Victor Serenus

Rebecca made her way homeward in a state of profound bewilderment. By nature placid, intuitive, and rarely disturbed, her sweet soul, as a rule, moved with serenity amid the turmoil of life’s experiences and adversities.

But could it be that the noble Serenus was the guest of that Roman of tarnished memory? Could light and darkness commingle? It seemed a strange paradox.

Having not long since returned from the Holy City, she was not aware of the great change which had taken place in the character back of that stern face, nor that it now belonged to the Vice Legate of Tarsus.

Since the rescue of Rebecca from the stampede at the great celebration of the Feast of Weeks in Jerusalem, and the conversation with her benefactor, Serenus, to her, had stood for everything that was worthy and of good report. She also remembered his lofty and quiet dignity as he headed the notable line of captives upon whom she looked down from the house-top when they were led to prison by Saulus. The devotion of Serenus to the New Faith, and the cheerfulness with which he endured persecution for its sake, had left a picture upon her mind that could never be effaced.

Her wonder increased when she thought not only of the apparent intimacy between the two, but also at the possible position of Marcius, as indicated by the imperial equipment. But her wonted serenity was soon regained. She instinctively felt the power of goodness, and that however it might be explained, Serenus, in the very nature of the case, must carry a powerful benediction wherever he went.

She also had noticed Amabel, and although not recognizing her as the daughter of Gamaliel, inferred that she was the wife of Serenus. As this conviction flashed upon her, there arose for a single moment a half unconscious shadow of disappointment, although not admitted even to herself.

It is not easy for the human mind to regard virtue and nobility abstractly, or as separate from the personality through which they are expressed. But the calm, warm sunlight which constantly filled the soul of Rebecca quickly dispelled any possible mist. While she felt that the few words Serenus once had spoken to her, and the inspiration of his presence and heroism, in some way had introduced her to something higher than she before had known, there was nothing which could be interpreted as of the nature of personal love. He only had been the instrument in stirring the strings of her higher nature, peradventure to some invisible vibrations of the New Faith.

Rebecca always had been an enigma to her people. Though scrupulously reared in the observance of every requirement of the most orthodox Judaism, from her very youth there had been within her an unfathomable reserve. While conforming in every outward requirement to that which was expected of her, there was a calm but strong undercurrent of freedom, and a thinly concealed indifference to formalism, which had been a disquietude to Benoni, and an offence to Saulus. Her sojourn in the Holy City had perceptibly developed the essence of a new principle in her inner nature, which before had been little more than latent. Though having but the slightest contact with the personal exponents of the New Faith and their outward teaching, she instinctively had felt something of its beauty and force. But the more it had been repressed by the influences about her, the more it gathered volume.

There is ever an unseen moral and spiritual atmosphere in which vibrations are constant. In it are currents and eddies, winds and calms, heat and cold, as truly as in the meteorological realm of nature. Sensitive souls, like invisible barometers, feel and register movements and tendencies which ordinarily are intangible. The spread of pure and spiritual Christianity during the time of the Primitive Church and immediately succeeding was an object lesson which all ages since might have studied with profit. It was perhaps due more to an unseen vital momentum—a spiritual tidal wave—than the outward teaching of disciples and missionaries. Unweighed by dogmatism, untrammelled by ecclesiasticism, and free from rigid formalism, it, as a vital force, went out conquering and to conquer. It was a new life—good news; but later to be shorn of its spontaneity, dispossessed of its witness of the Spirit, bereft of its healing potency for soul and body, and deprived of its innate joyousness through usurped authority and burdensome accretion. Its very name came to signify something external in the place of a living principle.

The state chariot which conveyed the little party from the Nereid circled through the spacious grounds which surrounded the palace of Marcius, and all alighted at one of the private portals. Serenus and Amabel were conducted into one of the open courts, where they remained until suitable apartments were made ready. A small fountain was playing in the centre, surrounded by flowering plants and beautiful statues.

“Behold we have been led in a path we knew not of!” said Serenus; “and I am persuaded that good will come of it.”

