Vergilius: A Tale of the Coming of Christ

Rome had passed the summits and stood looking into the dark valley of fourteen hundred years.

Behind her the graves of Caesar and Sallust and Cicero and Catullus and Vergil and Horace; before her centuries of madness and treading down; round about her a multitude sickening of luxury, their houses filled with spoil, their mouths with folly, their souls with discontent; above her only mystery and silence; in her train, philosophers questioning if it were not better for a man had he never been born-deeming life a misfortune and extinction the only happiness; poets singing no more of "pleasantries and trifles," but seeking favor with poor obscenities. Soon they were even to celebrate the virtue of harlots, the integrity of thieves, the tenderness of murderers, the justice of oppression. Leading the caravan were types abhorrent and self-opposed-effeminate men, masculine women, cheerful cynics, infidel priests, wealthy people with no credit, patricians, honoring and yet despising the gods, hating and yet living on the populace. Here was the spectacle of a republican empire, and an emperor gathering power while he affected to disdain it.

The splendor of the capital had attracted from all nations the idle rich, gamblers, speculators, voluptuaries, profligates, intriguers, criminals. To such an extreme had luxury been carried that nothing was too sacred, nothing too costly to be enjoyed. Digestion had become a science, courtship an art, sleep a nightmare, comfort an accomplishment, and the very act of living an industry. Almost one may say that the gods lived only in the imagination of the ignorant and the jests of the learned. In a growing patriciate home had become a weariness, marriage a form, children a trouble, and the decline of motherhood an alarming fact. Augustus tried the remedy of legislation. Henceforth marriage became a duty to the state. As between men and women, things were near a turning-point. Woman cannot long endure scorn nor the absence of veneration. A law older than the tablets of stone shall be her defence. Love is the price of motherhood. Soon or late, unless it be mingled in some degree with her passion, the wonderful gift is withdrawn and men cease to be born of her. Slowly, both the bitterness and the understanding of its loss turn the world to virtue. A new and lofty sentiment was appearing. Woman, weary of her part in the human comedy, had begun to inspire a love sublime as the miracle in which she is born to act.

Happily, there were good people in Rome, even noble families, with whom sacrifice had still a sacred power, and who practised the four virtues of honor, bravery, wisdom, and temperance. In rural Latium, rich and poor clung to the old faith, and everywhere a plebeian feared alike the assessor and the gods, and sacrificed to both.

It is no wonder the gods were falling when even Jupiter had been outdone by a modest man who dwelt on the Palatine. One might have seen him there any day-a rather delicate figure with shiny blue eyes and hair now turning gray. He flung his lightning with unerring aim across the great purple sea into Arabia, Africa, and Spain, and northward to the German Ocean and eastward to the land of the Goths. The genius of this remarkable man had outdone the imagination of priest and poet. A genius for organization, like that of his illustrious uncle, gave to Augustus a power greater than human hands had yet wielded.

A bit of gossip had travelled far and excited his curiosity. It spoke of a new king, with power above that of men, who was to conquer the world. Sayings of certain learned men came out of Judea into the land of lost hope. They told of the king of promise-that he would bring to men the gift of immortal life, that the heavens would declare his authority. Superstitious to the blood and bone, not a few were thrilled by the message.

The minds of thinking men were sad, fearful, and beset with curiosity.

"If there be no gods," they were wont to ask, "have we any hope and

responsibility?" They studied the philosophers Plato, Aristotle, Zeno,

Epicurus, and were unsatisfied.

The nations were at peace, but not the souls of men. A universal and mighty war of the spirit was near at hand. The skirmishers were busy-patrician and plebeian, master and slave, oppressor and oppressed. Soon all were to see the line of battle, the immortal captains, the children of darkness, the children of light, the beginning of a great revolution.

Rome was like a weary child whose toys are gods and men, and who, being weary of them, has yet a curiosity in their destruction.

