Roman Games(36)
And, for once in his life, the poet found himself without a riposte.
While the two men stared each other down, Pliny was recalling a public reading he had attended some years earlier, given by the historian Cornelius Tacitus: How these Christians were every bit as atheistical as the Jews, from whom their sect had sprung, though now they claimed to hate the Jews. Like everything filthy and degrading, Tacitus had said, they eventually found their way to Rome. Nero accused them of starting the great fire that had nearly destroyed the city some thirty years ago, and executed some of them with particular savagery—so much so that they excited a degree of public sympathy. It was the common belief, nevertheless, that they engaged in orgies and sacrificed children to their god and even ate them. Probably an exaggeration, but who could say, since they practiced their rites in secret.
Then another thought struck him.
“Fellow, bishop, whatever you call yourself, answer me one question. Is the seven-branched candelabrum a symbol of your cult?”
“Certainly not! That is for the ones who reject Our Lord, who misunderstand their own prophecies. Our symbol of recognition is a fish.”
“Then Pollux and the others you named are not Jews?”
“Not since they chose the true path to salvation. I converted Pollux myself some years ago, and from that day onward he never struck a man.”
“You mentioned four others besides Pollux. We found a sixth body, a boy of twelve or thirteen, Hylas he was called. Is he not one of yours?”
Evaristus shook his head. “He is not known to me.”
Pliny motioned Martial to come closer and they exchanged a few whispered words. If Pollux was, in fact, one of these Christians, then perhaps the sketch of the candelabrum and the Jewish dagger had been planted as clues to implicate him by someone who thought he was still a Jew. And who would that someone be? Lucius leapt to mind; he certainly had the motive. But the question remained, how was it done? Who had come through that open window, if not a Jewish assassin? And how could Pollux not have heard sounds of the struggle? And then why was the boy Hylas killed by the other slaves if he was neither a Jew nor a Christian? Whatever theory he had had about the case before was now shipwrecked. He would have to begin all over again. There were too many puzzles, and Pliny, whose whole professional life dealt with certainties, with documents and numbers, hated puzzles. He discharged his annoyance at Evaristus.
“They say you are atheists and haters of mankind. You gather secretly like rats in the sewers. You do not sacrifice to our emperor. If even half what they say about you is true, you deserve to be punished. What gives you the nerve to come here and ask me for a favor?”
The bishop returned his angry gaze with eyes as bright as steel; there was no fear in them. “We are men of peace, we obey the laws and those who are set over us. We pray for the emperor, though not to him. We mean no harm to anyone. I say to you, Senator, save yourself, be born again in Christ Jesus—”
“Macro!” Pliny shouted to his door keeper. “Escort these men out.”
Until then, the bishop’s companion, the cadaverous, bearded ancient in his threadbare cloak, had stood silently by, giving no sign that he understood what was being said. Macro’s firm hand on his shoulder set him off. Without warning, he flung his scrawny arms wide and burst into shrill Greek. “Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great. Babylon, the harlot of the seven hills. Alas, alas for the great city that was clothed in fine linen and purple and scarlet. Alas that in a single hour she should be laid waste…” He stared with all his eyes, seeing something that was invisible to the rest of them. While his breath came short and sharp between his teeth, he poured out a torrent of words.
Bishop Evaristus, for the first time showing fear, looked this way and that. “The vision comes upon him sometimes, unfortunate timing, please excuse us…” He tried, with Macro, to push Ioannes toward the door but the holy man was not to be silenced. The Greek was so rapid, the man gasping in the throes of his vision, Pliny could only understand bits of it—a woman riding on a scarlet beast with seven heads and ten horns—the seven heads were the seven hills of Rome and the woman was drunk on the blood of God’s people—foul and malignant sores on those who wore the mark of the beast and worshipped its image, plainly the emperor himself—the seas, the rivers, and springs were turning to blood and every living thing dying—now the kingdom of the beast, plunged in darkness and men gnawing their tongues in agony—tormented in sulfurous flames…
“Enough!” Pliny sprang from his chair. “Monsters! Out of my house!”