The Last Days of Pompeii

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII

son, smote him even more than the death of Apaecides, and he said, half audibly, to himself:

“Poor clay! — poor human reason; where is the soul now? I could spare thee, O my rival — rival never more! But destiny must be obeyed — my safety demands thy sacrifice.” With that, as if to drown compunction, he shouted yet more loudly; and drawing from the girdle of Glaucus the stilus it contained, he steeped it in the blood of the murdered man, and laid it beside the corpse.

And now, fast and breathless, several of the citizens came thronging to the place, some with torches, which the moon rendered unnecessary, but which flared red and tremulously against the darkness of the trees; they surrounded the spot. “Lift up yon corpse,” said the Egyptian, “and guard well the murderer.”

They raised the body, and great was their horror and sacred indignation to discover in that lifeless clay a priest of the adored and venerable Isis; but still greater, perhaps, was their surprise, when they found the accused in the brilliant and admired Athenian.

“Glaucus!” cried the bystanders, with one accord; “is it even credible?”

“I would sooner,” whispered one man to his neighbor, “believe it to be the Egyptian himself.”

Here a centurion thrust himself into the gathering crowd, with an air of authority.

“How! blood spilt! who the murderer?” The bystanders pointed to Glaucus.

“He! — by Mars, he has rather the air of being the victim!

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“Who accuses him?”

“I,” said Arbaces, drawing himself up haughtily; and the jewels which adorned his dress flashing in the eyes of the soldier, instantly convinced that worthy warrior of the witness’s respectability.

“Pardon me — your name?” said he.

“Arbaces; it is well known methinks in Pompeii. Passing through the grove, I beheld before me the Greek and the priest in earnest conversation. I was struck by the reeling motions of the first, his violent gestures, and the loudness of his voice; he seemed to me either drunk or mad. Suddenly I saw him raise his stilus — I darted forward — too late to arrest the blow. He had twice stabbed his victim, and was bending over him, when, in my horror and indignation, I struck the murderer to the ground. He fell without a struggle, which makes me yet more suspect that he was not altogether in his senses when the crime was perpetrated; for, recently recovered from a severe illness, my blow was comparatively feeble, and the frame of Glaucus, as you see, is strong and youthful.”

“His eyes are open now — his lips move,” said the soldier. “Speak, prisoner, what sayest thou to the charge?”

“The charge — ha — ha! Why, it was merrily done; when the old hag set her serpent at me, and Hecate stood by laughing from ear to ear — what could I do? But I am ill — I faint — the serpent’s fiery tongue hath bitten me. Bear me to bed, and send for your physician; old AEsculapius himself will attend me if you let him know that I am Greek. Oh, mercy — mercy! I burn! — marrow and brain, I burn!”

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And, with a thrilling and fierce groan, the Athenian fell back in the arms of the bystanders.

“He raves,” said the officer, compassionately; “and in his delirium he has struck the priest. Hath any one present seen him today!”

“I,” said one of the spectators, “beheld him in the morning. He passed my shop and accosted me. He seemed well and sane as the stoutest of us!”

“And I saw him half an hour ago,” said another, “passing up the streets, muttering to himself with strange gestures, and just as the Egyptian has described.”

“A corroboration of the witness! it must be too true. He must at all events to the praetor; a pity, so young and so rich! But the crime is dreadful: a priest of Isis, in his very robes, too, and at the base itself of our most ancient chapel!”

At these words the crowd were reminded more forcibly, than in their excitement and curiosity they had yet been, of the heinousness of the sacrilege. They shuddered in pious horror.

“No wonder the earth has quaked,” said one, “when it held such a monster!”

“Away with him to prison — away!” cried they all.

And one solitary voice was heard shrilly and joyously above the rest: “The beasts will not want a gladiator now, Ho, ho, for the merry, merry show!

It was the voice of the young woman whose conversation with Medon has been repeated.

“True — true — it chances in season for the games!” cried several; and at that thought all pity for the accused seemed

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vanished. His youth, his beauty, but fitted him better for the purpose of the arena.

“Bring hither some planks — or if at hand, a litter — to bear the dead,” said Arbaces: “a priest of Isis ought scarcely to be carried to his temple by vulgar hands, like a butchered gladiator.”

At this the bystanders reverently laid the corpse of Apaecides on the ground, with the face upwards; and some of them went in search of some contrivance to bear the body, untouched by the profane.

It was just at that time that the crowd gave way to right and left as a sturdy form forced itself through, and Olinthus the Christian stood immediately confronting the Egyptian. But his eyes, at first, only rested with inexpressible grief and horror on that gory side and upturned face, on which the agony of violent death yet lingered.

“Murdered!” he said. “Is it thy zeal that has brought thee to this? Have they detected thy noble purpose, and by death prevented their own shame?”

He turned his head abruptly, and his eyes fell full on the solemn features of the Egyptian.

As he looked, you might see in his face, and even the slight shiver of his frame, the repugnance and aversion which the Christian felt for one whom he knew to be so dangerous and so criminal. It was indeed the gaze of the bird upon the basilisk — so silent was it and so prolonged. But shaking off the sudden chill that had crept over him, Olinthus extended his right arm towards Arbaces, and said, in a deep and loud voice:

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“Murder hath been done upon this corpse! Where is the murderer? Stand forth, Egyptian! For, as the Lord liveth, I believe thou art the man!”

An anxious and perturbed change might for one moment be detected on the dusky features of Arbaces; but it gave way to the frowning expression of indignation and scorn, as, awed and arrested by the suddenness and vehemence of the charge, the spectators pressed nearer and nearer upon the two more prominent actors.