Those days it was near twelve o'clock by the great dial of history. One day, about mid-afternoon, the old capital lay glowing in the sunlight. Its hills were white with marble and green with gardens, and traced and spotted and flecked with gold; its thoroughfares were bright with color-white, purple, yellow, scarlet-like a field of roses and amarantus.

The fashionable day had begun; knight and lady were now making and receiving visits.

Five litters and some forty slaves, who bore and followed them, were waiting in the court of the palace of the Lady Lucia. Beyond the walls of white marble a noble company was gathered that summer day. There were the hostess and her daughter; three young noblemen, the purple stripes on each angusticlave telling of knightly rank; a Jewish prince in purple and gold; an old philosopher, and a poet who had been reading love lines. It was the age of pagan chivalry, and one might imperil his future with poor wit or a faulty epigram. Those older men had long held the floor, and their hostess, seeking to rally the young knights, challenged their skill in courtly compliment.

"O men, who have forgotten the love of women these days, look at her!"

So spoke the Lady Lucia-she that was widow of the Praefect Publius, who fell with half his cohort in the desert wars.

She had risen from a chair of ebony enriched by cunning Etruscan art-four mounted knights charging across its heavy back in armor of wrought gold. She stopped, facing the company, between two columns of white marble beautifully sculptured. Upon each a vine rose, limberly and with soft leaves in the stone, from base to capital. Her daughter stood in the midst of a group of maids who were dressing her hair.

"Arria, will you come to me?" said the Lady Lucia.

The girl came quickly-a dainty creature of sixteen, her dark hair waving, under jewelled fillets, to a knot behind. From below the knot a row of curls fell upon the folds of her outer tunic. It was a filmy, transparent thing-this garment-through which one could see the white of arm and breast and the purple fillets on her legs.

"She is indeed beautiful in the yellow tunic. I should think that scarlet rug had caught fire and wrapped her in its flame," said the poet Ovid.

"Nay, her heart is afire, and its light hath the color of roses," said an old philosopher who sat by. "Can you not see it shining through her cheeks?"

"Young sirs," said the Lady Lucia, with a happy smile, as she raised her daughter's hand, "now for your offers."

It was a merry challenge, and shows how lightly they treated a sacred theme those days.

First rose the grave senator, Aulus Valerius Maro by name.

"Madame," said he, stepping forward and bowing low, "I offer my heart and my fortune, and the strength of my arms and the fleetness of my feet and the fair renown of my fathers."

The Lady Lucia turned to her daughter with a look of inquiry.

"Brave words are not enough," said the fair Roman maiden, smiling, as her eyes fell.

Then came the effeminate Gracus, in head-dress and neckerchief, frilled robe and lady's sandals. He was of great sires who had borne the Roman eagles into Gaul.

"Good lady," said he, "I would give my life."

"And had I more provocation," said Arria, raising a jewelled bodkin, "I would take it."

Now the splendid Antipater, son of Herod the Great, was up and speaking. "I offer," said he, "my heart and wealth and half my hopes, and the jewels of my mother, and a palace in the beautiful city of Jerusalem."

"And a pretty funeral," the girl remarked, thoughtfully. "Jerusalem is half-way to Hades."

The Roman matron turned, and put her arm around the waist of the girl and drew her close. A young man rose from his chair and approached them. He was Vergilius, son of Varro, and of equestrian knighthood. His full name was Quintus Vergilius Varro, but all knew the youth by his nomen. Tall and erect, with curly blond locks and blue eyes and lips delicately curved, there was in that hall no ancestral mask or statue so nobly favored. He had been taught by an old philosopher to value truth as the better part of honor-a view not common then, but therein was a new light, spreading mysteriously.

"Dear Lady Lucia," said he, "I cannot amuse you with idle words. I fear to speak, and yet silence would serve me ill. I offer not the strength of my arms nor the fleetness of my feet, for they may fail me tomorrow; nor my courage, for that has never been tried; nor the renown of my fathers, for that is not mine to give; nor my life, for that belongs to my country; nor my fortune, for I should blush to offer what may be used to buy cattle. I would give a thing greater and more lasting than all of these. It is my love."