Upon their arrival, Leander retired to his own rooms in a very unenviable frame of mind. For some time he had consciously been losing his influence with Marcius, and their ways were rapidly drifting apart. The official duties of the Vice Legate were performed with fidelity, and his growing nobility of character and public commendation had given Leander an illy concealed, cynical jealousy. But so far the fire had only smouldered. Now he felt that in the interest and regard of Marcius he was thoroughly supplanted. Was he, who for so long had been the bosom friend and adviser, henceforth to be left out of the account? There is a jealousy not born of sex which may be fed until it grows in intensity almost without limit.

Leander finally resolved upon an interview with his old-time friend. He found him unoccupied, and proceeded to unfold his grievances.

“If I may presume somewhat upon thy former friendship, I would have private converse with thee!”

Marcius noted the thinly concealed suspicion and cynicism which were stirring the pulse of Leander, but passing them by, quietly replied,—

“Pray unburden thy mind!”

“By Pallas! I begin to distrust my power to solve a riddle! For some time past a mystical change seems to be coming upon thee which I am unable to fathom! Thou hast lost thy love of pleasure, and even thy devotion to the gods. In a word, thou art in danger of becoming a victim of baseless superstition.”

Marcius was astonished at the bitterness of his words, but retorted with quiet sarcasm,—

“Thy wonted poetic grace of expression seemeth to have deserted thee! Thy speech is ungarnished, if not ungracious! If a change hath come over me, it need be no riddle to thee! As one adds to his years, it is meet that he should add somewhat to his wisdom.”

“Shades of Pluto! Dost thou call the babbling of fools wisdom? Thou hast waded in the shallow sophistries of so-called philosophy until it well nigh hath made thee an anchorite! Thou hast deserted thine old associates and pleasures, and art becoming a dreamer. And now, to crown thy folly, thou hast brought contempt upon thy government and religion by making this pair of Hebrew fanatics thine honored guests.”

Marcius was unruffled by the sharp thrusts, and listened much as he would to the scolding of a petulant child.

“Thy chattering doth not in the least move me! I can well dispense with thy advice, for of late both thy friendliness and wisdom are becoming visibly tarnished! Would to the gods—or God—that I had more of what thou art pleased to regard as Hebrew fanaticism! But I would have thee know that my guests are in no wise like the Hebrews of Tarsus. Their philosophy is grand, wise, beautiful, and I honor their opinions, and will know more of their teaching. It will be but a waste of thy breath to try to dissuade me!”

“And suppose it become known that the Vice Legate of Tarsus hath forsworn the gods of the city, and set at naught the Roman Pantheon for the worship of fugitive and unknown gods—or a lone god, as I heard thy paragon, Serenus, set forth in his teaching! One would think that to a sane Roman patrician such vulgar drivel and low-bred association would be disgusting!”

“Were I not amused at thine audacity, and compassionate of thy shallow assumption, I should make comment upon thy growls as they deserve. Thy unwonted denunciation hath even dried the springs of poesy which aforetime hath flown in a deluge from thy lips.”

“Henceforth I abide no longer under thy roof, which is now devoted to the shelter of vulgar pretenders who claim all wisdom. By the right arm of Hercules! thou wilt yet rue the day when thou hast preferred the friendship of an ass in a lion’s skin to the polish, art, and poetry of thy Greek companion of many years!

“I spread my sail, and float awayFrom a shore grown now sterile and hateful;I end this play, and start to-dayFor freedom, I care not how fateful!”

“Broken loose again! There is nothing here to compel the presence of thy muse or thyself! I give thee farewell!”

Marcius offered a dignified parting salutation, which Leander turned his back upon, and hastily left the room.

A few days afterwards there occurred one of those religious upheavals which at intervals find vent in popular tumult. The number of Jews in Tarsus had steadily increased, and their intolerant and exclusive spirit, and the contempt which some of their number poured upon the Tarsian temple service, had aroused a bitter prejudice and growing hostility. This feeling, like a hidden fire, for some time had smouldered, only waiting for some unusual opportunity to burst into open flame. While the Roman authority and law, at that period, provided for religious toleration in Tarsus, it could take no cognizance of the intense bitterness, as no overt act had occurred to warrant interference.

