Hypatia - Charles Kingsley (best books to read for students txt) 📗

an unpractised hand, or the young monk might have had more than one life to answer for. As it was, they turned and limped off, cursing in an unknown tongue; and Philammon found himself triumphant and alone, with the trembling negress and the prostrate ruffian, who, stunned by the blow and the fall, lay groaning on the pavement.

It was all over in a minute …. The negress was kneeling under the gateway, pouring out her simple thanks to Heaven for this unexpected deliverance; and Philammon was about to kneel too, when a thought struck him; and coolly despoiling the Jew of his shawl and sash, he handed them over to the poor negress, considering them fairly enough as his own by right of conquest; but, lo and behold! as she was overwhelming him with thanks, a fresh mob poured into the street from the upper end, and were close on them before they were aware …. A flush of terror and despair, .... and then a burst of joy, as, by mingled moonlight and torchlight, Philammon descried priestly robes, and in the forefront of the battle—there being no apparent danger—Peter the Reader, who seemed to be anxious to prevent inquiry, by beginning to talk as fast as possible.

‘Ah, boy! Safe? The saints be praised! We gave you up for dead! Whom have you here? A prisoner? And we have another. He ran right into our arms up the street, and the Lord delivered him into our hand. He must have passed you.’

‘So he did,’ said Philammon, dragging up his captive, ‘and here is his fellow-scoundrel.’ Whereon the two worthies were speedily tied together by the elbows; and the party marched on once more in search of Alexander’s church, and the supposed conflagration.

Philammon looked round for the negress, but she had vanished. He was far too much ashamed of being known to have been alone with a woman to say anything about her. Yet he longed to see her again; an interest—even something like an affection—had already sprung up in his heart toward the poor simple creature whom he had delivered from death. Instead of thinking her ungrateful for not staying to tell what he had done for her, he was thankful to her for having saved his blushes, by disappearing so opportunely …. And he longed to tell her so—to know if she was hurt—to—Oh, Philammon! only four days from the Laura, and a whole regiment of women acquaintances already! True, Providence having sent into the world about as many women as men, it maybe difficult to keep out of their way altogether. Perhaps, too, Providence may have intended them to be of some use to that other sex, with whom it has so mixed them up. Don’t argue, poor Philammon; Alexander’s church is on fire

And so they hurried on, a confused mass of monks and populace, with their hapless prisoners in the centre, who, hauled, cuffed, questioned, and cursed by twenty self-elected inquisitors at once, thought fit, either from Jewish obstinacy or sheer bewilderment, to give no account whatsoever of themselves.

As they turned the corner of a street, the folding-doors of a large gateway rolled open; a long line of glittering figures poured across the road, dropped their spear-butts on the pavement with a single rattle, and remained motionless. The front rank of the mob recoiled; and an awe-struck whisper ran through them …. ‘The Stationaries!’

‘Who are they?’ asked Philammon in a whisper.

‘The soldiers—the Roman soldiers,’ answered a whisperer to him.

Philammon, who was among the leaders, had recoiled too—he hardly knew why—at that stern apparition. His next instinct was to press forward as close as he dared …. And these were Roman soldiers!— the conquerors of the world!—the men whose name had thrilled him from his childhood with vague awe and admiration, dimly heard of up there in the lonely Laura …. Roman soldiers! And here he was face to face with them at last!

His curiosity received a sudden check, however, as he found his arm seized by an officer, as he took him to be, from the gold ornaments on his helmet and cuirass, who lifted his vine-stock threateningly over the young monk’s head, and demanded—

‘What’s all this about? Why are you not quietly in your beds, you Alexandrian rascals?’

‘Alexander’s church is on fire,’ answered Philammon, thinking the shortest answer the wisest.

‘So much the better.’

‘And the Jews are murdering the Christians.’

‘Fight it out, then. Turn in, men, it’s only a riot.’

And the steel-clad apparition suddenly flashed round, and vanished, trampling and jingling, into the dark jaws of the guardhouse-gate, while the stream, its temporary barrier removed, rushed on wilder than ever.

Philammon hurried on too with them, not without a strange feeling of disappointment. ‘Only a riot!’ Peter was chuckling to his brothers over their cleverness in ‘having kept the prisoners in the middle, and stopped the rascals’ mouths till they were past the guard- house.’ ‘A fine thing to boast of,’ thought Philammon, ‘in the face of the men who make and unmake kings and Caesars!’ ‘Only a riot!’ He, and the corps of district visitors—whom he fancied the most august body on earth—and Alexander’s church, Christians murdered by Jews, persecution of the Catholic faith, and all the rest of it, was simply, then, not worth the notice of those forty men, alone and secure in the sense of power and discipline, among tens of thousands …. He hated them, those soldiers. Was it because they were indifferent to the cause of which he was inclined to think himself a not unimportant member, on the strength of his late Samsonic defeat of Jewish persecutors? At least, he obeyed the little porter’s advice, and ‘felt very small indeed.’

