But when this first moment of terror was over, he bethought himself, clever comedian as he was, of acting the part of grief. So he rubbed off the rouge which still covered his cheeks, let his locks fail sparsely over his shoulders, and, exchanging his white festal robe for one of sombre hue, exhibited himself to the Praetorians, the courtiers, and even to the slaves, as though overwhelmed by the blow which had just fallen upon him.

  Then he spoke of going himself to take a last look at his mother, and had a vessel brought to the tops where, on the previous day, he had taken leave of her with such demonstrations of affection. He crossed the bay in which he had attempted to drown her, landed on the same shore which had seen her land, wounded and almost dying. Then he proceeded towards the villa where the scene of this great drama had just been enacted. He was accompanied in silence by Burrhus, Seneca, Sporus, and a number of courtiers, all of whom tried to gather from the expression of his features the expression which their own ought to assume, which was that of profound sadness, and which they succeeded so successfully in adopting, that as they followed him into the courtyard where the soldiers had made their first halt, all of them seemed, like him, to have lost their mothers.

  Nero ascended the staircase with slow and solemn step, as befitted a dutiful son approaching the corpse of her who had given him life. On reaching the corridor leading to the room, he motioned to those accompanying him to stay behind, as though he feared to give way to his grief in the presence of spectators, and took only Sporus with him. When they arrived at the door, he stopped for a moment and leant against the wall, covering his face with his cloak as though to hide his tears, but in reality to wipe away the perspiration that trickled down his face; then, after a moment’s hesitation, he opened the door with a quick and determined movement, and entered the room.

  Agrippina was still lying on the bed. Her murderer had evidently concealed all traces of her death struggle, for you would have said that she was asleep. The counterpane was thrown over her, leaving only her head exposed, a portion of her breast, and her arms to which the paleness of death imparted the cold, bluish look of marble. Nero paused at the foot of the bed, still followed by Sporus, whose eyes, more expressionless than his master’s, seemed as though gazing with indifferent curiosity at some statue fallen from its pedestal. Presently the face of the matricide lighted up — all his doubts were removed, all his fears were over. The throne, the world, the future were his and his alone at last; he would reign in freedom and without hindrance now that Agrippina was really dead. After a while this feeling was succeeded by a stranger one; his eyes, fastening on those arms which had pressed him to her heart and that breast which had suckled him, flamed with a guilty desire, and he slowly lifted the counterpane so as to entirely expose his mother’s naked body. He glanced at it with a cynical look, and then exclaimed to Sporus: “I had no idea she was so beautiful.”

  Daylight had arrived ere this, and had restored to the bay its accustomed life; and every one had resumed his ordinary occupation. The news of Agrippina’s death had spread, and a dull feeling of uneasiness prevailed along the whole shore, which was thronged nevertheless, as usual, with merchants, fishermen, and idlers. People spoke in loud tones of the danger which the Emperor had escaped, and rendered thanks to Heaven when they thought any one could hear them, and then passed, without troubling to turn their heads, close by the funeral-pile which a freedman, with the help of a number of slaves, was erecting on the road to Misenum, close to the villa of Julius Caesar.

  But not a trace of this noise or uneasiness penetrated to the retreat whither Paul had conducted Acté. This was a small secluded house built on the point of the promontory facing Nisida, and inhabited by a family of fisher-folk. Although he appeared to be a stranger in this family the old man exercised an evident authority over it; the obedience, however, which was paid to his slightest wish was not a servile one, but that of respect, the obedience paid by children to a father, by servants to an honoured master, by disciples to an apostle.

  The first requisite for Acté was rest; full of confidence in her protector, and feeling that henceforward there was some one watching over her, she had yielded to the old man’s entreaties, and had fallen asleep. As for Paul, he had seated himself beside her, like a father at the bedside of his child, and, fixing his eyes on the sky, had gradually become absorbed in profound contemplation, so that when the girl opened her eyes again she did not need to search for her protector. Though her heart was wrung with the thousand memories that returned to her on awaking, she smiled sadly at him, and extended her hand.

  “You are in pain?” said the old man.

  “I am in love,” answered the girl.

  There was a short silence, and then Paul continued:

  “What do you desire?”

  “A retreat where I can think of him and weep.”

  “Do you feel strong enough to follow me?”

  “Let us go at once,” said Acté, making a movement as if to rise.

  “It is impossible to go at this moment, my child; if you are a fugitive, I also am a man proscribed; we can only travel under cover of darkness. Are you prepared to start this evening?”

  “Yes, my father.”

  “A long and fatiguing journey does not frighten you in your frail and delicate condition?”

  “The girls of my country are accustomed to course the hinds through the thickest forests, and over the highest mountains.”

  “Timotheus,” said the old man, turning round, “call Silas.”

  The fisherman took Paul’s brown cloak, fastened it to the end of a stick, went out at the door of the cottage, and stuck the stick into the ground.

  This signal did not remain long unnoticed, for almost immediately a man came down the hill from Nisida to the shore, got into a small boat which he unmoored from the beach, and began to row across the space of sea that lay between the island and the promontory. The passage was a short one; after some quarter of an hour he reached the shore at about a hundred yards from the house where he was expected, and five minutes later he appeared at the door. Acté gave a start, for she had seen nothing of what had been going on, but had been gazing in the direction of Bauli.

