a prayer to Jupiter, the almighty and all-merciful, calling down vengeance and destruction on all the foes of the State, and especially on the vile and reprobate sect of the Nazarenes. All this Titus Claudius had hastily explained to his son, adding that everything else was a mere matter of course.
The solemn procession made its way up the broad steps to the Capitol. Quintus was suffocating, a weight lay on his breast like a tombstone. Once or twice he stood still, his knees trembled and he could hardly stand. Norbanus, who was walking by his side, had to support him.
At the top Quintus involuntarily looked round him. His eye gazed over the heads of the crowd in the Forum, past the Flavian Amphitheatre, out to the Via Appia. There, to the left, hardly distinguishable in the distance, was the wood, in whose calm retreat salvation had been opened to him—and now?
“Proceed—why do you hesitate?” said his father in his ear; and on they went to the temple. Here again a crowd, half curious and half reverent, had followed them and filled the vast hall. The altar of the patron divinity of the city was decked and wreathed with consecrated plants and costly streamers, ready for the sacred ceremony. A herald now proclaimed silence,[96] and not a murmur was heard. Two of the temple-servants led in the beasts for sacrifice, covered with garlands, while a third made a mixture of wine, spring-water, incense, and cones[97] with which to dedicate them.