Quo Vadis, Henryk Sienkiewicz [fox in socks read aloud .txt] 📗

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 Caesar 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 Caesar. 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 Caesar 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. Caesar 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 amphitheater⁠—

“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 Caesar; 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.

LVIII

“Lord,” said Chilo, “the sea is like olive oil, the waves seem to sleep. Let us go to Achaea. There the glory of Apollo is awaiting thee, crowns and triumph are awaiting thee, the people will deify thee, the gods will receive thee as a guest, their own equal; but here, O lord⁠—”

And he stopped, for his lower lip began to quiver so violently that his words passed into meaningless sounds.

“We will go when the games are over,” replied Nero. “I know that even now some call the Christians innoxia corpora. If I were to go, all would repeat this. What dost thou fear?”

Then he frowned, but looked with inquiring glance at Chilo, as if expecting an answer, for he only feigned cool blood. At the last exhibition he himself feared the words of Crispus; and when he had returned to the Palatine, he could not sleep from rage and shame, but also from fear.

Then Vestinius, who heard their conversation in silence, looked around, and said in a mysterious voice⁠—

“Listen, lord, to this old man. There is something strange in those Christians. Their deity gives them an easy death, but he may be vengeful.”

“It was not I who arranged the games, but Tigellinus,” replied Nero, quickly.

“True! it was I,” added Tigellinus, who heard Caesar’s answer, “and I jeer at all Christian gods. Vestinius is a bladder full of prejudices, and this valiant Greek is ready to die of terror at sight of a hen with feathers up in defense of her chickens.”

“True!” said Nero; “but henceforth give command to cut the tongues out of Christians and stop their mouths.”

“Fire will stop them, O divinity.”

“Woe is me!” groaned Chilo.

But Caesar, to whom the insolent confidence of Tigellinus gave courage, began to laugh, and said, pointing to the old Greek⁠—

“See how the descendant of Achilles looks!”

Indeed Chilo looked terribly. The remnant of hair on his head had grown white; on his face was fixed an expression of some immense dread, alarm, and oppression. He seemed at times, too, as if stunned and only half conscious. Often he gave no answer to questions; then again he fell into anger, and became so insolent that the Augustians preferred not to attack him. Such a moment had come to him then.

“Do what ye like with me, but I will not go to the games!” cried he, in desperation.

Nero looked at him for a while, and, turning to Tigellinus, said⁠—

“Have a care that this Stoic is near me in the gardens. I want to see what impression our torches will make on him.”

Chilo was afraid of the threat which quivered in Caesar’s voice. “O lord,” said he, “I shall see nothing, for I cannot see in the nighttime.”

“The night will be as bright as day,” replied Caesar, with a threatening laugh.

Turning then to the Augustians, Nero talked about races which he intended to have when the games were over.

Petronius approached Chilo, and asked, pushing him on the shoulder⁠—

“Have I not said that thou wouldst not hold out?”

“I wish to drink,” said Chilo, stretching his trembling hand toward a goblet of wine; but he was unable to raise it to his lips. Seeing this, Vestinius took the vessel; but later he drew near, and inquired with curious and frightened face⁠—

“Are the Furies pursuing thee?”

The old man looked at him a certain time with open lips, as if not understanding what he said. But Vestinius repeated⁠—

“Are the Furies pursuing thee?”

“No,” answered Chilo; “but night is before me.”

“How, night? May the gods have mercy on thee. How night?”

“Night, ghastly and impenetrable, in which something is moving, something coming toward me; but I know not what it is, and