  His dark complexion, the turban surrounding his head, and the supple slimness of his frame, made the new-comer easily recognisable as a son of Arabia. He advanced respectfully, and greeted Paul in a language unknown to Acté; whereupon Paul gave him in the same language some instructions in a manner which seemed to combine the kindness of a friend with the authority of a master. For sole answer, Silas fastened his sandals more firmly to his feet, girded up his loins with a cord, took a staff in his hand, knelt down before Paul, who gave him his blessing, and started on his journey.

  Acté looked at Paul in astonishment. Who, she wondered, was this old man who gave his orders in gentle yet firm tones, who was obeyed as a king and reverenced as a father? Her short sojourn at the Court of Nero had shown her servility in all its forms — but a base and cringing servility begotten of fear, and not the willing obedience that proceeds from respect. Did the world contain two Emperors, and was this one who thus concealed his dignity, more powerful, though without treasures, slaves, and armies, than the other with all the wealth of the earth at his command, with his hundred and twenty millions of subjects, and his two hundred thousand soldiers? These thoughts succeeded one another so quickly in Acté’s mind, and became so profoundly imprinted there, that she turned towards Paul, and clasping her hands with the same gesture of respect which she had seen observed by every one who approached this holy man, said:

  “Who are you, my lord, whom every one obeys without seeming to fear you?”

  “I have told you, my daughter; I am called Paul, and I am an Apostle.”

  “But what is an Apostle?” replied Acté; “does it mean an orator, like Demosthenes, or a philosopher, like Seneca? Eloquence with us is represented as chains of gold proceeding from the mouth. Do you enchain men by your speech?”

  “I speak the words that free and not those that bind,” answered Paul with a smile; “and far from telling men they are slaves, I am come to tell the slaves that they are free.”

  “I cannot understand you, and yet you speak my mother tongue as though you were a born Greek.”

  “I lived for six months at Athens and a year and a half in Corinth.”

  “In Corinth!” murmured the girl, hiding her face in her hands, “was that long ago?”

  “Five years ago.”

  “And what did you do at Corinth?”

  “During the week, I worked at making tents for soldiers, sailors and travellers, not wishing to be a burden on the generous host who had taken me in — then, on the Sabbath days, I preached in the Synagogue, enjoining modesty on the women, forbearance on the men, and the virtues of the Gospel on all.”

  “Yes, yes, I remember now hearing you spoken of,” said Acté; “did you not lodge near the Jews’ Synagogue in the house of a nobleman called Titus Justus?”

  “Do you know him?” exclaimed Paul with evident delight.

  “He was a friend of my father’s,” replied Acté. “Yes, I remember now; the Jews denounced you and brought you before Gallio, who was Proconsul of Achaia and brother to Seneca. My father took me to the door as you were passing, and said to me: ‘See, my daughter, there goes an upright man.’”

  “And what was your father’s name? what is your own name?”

  “My father’s name was Amycles, and mine is Acté.”

  “Yes, I, too, remember now, the name is not unknown to me. But how did you come to leave your father? how came I to find you alone and dying on this shore? Tell me the whole story, my daughter, and, if you have no longer a country, I will find you one. I am going to confess my crimes to you, so that you may acknowledge your faults to me in return.”

  “Your crimes!”

  “Yes, my crimes; I have atoned for them, thank Heaven, and the Lord has, I trust, forgiven me. — Listen, my child, I am going to tell you of things of which you know nothing, but which you will understand some day, and of One whom, when you know Him, you will worship.”

  “I was born at Tarsus in Cilicia; the loyalty of my native city to Augustus had earned for its inhabitants the name of Roman citizens, so that my parents, who were already wealthy, enjoyed, in addition to their wealth, the advantages attaching to the status bestowed on them by the Emperor. At Tarsus I studied Greek literature, which flourished with us as much as it flourished at Athens. Then my father, who was a Jew and of the sect of the Pharisees, sent me to study at Jerusalem under Gamaliel, a learned and austere teacher of the law of Moses. I was not called Paul at that time, but Saul.

  “There was just then at Jerusalem a young man older than myself by two years; his name was Jesus, that is to say, Saviour, and wonderful stories were related of his birth. An angel had appeared to his mother, had greeted her in the name of God, and announced to her that she was chosen from among all women to be the Mother of the Messiah; some time later, this maiden married a man named Joseph, who, seeing that she was with child, and not wishing to expose her, resolved to send her back secretly to her family. But when he had come to this decision, the same Angel of the Lord who had appeared to Mary appeared to him and said: ‘Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take Mary as thy wife, for that which is born in her is conceived of the Holy Ghost.’ About that time was published an edict of Augustus Caesar for taking a census of the whole world. This was the first census made by Cyrenius, governor of Syria, and as all went to be registered in the town to which they belonged, Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee, and came into Judaea, to the town of David called Bethlehem, to be enrolled together with Mary his wife. But while they were there, the time of her delivery was fulfilled and she brought forth her first-born, and, having wrapped him in swaddling clothes, laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn. Now, there were some shepherds near by keeping watch over their flocks by night; suddenly an angel of the Lord appeared to them, a light from heaven shone round about them, filling them with great fear. Then the angel said to them: ‘Fear not, for behold I bring you glad tidings of great joy which shall be to all people; for unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.’