The girl turned half away, blushing pink. All had flung off the mask of comedy and now wore a look of surprise.

"By my faith!" said the poet, "this young knight meant his words."

"A man of sincerity, upon my soul!" said the old philosopher. "I have put my hope in him, and so shall Rome. A lucky girl is she, for has he not riches, talent, honor, temperance, courage, and the beauty of a god? And was I not his teacher?"

"My brave Vergilius," the matron answered, "you are like the knights of old I have heard my father tell of. They had such a way with them-never a smile and a melancholy look in their faces when they spoke of love. I give you the crown of gallantry, and, if she be willing, you shall walk with her in the garden. That is your reward."

Vergilius, advancing, took the girl's hand and kissed it.

"Will you go with me?" said he.

"On one condition," she answered, looking down at the folds of her tunic.

"And it is?"

"That you will entertain me with philosophy and the poets," she answered, with a smile.

"And with no talk of love," the matron added, as Arria took his arm.

They walked through the long hall of the palace, over soft rugs and great mosaics, and between walls aglow with tints of sky and garden. These two bore with them a tender feeling as they passed the figures of embattled horse and host in carven wood, and mural painting and colored mosaic and wrought metal-symbols of the martial spirit of the empire now oddly in contrast with their own. They came out upon a peristyle overlooking an ample garden wherein were vines, flowers, and fruit trees.

"You have a way of words," said she. "It is almost possible to believe you."

He stopped and for a long moment looked into her eyes. "I love you, sweet girl," he said, softly; "I love you. As I live, I speak the truth."

"And you a man!" she exclaimed, incredulously.

"Ay, strange as it may be, a Roman."

"My mother has told me," said she, looking down at her sandal, "that when a man speaks, it is well to listen but never to believe."

"They are not easy to understand-these men and women," said he, thoughtfully. "Sometimes I think they would be nobler if they were dumb as dogs. Albeit I suppose they would find a new way of lying. But, O sweet sister of Appius, try to believe me, though you believe no other, and I-I shall believe you always."

"You had better not," said she, with a merry glance.

"I must."

"But you will doubt me soon, for I shall say that I do not love you."

For a little he knew not how to answer. She turned away, looking off at the Capitoline, where the toil and art of earth had wrought to show the splendor of heaven. Its beautiful, barbaric temples were glowing in the sunlight.

"Life would be too serious if there were no dissimulation." She looked up at him as she spoke, and he saw a little quiver in her curved lips.

"That bow of your lips-I should think it fashioned by Praxiteles-and it is for the arrows of truth."

"But a girl-she must deceive a little."

They were now among the vines.

"I do not understand you."

"Stupid fellow!" said she, in a whisper, as she turned, looking up at him. "Son of Varo, lovers are not ever to be trusted. Shall I tell you a story? One day I was in the Via Sacra and a young man caught and held me for a moment and tried to touch my lips-that boy, Antipater, a good-looking wretch!"

She gave her shoulders a little shrug and drew her robe closer. "He had come out of the Basilica Julia, and I am sure he had been over-drinking. I cried 'Help!' and quickly a man came and stood between us; and oh! young sir, as I live, it was our great father Augustus, and Antipater knelt before him.

"'Young man,' said the father-and his eyes shone-'rise and look yonder. Do you see the citadel? Under its marble floor there is a grave. It is that of one who kissed a vestal and was buried alive. There are sacred people in Rome, and among them is this daughter of my beloved Publius. Go you to your palace, son of Herod, and, hereafter, forget not that you are in Rome.'

"He was angry, and I, so frightened! Then he took me home and said he would be my father, and that in good time he would choose a husband for me."

"The gods grant that he choose me."

"The gods forbid it, son of Varro."

"And why?"