It was a Tarsian holiday, and the occasion of an important festival to Apollo. For three days two children of the family of one of the priests of the Temple had been missing, and a rumor obtained circulation among the lower orders of the people that the Hebrews had stolen them, and sacrificed their bodies upon an altar for a burnt-offering. There was no foundation for the report, but notwithstanding its absurdity, it was widely accepted.

Tarsus was astir. The streets were picturesque with decoration, and lively with moving crowds and processions, and all through the day the Temple and its great garden were thronged with worshippers and pleasure-seekers. Every one was in festal costume, and innumerable small companies were waving banners, garlands, and palm-branches, and marching to and fro with shouts and laughter. At the Temple there were various ceremonies, oracular messages, predictions, and idolatries in progress, all forming a combination such as only a great Oriental metropolis of the period could offer.

The brazen gates which led through marble arches into the Temple grounds were flung wide open, and a continuous human current, seemingly from all the nations of the earth, poured in. Parallel roads, some for those on foot and others for horsemen or chariots, led inward toward the intricate maze of summer-houses, bowers, ponds, lotos-groves, and rose-trees, which occupied the heart of the great paradisiacal resort. The number and variety of fountains at play were amazing, and the long rows of statues, arches, and booths stretched away in the distance in bewildering profusion. Processions of horsemen in rich costume and brilliant caparisonment, each carrying offerings for the various altars, swept in to join the great concourse. All ages, sexes, and conditions lent their contributions to the great changing panorama of color and beauty. There were uniformed companies, in white or variegated colors, carrying flags, garlands, or censers, keeping step to the music of hymns or the rhythm of flutes and taborets, the combination of intoxicating strains forming a vast confused symphony.

Upon a broad marble pavement of white and black design near the centre of the widespread grounds there were groups of gay dancers, the stroke of whose light sandalled feet kept time to the touch of small drums and tambourines. With hair floating free, bare shoulders and necks, and robes of diaphanous texture, the voluptuousness of their movements can scarcely be told. They were charmers,—priestesses belonging to the Temple, each having some part in its multiform mystical service. They were chanting a hymn of Eros.

“Love, sons of earth! I am the Power of Love!Eldest of all the gods, with Chaos born;My smile sheds light along the courts above,My kisses wake the eyelids of the Morn.”

Some of the trees of the groves were large,—tall branching cedars, and evergreen oaks with glossy luxurious foliage, casting a cool seductive shade upon the fresh clean grass. There were sycamores, laurels, mulberries, citron-trees, and terebinths, whose blossoms loaded the air with a spicy intoxication. The thickets were full of birds, so tame as to be fearless. The cooing of turtle-doves, the song of nightingale, and the whistle of quail, added to the unending composite of sweet sounds, shapes, and colors. The exuberance of nature, the gracefulness of art, and all that the genius of man could invent, combined as if to surfeit the human senses.

Subtly intermingled with the degeneracy of such an age there was a blind but ever-living impulse toward some kind of worship. Man’s religious proclivities are so strong that their exercise will find a place, even if it be no higher than his own animal instincts.

From the standpoints of other periods, it is far from easy to unravel the fundamental strands of life in any given time, and justly interpret its underlying spirit. The autocratic rule of the sensuous consciousness is yet everywhere supreme, but its outward manifestations constantly take new shape. By the unreliable measurements of men, the ethics of one age is made the standard of judgment for those of others. The radical defect—all-prevailing materialism—everywhere remains, but each age shifts its moral emphasis so that its own methods for the adoration of the lower selfhood seem good in its own eyes. Though the period in review was eminent for its moral corruption, the worship of the bodily creature, in some form, after nineteen hundred years of added experience and supposed wisdom still remains dominant. Veils of outward legality are everywhere drawn, and external conformity to undoubted standards more general—but what of the great underlying sea of human consciousness? The true barometric test of the moral and spiritual essence of any and all ages is the quality of thought-occupation, whether the same be boldly expressed or subtly hidden. The world is full of veneers, and each eye complacently looks upon those of its own time, while it ruthlessly strips off all others. The twenty-first century will doubtless be as much shocked by the selfishness, pride, greed, and mad rush for place and power, which pertain to the nineteenth, as is the latter at the more open corruption of the age under review.

