Quo Vadis - Henryk Sienkiewicz (read after .TXT) 📗

to death. In the morning, when he went from the prison, he looked on the world, on the city, on acquaintances, on vital interests, as through a dream. Everything seemed to him strange, distant, vain, fleeting. Even torture ceased to terrify, since one might pass through it while sunk in thought and with eyes fixed on another thing. It seemed to both that eternity had begun to receive them. They conversed of how they would love and live together, but beyond the grave; and if their thoughts returned to the earth at intervals, these were thoughts of people who, setting out on a long journey, speak of preparations for the road. Moreover they were surrounded by such silence as in some desert surrounds two columns far away and forgotten. Their only care was that Christ should not separate them; and as each moment strengthened their conviction that He would not, they loved Him as a link uniting them in endless happiness and peace. While still on earth, the dust of earth fell from them. The soul of each was as pure as a tear. Under terror of death, amid misery and suffering, in that prison den, heaven had begun, for she had taken him by the hand, and, as if saved and a saint, had led him to the source of endless life.

Petronius was astonished at seeing in the face of Vinicius increasing peace and a certain wonderful serenity which he had not noted before. At times even he supposed that Vinicius had found some mode of rescue, and he was piqued because his nephew had not confided his hopes to him. At last, unable to restrain himself, he said⁠—

“Now thou hast another look; do not keep from me secrets, for I wish and am able to aid thee. Hast thou arranged anything?”

“I have,” said Vinicius; “but thou canst not help me. After her death I will confess that I am a Christian and follow her.”

“Then thou hast no hope?”

“On the contrary, I have. Christ will give her to me, and I shall never be separated from her.”

Petronius began to walk in the atrium; disillusion and impatience were evident on his face.

“Thy Christ is not needed for this⁠—our Thanatos25 can render the same service.”

Vinicius smiled sadly, and said⁠—“No, my dear, thou art unwilling to understand.”

“I am unwilling and unable. It is not the time for discussion, but remember what I said when we failed to free her from the Tullianum. I lost all hope, and on the way home thou didst say, ‘But I believe that Christ can restore her to me.’ Let Him restore her. If I throw a costly goblet into the sea, no god of ours can give it back to me; if yours is no better, I know not why I should honor Him beyond the old ones.”

“But He will restore her to me.”

Petronius shrugged his shoulders. “Dost know,” inquired he, “that Christians are to illuminate Caesar’s gardens tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” repeated Vinicius.

And in view of the near and dreadful reality his heart trembled with pain and fear. “This is the last night, perhaps, which I can pass with Lygia,” thought he. So bidding farewell to Petronius, he went hurriedly to the overseer of the “Putrid Pits” for his tessera. But disappointment was in waiting⁠—the overseer would not give the tessera.

“Pardon me,” said he, “I have done what I could for thee, but I cannot risk my life. Tonight they are to conduct the Christians to Caesar’s gardens. The prisons will be full of soldiers and officials. Shouldst thou be recognized, I and my children would be lost.”

Vinicius understood that it would be vain to insist. The hope gleamed in him, however, that the soldiers who had seen him before would admit him even without a tessera; so, with the coming of night, he disguised himself as usual in the tunic of a corpse-bearer, and, winding a cloth around his head, betook himself to the prison.

But that day the tesserae were verified with greater care than usual; and what was more, the centurion Scevinus, a strict soldier, devoted soul and body to Caesar, recognized Vinicius. But evidently in his ironclad breast there glimmered yet some spark of pity for misfortunes. Instead of striking his spear in token of alarm, he led Vinicius aside and said⁠—

“Return to thy house, lord. I recognize thee; but not wishing thy ruin, I am silent. I cannot admit thee; go thy way, and may the gods send thee solace.”

“Thou canst not admit me,” said Vinicius, “but let me stand here and look at those who are led forth.”

“My order does not forbid that,” said Scevinus.

Vinicius stood before the gate and waited. About midnight the prison gate was opened widely, and whole ranks of prisoners appeared⁠—men, women, and children, surrounded by armed pretorians. The night was very bright; hence it was possible to distinguish not only the forms, but the faces of the unfortunates. They went two abreast, in a long, gloomy train, amid stillness broken only by the clatter of weapons. So many were led out that all the dungeons must be empty, as it seemed. In the rear of the line Vinicius saw Glaucus the physician distinctly, but Lygia and Ursus were not among the condemned.

LXI

Darkness had not come when the first waves of people began to flow into Caesar’s gardens. The crowds, in holiday costume, crowned with flowers, joyous, singing, and some of them drunk, were going to look at the new, magnificent spectacle. Shouts of “Semaxii! Sarmentitii!” were heard on the Via Tecta, on the bridge of Aemilius, and from the other side of the Tiber, on the Triumphal Way, around the Circus of Nero, and off towards the Vatican Hill. In Rome people had been seen burnt on pillars before, but never had anyone seen such a number of victims.

Caesar and Tigellinus, wishing to finish at once with the Christians and also to avoid infection, which from the prisons was