“I know,” said Arbaces, proudly, “who is my accuser, and I guess wherefore he thus arraigns me. Men and citizens, know this man for the most bitter of the Nazarenes, if that or Christians be their proper name! What marvel that in his malignity he dares accuse even an Egyptian of the murder of a priest of Egypt!”

“I know him! I know the dog!” shouted several voices. “It is Olinthus the Christian — or rather the Atheist — he denies the gods!”

“Peace, brethren,” said Olinthus, with dignity, “and hear me! This murdered priest of Isis before his death embraced the Christian faith — he revealed to me the dark sins, the sorceries of yon Egyptian — the mummeries and delusions of the fane of Isis. He was about to declare them publicly. He, a stranger, unoffending, without enemies! who should shed his blood but one of those who feared his witness? Who might fear that testimony the most? — Arbaces, the Egyptian!”

“You hear him!” said Arbaces; “you hear him! he blasphemes! Ask him if he believes in Isis!”

“Do I believe in an evil demon?” returned Olinthus, boldly.

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A groan and shudder passed through the assembly. Nothing daunted, for prepared at every time for peril, and in the present excitement losing all prudence, the Christian continued:

“Back, idolaters! this clay is not for your vain and polluting rites — it is to us — to the followers of Christ, that the last offices due to a Christian belong. I claim this dust in the name of the great Creator who has recalled the spirit!”

With so solemn and commanding a voice and aspect the Christian spoke these words, that even the crowd forbore to utter aloud the execration of fear and hatred which in their hearts they conceived. And never, perhaps, since Lucifer and the Archangel contended for the body of the mighty Lawgiver, was there a more striking subject for the painter’s genius than that scene exhibited. The dark trees — the stately fane — the moon full on the corpse of the deceased — the torches tossing wildly to and fro in the rear — the various faces of the motley audience — the insensible form of the Athenian, supported, in the distance, and in the foreground, and above all, the forms of Arbaces and the Christian: the first drawn to its full height, far taller than the herd around; his arms folded, his brow knit, his eyes fixed, his lip slightly curled in defiance and disdain. The last bearing, on a brow worn and furrowed, the majesty of an equal command — the features stern, yet frank — the aspect bold, yet open — the quiet dignity of the whole form impressed with an ineffable earnestness, hushed, as it were, in a solemn sympathy with the awe he himself had created. His left hand pointing to the corpse — his right hand raised to heaven.

The centurion pressed forward again.

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“In the first place, hast thou, Olinthus, or whatever be thy name, any proof of the charge thou hast made against Arbaces, beyond thy vague suspicions?”

Olinthus remained silent — the Egyptian laughed contemptuously.

“Dost thou claim the body of a priest of Isis as one of the Nazarene or Christian sect?”

“I do.”

“Swear then by yon fane, yon statue of Cybele, by yon most ancient sacellum in Pompeii, that the dead man embraced your faith!”

“Vain man! I disown your idols! I abhor your temples! How can I swear by Cybele then?”

“Away, away with the Atheist! away! the earth will swallow us, if we suffer these blasphemers in a sacred grove — away with him to death!”

“To the beasts!” added a female voice in the centre of the crowd; “we shall have one a-piece now for the lion and tiger!”

“If, O Nazarene, thou disbelievest in Cybele, which of our gods dost thou own?” resumed the soldier, unmoved by the cries around.

“None!”

“Hark to him! hark!” cried the crowd.

“O vain and blind!” continued the Christian, raising his voice: “can you believe in images of wood and stone? Do you imagine that they have eyes to see, or ears to hear, or hands to help ye? Is yon mute thing carved by man’s art a goddess! —

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hath it made mankind? — alas! by mankind was it made. Lo! convince yourself of its nothingness — of your folly.”

And as he spoke he strode across to the fane, and ere any of the bystanders were aware of his purpose, he, in his compassion or his zeal, struck the statue of wood from its pedestal.

“See!” cried he, “your goddess cannot avenge herself. Is this a thing to worship?”

Further words were denied to him: so gross and daring a sacrilege — of one, too, of the most sacred of their places of worship — filled even the most lukewarm with rage and horror. With one accord the crowd rushed upon him, seized, and but for the interference of the centurion, they would have torn him to pieces.

“Peace!” said the soldier, authoritatively — “refer we this insolent blasphemer to the proper tribunal — time has been already wasted. Bear we both the culprits to the magistrates; place the body of the priest on the litter — carry it to his own home.”

At this moment a priest of Isis stepped forward. “I claim these remains, according to the custom of the priesthood.”

“The flamen be obeyed,” said the centurion. “How is the murderer?”

“Insensible or asleep.”

“Were his crimes less, I could pity him. On!”

Arbaces, as he turned, met the eye of that priest of Isis — it was Calenus; and something there was in that glance, so significant and sinister, that the Egyptian muttered to himself:

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CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH THE READER LEARNS THE CONDITION OF GLAUCUS. FRIENDSHIP TESTED. ENMITY SOFTENED.

LOVE THE SAME, BECAUSE THE ONE LOVING IS BLIND

The night was somewhat advanced, and the gay lounging places of the Pompeians were still crowded. You might observe in the countenances of the various idlers a more earnest expression than usual. They talked in large knots and groups, as if they sought by numbers to divide the half-painful, halfpleasurable anxiety which belonged to the subject on which they conversed: it was a subject of life and death.

A young man passed briskly by the graceful portico of the Temple of Fortune — so briskly, indeed, that he came with no slight force full against the rotund and comely form of that respectable citizen Diomed, who was retiring homeward to his suburban villa.

“Holloa!” groaned the merchant, recovering with some difficulty his equilibrium; “have you no eyes? or do you think I have no feeling? By Jupiter! you have well nigh driven out

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