Slowly and with assumed severity she spoke.

"Because-I-do-not-love-you."

"Cruel one!" said he, turning and biting his lips. "Your words are as the blow of the pilum."

"Have they indeed wounded you?" She touched his hand with a look of sympathy.

"They have made me sick at heart."

"Then would I not believe them," said she, tenderly, slipping her slender fingers into his.

He pressed her hand. "And do you, then, love me?"

"No-I-do-not-love-you."

"You are a strange people-you maidens of the capital," said he, taking her hand in both of his. "Rome has conquered everything save its women."

She parted her tunic and stood looking down at her white bosom, and with her delicate fingers brushed off a bit of dust which had fallen from the vine above them.

"I do think much of love," said she, thoughtfully, still looking down at her breast.

"And of me," he insisted.

"Nay, not of you," she answered, without delay.

"I shall know," said he, wistfully, "for I shall consult the fates. I have here a sacred coin. An old dame found it when she was digging in the side of Soracte. See, it has on its face the head of Apollo, and opposite is an arrow in a death-hand. And the hag had an odd dream of this coin, so she told me-that it fell out of the sky, and was, indeed, from the treasury of the gods, and had in it a wonderful power in all mysteries. And one might tell by tossing it in the air and noting its fall, if he were loved or hated by the first one he should see after learning its answer. I have never known it to fail. If the head is up you love me," said he, tossing the disk of metal.

It fell and lay at his feet.

"The head!" he exclaimed, with joy.

"Is it really blest of the gods?" she inquired, eagerly, her cheeks aflame. "Is it indeed blest?"

"So said the woman who gave it me."

"Now I shall toss it," said she, taking the coin.

"Ah! you would know if I love you," he answered.

The coin leaped high and fell and rolled along the marble walk. Both followed eagerly, he leading, and, as it stopped, he quickly covered the bit of metal with his hand.

"Let me see!" said she, her hand upon his wrist.

"Do not look."

"Let me see it!" she insisted.

"Sweet sister of Appius, I beg of you, here on my knees, do not look at the coin! I will give you the white steeds from Cappadocia, but do not look."

"Let me see it, I say, son of Varro!" She was tugging at his wrist, and now, indeed, there was a pretty pleading in her voice. The words were to him as pearls strung on a silken thread.

"Wait a little."

"I shall not wait."

"Sweet flower of Rome," said he, looking into her eyes, "I know that you are mine now! Your voice-it is like the love-call of the robin!"

"Stubborn boy! Do you think I care for you?" She stopped and looked into his eyes.

"Else why should you wish to see the coin?" said he. "But, look! Upon my soul it is false!" A little silence followed.

"'Tis false!" he repeated. "I swear the coin lies, for I do love you, dearly."

"It does not lie," she whispered.

He put his arm about her.

"And I know," he answered, "why you think it cannot lie. It said, before, that you love me, and it was right."

She thrust him away gently, and, rising, as if stricken with sudden fear of him, ran a few paces up the walk. She turned quickly, and looked back at him as he approached. Her face had grown pale.

"I-I shall never speak with you again," she whispered.

"Oh, have mercy upon me, beautiful sister of Appius!" said the young knight, and there was a note of despair in his voice. "Have mercy upon me!"

"Young sir," said she, retreating slowly, as he advanced, "I do not love you-I do not love you."

She turned quickly, and ran to the peristyle, and, stopping not to glance back at him, entered the great marble home of her fathers.

He stood a moment looking at the sun-glow behind roof and dome and tower. A bridge of light, spanning the hollow of the city, had laid its golden timbers from hill to hill; and for a little the young man felt as if he were drowning in the shadows under it. He turned presently and hurried into the palace.

"He is more honored than Jupiter these days," the philosopher was saying as Vergilius re-entered.

"Who?" inquired the young man.

"Who else but Caesar, and it is well. The gods-who are they?"

"The adopted children of Vergil and Homer," said Appius, brother of

Arria, who had just returned from the baths.

