Darkness and Dawn; Or, Scenes in the Days of Nero. An Historic Tale

by F. W. Farrar

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 familiar[T12] 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.