Leander’s break with Marcius thoroughly embittered his morbid jealousy, and snapped the only cord of outward restraint which in any degree had held him. As a friend and guest of the Vice Legate, possessed of a dashing and poetic spirit, he was well known in the gay society of the Cilician metropolis. Vain of person, and proud of his dramatic accomplishments, he brought them into exercise on every possible occasion. His delicate complexion, wavy brown hair, and dark blue eyes, with an easy gracefulness which characterized every movement, gave him a pleasing personality which was his special capital. He spent much time at the baths, and commanded their perfect service. Their oils, polishing, and perfume in some measure concealed the flight of years under a youthful veneer of pearly whiteness. But the natural sparkle of his eyes was growing dull, and the open, warm, and artless temper of earlier life had become clouded with cynicism and acerbity.

His richly decorated chariot, which was drawn by three snowy white horses abreast, always drew a gaping crowd as it dashed through the Tarsian thoroughfares. His especial pride was to be regarded as the arbiter elegantiarum of the city. His more immediate circle of friends was often invited to his entertainments, which consisted chiefly of his own recitations of Greek poetry and tragedy. They frequently became tiresome, but as his fondness for applause was notorious, it was sarcastically bestowed ad nauseam. He entered with the utmost abandon into every spectacular display or ceremony, his fondness for dramatic art thereby receiving exercise and stimulation. Before ordering his chariot for his visit to the festival he sat down to warm himself with a deep draft of spiced Falernian. It came strongly to mind that on many similar occasions he had started with Marcius at his side. Now he was to go alone.

During every hour since their last interview his anger had increased. He, the life-long friend, cast off for an obscure Hebrew! Impatience waxed hot, until his feeling rapidly became absolute hatred. In some way he would have revenge—bitter revenge. Was there not some possible means by which he could despoil Marcius of his official position, and rob him of his reputation? But his popularity and power made it utterly inexpedient to declare open enmity. Leander would bide his time, and find a plan to secretly revenge himself, and never rest easy until the downfall of the Vice Legate was compassed. As for Serenus and Amabel, they were beneath contempt.

Wrath or jealousy that is nursed grows apace, and the enmity of Leander would have sanctioned the murder of Marcius, if it could be brought about without any finger of suspicion being pointed toward him.

But it was time to depart. His chariot was waiting; and seizing the reins of his noble steeds, he joined the great current which flowed towards the Temple and its spacious enclosure. Arriving in due time, he entered by the most prominent triumphal gateway, and after ostentatiously driving several times around the broad circular highway, left his chariot with an attendant, in order more freely to enjoy the sights and sounds, and indulge in the pleasures of the vast enclosure. He found two or three friends, and with them joined in some of the sports and games. But after a time, wearying of these, they came upon a large booth richly ornamented with occult art, having an inscription over the entrance:—

“HOUSE OF MAGIC AND DIVINATION.”

Entering, they found themselves in the spacious atrium, where each visitor waited his turn, and made his choice as to which of the divers inner mysteries he would consult. Out of this large reception-room many portals opened which penetrated to unknown interiors of enchantment and sorcery. The peculiar class to which each belonged was indicated by occult emblems or cabalistic signs inscribed upon the various oval valves that opened farther inward. An attending magician interpreted them. One led to a wizard’s cave of spells and incantations; another to realms where converse with shades was held; another to oracular answers and predictions; another to charms for healing; another to the furnishing of love philters; and finally, one was given to curses and horrors.

Leander chose the last named. His hatred towards Marcius flashed up as he saw the symbols, and he would know the mystery, and perchance an instrument for enmity.

“I fear neither gods nor men!” he exclaimed; “and I will acquaint myself with the worst.”

His friends sought enchantments of the milder forms.

He was in an impatient mood, but had not long to wait when the curious valve leading to the department last named swung open of its own accord, and a hoarse voice from within, though seemingly very distant, cried,—

“ENTER THOU THE MYSTIC SHRINE!”