"But our great father Augustus-who can doubt that he deserves our worship?" said the philosopher, a subtle irony in his voice. It was this learned man who had long been the instructor of Vergilius.

"Who, indeed?" was the remark of another.

"But these gods!"

"At least they are not likely to cut off one's head," said Aulus.

"Speak not lightly of the gods," said Vergilius. "They are still a power with the people, and the people have great need of them. What shall become of Rome when the gods fall?"

"It shall sicken," said the philosopher, with a lift of his hand. "You that are young may live to see the end. It shall be like the opening of the underworld. Our republic is false, our gods are false, and, indeed, I know but one truth."

"And what may it be?" said another.

"We are all liars," he quickly answered.

"O tempora!" said the Lady Lucia. "It is an evil day, especially among men. When Quinta Claudia went with her noble sisters to meet the Idaean mother at Terracina they were able to find in Rome one virtuous man to escort them. But that was more than two hundred years ago."

"If one were to find him now, and he were to go," said the philosopher, "by the gods above us! I fear he would return a sad rake indeed."

"'Tis not a pleasant theme," said the Lady Lucia, by way of introducing another.

"The dear old girl!" said young Gracus, in a low tone, as he turned to the senator. "Her hair is a lie, her complexion is a lie, her lips are a lie."

"And her life is a lie," said the other.

"You enjoyed your walk?" asked the mother of Arria, addressing

Vergilius.

"The walk was a delight to me and its end a sorrow," he answered.

"And you obeyed me?"

"To the letter." It is true, he thought, we are a generation of liars, but how may one help it? Then, quickly, a way seemed to suggest itself, and he added: "Madame, forgive me. I do now remember we had a word or two about love; but, you see, I was telling the legend of this coin. It has the power to show one if he be loved."

"By tossing?"

"By tossing. Head, yes; the reverse, no."

"Let me try." She flung it to the oaken beams and it fell on the great rug beside her.

"Madame, the hand is up," said Vergilius. "I fear it is not infallible."

"Let me see," she answered, stooping gravely to survey the coin. Something passed between her and her pleasure, and for one second a shadow wavered across her face.

"It is Death's hand, of course," she remarked, sadly. "Love is for the young and death is for the old."

"Old, madame! Why, your cheeks have roses in them."

"Good youth, you are too frank," said she, with a quick glance about her. "Did the coin say that she loved you?"

"It did."

"And what did she say?"

The young man hesitated.

"Come, you innocent! Of course, I knew that you would talk of nothing but love. What said she?"

"That she does not love me; but I am sure it is mere coquetry."

"Dear youth! You have a cunning eye. This very day speak, my brave Vergilius-speak to her brother Appius. To-night take him to dine with you."

"I had so planned."

A gong of silver rang in the palace halls. It was the signal to prepare for dinner, and the guests made their farewells. Soon Appius and the young lover walked side by side in the direction of the Palatine.

"And what have you been doing?" the former inquired, presently.

"Only dreaming."

"Of what?"

"Of love and happiness, and your sister."

"My sister?"

"Yes; I love her and wish to make her my wife."

"You have wealth and birth and wit and good prospects. I can see no objection to you. But love-love is a thing for women to talk about."

"You are wrong, Appius. I can feel it in my soul. And, believe me, I am no longer in Rome. I have found the gateway of a better world-like that heaven they speak of in the Trastevere-full of peace and beauty."

"You have, indeed, been dreaming," said the other. "But, Vergilius, there is one higher than I who shall choose her husband-the imperator. Does he know you?"

"I have met him, of course, but do much fear he would not remember me."

"We may know shortly. Every seventh day this year he has sat, like a beggar, at his gate asking for alms. To-day we shall see him there."

"It is an odd whim."

"Hush! you know the people as well as I, and he must please them," the other whispered. "He must conceal his power if he would live out his time. I will present you, and perhaps he may be gracious-ay, may even bid you to his banquet."

