Quo Vadis, Henryk Sienkiewicz [e book reader android .TXT] 📗

that same

exhaustless energy; that same fanatical stern face gazed from beneath

the crown of roses. Neither had his heart changed; for, as once in the

cuniculum he had threatened with the wrath of God his brethren sewed up

in the skins of wild beasts, so to-day he thundered in place of

consoling them.

 

“Thank the Redeemer,” said Crispus, “that He permits you to die the same

death that He Himself died. Maybe a part of your sins will be remitted

for this cause; but tremble, since justice must be satisfied, and there

cannot be one reward for the just and the wicked.”

 

His words were accompanied by the sound of the hammers nailing the hands

and feet of victims. Every moment more crosses were raised on the

arena; but he, turning to the crowd standing each man by his own cross,

continued,—

 

“I see heaven open, but I see also the yawning abyss. I know not what

account of my life to give the Lord, though I have believed, and hated

evil. I fear, not death, but resurrection; I fear, not torture, but

judgment, for the day of wrath is at hand.”

 

At that moment was heard from between the nearest rows some voice, calm

and solemn,—

 

“Not the day of wrath, but of mercy, the day of salvation and happiness;

for I say that Christ will gather you in, will comfort you and seat you

at His right hand. Be confident, for heaven is opening before you.”

 

At these words all eyes were turned to the benches; even those who were

hanging on the crosses raised their pale, tortured faces, and looked

toward the man who was speaking.

 

But he went to the barrier surrounding the arena, and blessed them with

the sign of the cross.

 

Crispus stretched out his arm as if to thunder at him; but when he saw

the man’s face, he dropped his arm, the knees bent under him, and his

lips whispered, “Paul the Apostle!”

 

To the great astonishment of the servants of the Circus, all of those

who were not nailed to the crosses yet knelt down. Paul turned to

Crispus and said,

 

“Threaten them not, Crispus, for this day they will be with thee in

paradise. It is thy thought that they may be condemned. But who will

condemn?

 

“Will God, who gave His Son for them? Will Christ, who died for their

salvation, condemn when they die for His name? And how is it possible

that He who loves can condemn? Who will accuse the chosen of God? Who

will say of this blood, ‘It is cursed’?”

 

“I have hated evil,” said the old priest.

 

“Christ’s command to love men was higher than that to hate evil, for His

religion is not hatred, but love.”

 

“I have sinned in the hour of death,” answered Crispus, beating his

breast. The manager of the seats approached the Apostle, and inquired,

 

“Who art thou, speaking to the condemned?”

 

“A Roman citizen,” answered Paul, calmly. Then, turning to Crispus, he

said: “Be confident, for to-day is a day of grace; die in peace, O

servant of God.”

 

The black men approached Crispus at that moment to place him on the

cross; but he looked around once again, and cried,—

 

“My brethren, pray for me!”

 

His face had lost its usual sternness; his stony features had taken an

expression of peace and sweetness. He stretched his arms himself along

the arms of the cross, to make the work easier, and, looking directly

into heaven, began to pray earnestly. He seemed to feel nothing; for

when the nails entered his hands, not the least quiver shook his body,

nor on his face did there appear any wrinkle of pain. He prayed when

they raised the cross and trampled the earth around it. Only when

crowds began to fill the amphitheatre with shouts and laughter did his

brows frown somewhat, as if in anger that a pagan people were disturbing

the calm and peace of a sweet death.

 

But all the crosses had been raised, so that in the arena there stood as

it were a forest, with people hanging on the trees. On the arms of the

crosses and on the heads of the martyrs fell the gleam of the sun; but

on the arena was a deep shadow, forming a kind of black involved grating

through which glittered the golden sand. That was a spectacle in which

the whole delight of the audience consisted in looking at a lingering

death. Never before had men seen such a density of crosses. The arena

was packed so closely that the servants squeezed between them only with

effort. On the edges were women especially; but Crispus, as a leader,

was raised almost in front of Cæsar’s podium, on an immense cross,

wreathed below with honeysuckle. None of the victims had died yet, but

some of those fastened earlier had fainted. No one groaned; no one

called for mercy. Some were hanging with head inclined on one arm, or

dropped on the breast, as if seized by sleep; some were as if in

meditation; some, looking toward heaven, were moving their lips quietly.

In this terrible forest of crosses, among those crucified bodies, in

that silence of victims there was something ominous. The people who,

filled by the feast and gladsome, had returned to the Circus with

shouts, became silent, not knowing on which body to rest their eyes, or

what to think of the spectacle. The nakedness of strained female forms

roused no feeling. They did not make the usual bets as to who would die

first,—a thing done generally when there was even the smallest number

of criminals on the arena. It seemed that Cæsar himself was bored, for

he turned lazily and with drowsy expression to arrange his necklace.

 

At that moment Crispus, who was hanging opposite, and who, like a man in

a faint or dying, had kept his eyes closed, opened them and looked at

Cæsar. His face assumed an expression so pitiless, and his eyes flashed

with such fire, that the Augustians whispered to one another, pointing

at him with their fingers, and at last Cæsar himself turned to that

cross, and placed the emerald to his eye sluggishly.

 

Perfect silence followed. The eyes of the spectators were fixed on

Crispus, who strove to move his right hand, as if to tear it from the

tree.

 

After a while his breast rose, his ribs were visible, and he cried:

“Matricide! woe to thee!”

 

The Augustians, hearing this mortal insult flung at the lord of the

world in presence of thousands, did not dare to breathe. Chilo was half

dead. Cæsar trembled, and dropped the emerald from his fingers. The

people, too, held the breath in their breasts. The voice of Crispus was

heard, as it rose in power, throughout the amphitheatre,—

 

“Woe to thee, murderer of wife and brother! woe to thee, Antichrist.

The abyss is opening beneath thee, death is stretching its hands to

thee, the grave is waiting for thee. Woe, living corpse, for in terror

shalt thou die and be damned to eternity!”

 

Unable to tear his hand from the cross, Crispus strained awfully. He was

terrible,—a living skeleton; unbending as predestination, he shook his

white beard over Nero’s podium, scattering, as he nodded, rose leaves

from the garland on his head.

 

“Woe to thee, murderer! Thy measure is surpassed, and thy hour is at

hand!”

 

Here he made one more effort. It seemed for a moment that he would free

his hand from the cross and hold it in menace above Cæsar; but all at

once his emaciated arms extended still more, his body settled down, his

head fell on his breast, and he died.

 

In that forest of crosses the weakest began also the sleep of eternity.