He passed in, and the valve closed behind him. He found himself in a dimly lighted, narrow passage-way, which he followed, that led under ground in mazy, sinuous fashion, seemingly without end. He smiled at the slight weird feeling which stole upon him, but pushed on. He feared nothing, for he believed nothing. There were no such things as visions, spectres, or shades. He had come for amusement—or rather, if possible, to find a way of revenge.

At length the passage widened into a cave of indefinite dimensions. It was but dimly lighted by a small fire in a recess of jagged rocks. The walls of the cave in other directions seemed to be composed of an indefinable mist of unknown depth, upon which flashed a dim tremulous phosphorescence. Over the fire was suspended a caldron, the contents of which seethed and bubbled, emitting a pungent vapor that wreathed itself overhead in illy defined forms that seemed to crawl and leap. Upon a shelf suspended in mid-air without visible support, an assortment of tiny phials containing various colored liquids gleamed with an unearthly light, and near by hung small bundles of dried herbs and roots. Upon a rough iron tripod stood a grotesque statue of the Hecate, through whose eyes shone a dull red light, as if they were heated by an inner flame. Several skeletons and many more skulls were arranged at different angles, the eyes of which remained in their places, shining with a red light of their own. Leander was the cynosure of them all.

He looked about him for a moment, taking in the various details, and then burst into loud laughter.

“By Bacchus! an artistic combination to impress infants! But where, oh, where, lingereth the presiding siren? The combination seemeth to run itself! Come out! Thy caldron needs stirring!”

Then he gave another hearty laugh at his own wit and eloquence. The reverberations which indefinitely repeated themselves through the distant passages sounded like a multitudinous mocking chorus.

“Shades of Tophet! the acoustic properties are well provided!”

He gave another loud call for the sorceress in charge. The sound of his voice seemed split into a hundred fragments—a chaos of weird echoes upon all keys.

“Go on with your cackling! I welcome every demon that sails his bark upon the Cocytus!”

But as a female form of gigantic proportions slowly emerged from the background, his heart gave a leap.

Covering her dishevelled gray locks was a tall, pointed red turban; her mouth, partly open, showed two irregular rows of long, dark teeth, and her large stony eyes were fastened upon him with a freezing stare. Her features were ashy gray and unearthly.

But in spite of appearances, Leander gathered himself together, and with a chuckle exclaimed,—

“By the thirst of Bacchus! I adjudge this a strong and artistic stage-setting for a Greek tragedy!”

Then, striking an attitude, he began, in impassioned style, to recite some lines from one of the dramas of Sophocles.

After listening a while the horrible gigantic Shape began slowly to turn away, and exclaimed in hoarse, hollow tones,—

“Enough! I surrender!”

Leander neatly turned the exclamation into a compliment.

“My oratory conquers gods, men, or she-devils!”

He then addressed the retiring Shape.

“Stay, I pray thee! Thou art not comely, but peradventure thou canst serve me! I would have none of thy incantations, but thou hast in store a variety of potions. Art thou skilled in their preparation?”

“For more than twoscore years have I distilled and cunningly concentrated the occult and deadly forces of nature,” said the Shape with a ghastly grin. “I am a daughter of the Etrurians, and their wonderful secrets and enchantments have come down to me from the dim past. I have philters for the loveless, promises of treasure for the needy, and potions for revenge, for tragedy, for blight, and for destiny! What wilt thou?”

“Hast thou a blight which will very slowly, but with grim certainty, dull the reason, destroy the wisdom, and hasten to decay before the wonted time all the faculties of the Mind?”

The Shape stretched out her long, bony fingers and took one of the small phials, and holding it before her stony eyes, replied,—

“In color and taste like water; yet he who takes it in any form, in three years will become a drivelling idiot! The brain! the brain! It slowly scorches, and nothing can put it out! It will mingle with water or even Falernian!”

The Shape gave a malicious leer.

“I believe neither in shades, spectres, nor enchantments, but of chemistry am persuaded! But how can I be assured of what thou sayest?”

“I will give thee a sign of my power!”

“As thou wilt.”

The Shape, taking an empty phial, poured into it a portion of the contents of several of the dark liquids, and the mixture was clear and colorless.