"A modest home," said young Vergilius.

Now they were nearing the palace of that mild and quiet gentleman whose name and title-Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus Augustus-had terrified the world; whose delicate hands flung the levin of his power to the far boundaries of India and upper Gaul, to the distant shores of Spain and Africa, and into deserts beyond the Euphrates.

"Many a poor patrician has better furniture and more servants and a nobler palace," said Appius. "Rather plain wood, divans out of fashion, rugs o'erworn; but you have seen them. He alone can afford that kind of thing."

"He has a fondness for old things."

"But not for old women, my dear fellow."

"Indeed! And he is himself sixty-one."

"Hist-the imperator! There, by the gate yonder."

An erect figure of a man rather above medium height, in a coarse, gray toga, stood by one of the white columns. Three Moorish children were playing about his knees, and a senator was talking with him.

"My public services are familiar to you," said the senator, as the young knights waited some twenty paces off. "A gift of two hundred thousand denarii would be fitting, and, if you will permit me to say so, it would delight the populace. Indeed, 'tis generally believed you have already given me a large sum."

"But see that you do not believe it," blandly spake the strange emperor, for albeit Rome was then a republic in name it was an empire in fact, and Augustus, wielding the power of an emperor, refused the title. Turning, he began to play with the children.

"Great and beloved father! I hope, at least, you will consider my prayer."

"Good senator, I have considered. You ask for two hundred thousand denarii. I can give you only the opportunity of earning them. As to myself, I am poor. Look at me. Even my time belongs to the people. and it is passing, my dear senator-it is passing."

The importunate man saw the subtle meaning in these words and went his way.

The emperor sat down, a child upon each knee, as the young men approached him. His head was bare and his fair, curly locks, growing low upon his forehead, were now touched with gray. He looked up at the two, his eyes blue, brilliant, piercing.

"My beloved Appius," said he, in a gentle tone, as he rose. "And this-let me think-ah, it is Vergilius, the son of Varro."

"It is wonderful you should remember me," said Vergilius.

"Wonderful? No. I could tell your age, your misdeeds, your virtues, and how often you failed to answer the roll-calls in Cappadocia. Well, I dare say they were pretty girls. But I forget; I am to-day seeking alms, my good children, for the poor of Rome. I am as ten thousand of the hungry standing before you here and asking for bread. In their name I shall receive, thankfully, what you may bestow."

Appius gave a handful of coins; Vergilius emptied his purse.

"'Tis not enough," said the latter. "Your words have touched me.

To-night I shall send five thousand denarii to your palace."

"Well given, noble youth! It is generous. I like it in you. Say that I may have you to feast with me the first day before the ides-both of you. Say that I may have you."

"We humbly wait your commands," said Vergilius, kissing his hand.

"Now tell me, handsome son of Varro, have you found no pretty girl to your liking? Know you not, boy, 'tis time you married?" He held the hand of the young knight and spoke kindly, his cunning eyes aglow, and smiled upon him, showing his teeth, set well apart.

"Such an one I have found, good sire. Under the great purple dome there is none more beautiful, and with your favor and that of the gods I hope to make her my wife."

"Ah, then, I know her?"

"It is Arria, sister of Appius."

"And daughter of my beloved prefect. You are ambitious, my good youth."

The emperor stood a moment, looking downward thoughtfully. He felt his retreating chin. His smooth-shaven face, broad from bone to bone above the cheeks, quickly grew stern. His mind, which had the world for its toy and which planned the building or the treading down of empires, had turned its thought upon that little kingdom in the heart of the boy. And he was thinking whether it should stand or fall.

"It may be impossible," said he, turning to the young man. "Say no more to her until-until I have thought of it."

And Appius observed, as he went away with his friend: "You will be a statesman, my dear Vergilius; you gave him just the right dose of religion, flattery, and silver."

"I must succeed or I shall have no heart to live," said the other, soberly.