And he felt smaller still, being young and alive to ridicule, when, at some sudden ebb or flow, wave or wavelet of the Babel sea, which weltered up and down every street, a shrill female voice informed them from an upper window, that Alexander’s church was not on fire at all; that she had gone to the top of the house, as they might have gone, if they had not been fools, etc. etc.; and that it ‘looked as safe and as ugly as ever’; wherewith a brickbat or two having been sent up in answer, she shut the blinds, leaving them to halt, inquire, discover gradually and piecemeal, after the method of mobs, they had been following the nature of mobs; that no one had seen the church on fire, or seen any one else who had seen the same, or even seen any light in the sky in any quarter, or knew who raised the cry; or—or—in short, Alexander’s church was two miles off; if it was on fire, it was either burnt down or saved by this time; if not, the night-air was, to say the least, chilly: and, whether it was or not, there were ambuscades of Jews—Satan only knew how strong—in every street between them and it …. Might it not be better to secure their two prisoners, and then ask for further orders from the archbishop? Wherewith, after the manner of mobs, they melted off the way they came, by twos and threes, till those of a contrary opinion began to find themselves left alone, and having a strong dislike to Jewish daggers, were fain to follow the stream.

With a panic or two, a cry of ‘The Jews are on us!’ and a general rush in every direction (in which one or two, seeking shelter from the awful nothing in neighbouring houses, were handed over to the watch as burglars, and sent to the quarries accordingly), they reached the Serapeium, and there found, of course, a counter-mob collected to inform them that they had been taken in—that Alexander’s church had never been on fire at all—that the Jews had murdered a thousand Christians at least, though three dead bodies, including the poor priest who lay in the house within, were all of the thousand who had yet been seen—and that the whole Jews’ quarter was marching upon them. At which news it was considered advisable to retreat into the archbishop’s house as quickly as possible, barricade the doors, and prepare for a siege—a work at which Philammon performed prodigies, tearing woodwork from the rooms, and stones from the parapets, before it struck some of the more sober- minded that it was as well to wait for some more decided demonstration of attack, before incurring so heavy a carpenter’s bill of repairs.

At last the heavy tramp of footsteps was heard coming down the street, and every window was crowded in an instant with eager heads; while Peter rushed downstairs to heat the large coppers, having some experience in the defensive virtues of boiling water. The bright moon glittered on a long line of helmets and cuirasses. Thank Heaven! it was the soldiery.

‘Are the Jews coming?’ ‘Is the city quiet?‘‘Why did not you prevent this villainy?’ ‘A thousand citizens murdered while you have been snoring!’—and a volley of similar ejaculations, greeted the soldiers as they passed, and were answered by a cool—‘To your perches, and sleep, you noisy chickens, or we’ll set the coop on fire about your ears.’

A yell of defiance answered this polite speech, and the soldiery, who knew perfectly well that the unarmed ecclesiastics within were not to be trifled with, and had no ambition to die by coping-stones and hot water, went quietly on their way.

All danger was now past; and the cackling rose jubilant, louder than ever, and might have continued till daylight, had not a window in the courtyard been suddenly thrown open, and the awful voice of Cyril commanded silence.

‘Every man sleep where he can. I shall want you at daybreak. The superiors of the parabolani are to come up to me with the two prisoners, and the men who took them.’

In a few minutes Philammon found himself, with some twenty others, in the great man’s presence: he was sitting at his desk, writing, quietly, small notes on slips of paper.

‘Here is the youth who helped me to pursue the murderer, and having outrun me, was attacked by the prisoners,’ said Peter. ‘My hands are clean from blood, I thank the Lord!’

‘Three set on me with daggers,’ said Philammon, apologetically, ‘and I was forced to take this one’s dagger away, and beat off the two others with it.’

Cyril smiled, and shook his head.

‘Thou art a brave boy; but hast thou not read, “If a man smite thee on one cheek, turn to him the other”?’

‘I could not run away, as Master Peter and the rest did.’

‘So you ran away, eh? my worthy friend?’

‘Is it not written,’ asked Peter, in his blandest tone, “If they persecute you in one city, flee unto another”?’

Cyril smiled again. ‘And why could not you run away, boy?’

Philammon blushed scarlet, but he dared not lie. ‘There was a—a poor black woman, wounded and trodden down, and I dare not leave her, for she told me she was a Christian.’

‘Right, my son, right. I shall remember this. What was her name?’

‘I did not hear it.—Stay, I think she said Judith.’

‘Ah! the wife of the porter who stands at the lecture-room door, which God confound! A devout woman, full of good works, and sorely ill-treated by her heathen husband. Peter, thou shalt go to her to- morrow with the physician, and see if she is in need of anything. Boy, thou hast done well. Cyril never forgets. Now bring up those Jews. Their Rabbis were