  “For God had looked upon the earth and considered that the time prepared in His wisdom had arrived. The whole world, or at least the whole world known to the Romans, obeyed a single authority. Tyre and Sidon had perished according to the word of the prophet; Carthage had been levelled to the ground, Greece and Gaul conquered, Alexandria burned; one single man ruled a hundred provinces through the voice of his proconsuls; and everywhere the point of the sword whose handle was at Rome made itself felt. In spite, however, of its apparent might, the heathen edifice was crumbling on its clay foundations; an undefined but universal malady proclaimed that the old world was diseased at heart, that a crisis was at hand, that a new and unknown state of things was about to arise, — since justice had disappeared owing to an excess of arbitrary authority, since there were no longer any men, because there were over many slaves, no longer any religion because there were over many gods. Well, as I have told you, at the moment when I arrived at Jerusalem, a man had come there before me, who said to the powerful: ‘Do what is your duty, and nothing beyond;’ — to the rich: ‘He that hath two coats, let him give to him that hath none;’ — to the masters: ‘There is neither first nor last, the kingdom of this world is to the strong, but the kingdom of heaven belongs to the weak;’ — and to all: ‘The gods whom you worship are no gods, there is but one Almighty God, the Creator of the world, and that God is my father; for I am the Messiah promised in the Scriptures.’

  “Blind and deaf as I then was, I closed my eyes and my ears, or rather I was blinded by envy; then came hatred, and destroyed me. Hear how I became the persecutor of the God-man, of whom to-day I am the unworthy but faithful Apostle.

  “One day when Peter and I had been fishing all day without result on the ancient lake of Gennesareth, to-day called the Sea of Tiberias, Jesus came to the shore of the lake, thronged by the multitude who desired to hear his words. Peter’s boat being closer to the shore, or Peter being a better man than myself, Jesus entered his boat, and sitting down in it, continued to instruct the crowd, who listened to him from the shore. When he had ceased speaking, he said to Peter: ‘Launch out now into the deep and let down your nets for a draught.’ Peter answered him: ‘Master, we have toiled all night and have taken nothing; how should we fare better now?’ — ‘Do as I command you,’ continued Jesus.

  “And when Peter had let down his net, he enclosed so great a draught of fishes that his net was almost breaking, and the fish filled his boat so that it began to sink. Then Peter, with James and John, the sons of Zebedee, who were in the boat with him, fell on their knees, perceiving that this was a miracle. But Jesus said to them: ‘Be of good cheer; your work as fishermen is done; henceforth ye shall become fishers of men;’ and, stepping out upon the shore, took them in his company.

  “I, who remained behind, said to myself: ‘Why should not I also catch fish as the others have done?’ and going to the spot I cast my nets ten times in the same place where they had cast theirs, but each time I drew up the nets empty. Then instead of saying to myself: ‘This man is indeed what he professes to be, the messenger of God,’ I said, ‘This man is no doubt a magician possessed of certain charms,’ and I felt in my heart a bitter envy against him.

  “But as he quitted Jerusalem at about this time to go and preach throughout Judaea, this feeling gradually disappeared, and I had almost forgotten the man who had inspired it, when one day, as we were selling our goods in the Temple courts as usual, the report went about that Jesus was returning to Jerusalem with a higher repute than ever; that he had healed a paralytic man in the wilderness, had restored a blind man at Jericho to sight, and had raised a young man from the dead at Nain. Such was his fame that the people spread their garments on the road wherever he passed by, and his disciples accompanied him, transported with joy, bearing palm branches in their hands and praising God with a loud voice for all the wonders they had seen.

  “Accompanied by this procession, he advanced towards the Temple; but when he saw that it was thronged with buyers and sellers, he began to drive us all out, saying: ‘It is written, “My house is the house of prayer, but ye have made it a den of thieves.” ‘At first we tried to resist him, but we soon found that it was useless, and that it was of no avail to do anything against him, for all the people hung as it were upon his lips in wonder at the words which he spoke. My anger at these proceedings aroused my ancient enmity against Jesus, and my envy was turned into hatred.

  “Some time afterwards I heard that on the very evening of the Passover, which he had celebrated with his disciples, Jesus had been arrested at the order of the High Priest by a band of armed men, led by Judas, one of his disciples; that he had been brought before Pilate who, knowing that he came from Nazareth, had sent him to Herod, in whose jurisdiction Galilee lay. But Herod finding nothing against him, except that he called himself ‘King of the Jews,’ sent him back to Pilate, who, having summoned the chief priests, the rulers and the people, said to them: ‘You have charged this man with stirring up the people to revolt, but neither Herod nor I have found him guilty of the crime of which you accuse him; as therefore he has done nothing deserving of death, I will chastise him and let him go.’

 

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